He kissed her, and she could taste his sweetness mingled with bits of grit. She felt his hands in her sweat-rimed hair, and the baby in her arm suddenly wriggled and protested this intrusion. Doyle rolled an eye to look down at the squalling infant, released her mouth, and touched a rosy cheek with one large finger. "Ugly, isn’t he?”
"No, he isn’t. And what the hell are you doing here? You were dead! I’ve spent six months grieving for you, dammit!”
"Such sweet words from my gentle wife, the light of my life.”
Her lips quivered in a smile in spite of herself. "There is nothing more maddening than an Irishman being coy. Now, tell me what’s going on or I’ll box your ears.”
"As I sat there in my mother’s bowels, I have tried to decide if I missed more your tart tongue or your lusty limbs. Now, now”—he laid a finger on her lips—"patience. I had to die, Eleanor. It was my time. That part of me which was the season had to pass. But, because of this strange little creature screaming at me—will you please put him to breast and quiet him—I must also return and live out the span of a mortal man. So, here I am—unless you have a yen to wear a crown.”
Eleanor fumbled the child onto a sore breast, then turned sparkling, tear-bright eyes to the man. "Monster. I would rather live in a hut in the woods with you than a palace any day. I still don’t understand.”
"Winter has a new king.”
She felt fear clutch her heart, recalling that it was the solstice. "Not Dylan!” She squeezed the infant against her.
"No, not our little fish. And by the way, I’d as lief you hadn’t killed Baird. He made a poor companion, moaning and moping around.”
"I didn’t want to!”
"I know, love. Sleep now. We have a lifetime to talk.” He pressed her back into the pillows.
She looked at him and held his hand. "If you die one second before me, I swear I’ll hunt you through eternity until the stars gutter in their orbits, and the void vanishes.”
He bowed his huge head, and she felt a hot tear fall on her hand. "I know. I do not know if I deserve such fierce love, my love, but I accept it-—with as much grace as I am able.”
"Flimflam,” she murmured wearily. As she slipped into sleep, she heard the watery laughter of the Lady of the Willows. I told you dark men were the best, daughter. Then she knew nothing put peace.
Eleanor and Doyle stood in the chilly and drafty confines of the cathedral and watched the nobles and landed gentry flow in, a brightly feathered flock of birds. She shifted the baby a little, took a quick sidelong glance at her husband, and smiled a little. And I thought things would stop being exciting after I had the baby!
The past three days flitted through her mind in a montage of moments. Arthur’s stunned expression when he saw Doyle. An unseemly haste to withdraw his marriage offer, which had led her to believe he had made it as much from obligation as from affection. Then there had been that moment when he grudgingly began to give her back the fire sword, when Arthur showed himself to be as venial as any man, though more gracious than most.
"I suppose you want this back.” He touched the hilt uneasily. She looked at the sword and remembered all the events it had played a part in and found she had no affection for it. The weight of Baird dying in her arms still lingered. It had caused her too much trouble, and she didn’t want it.
"No. I don’t think it has anything to do with me anymore. You keep it, Arthur. If Bridget wants it back, she can come get it herself. I don’t have the energy to be her errand girl anymore. Let it be an heirloom of the men of your house. Women don’t enjoy killing enough to need swords, you know.”
Arthur caught the bitterness in her words and understood. "I owe you so much,” he began haltingly.
"Then give me Avebury, to make a home for me and Doyle and the baby. Really, Arthur, my tastes are very simple, and I don’t want more. But, perhaps you ought to let me take that collar and John’s bracelet away. I find I don’t approve of objects of power lying about in royal treasuries where they can tempt people.” She almost regretted her words the next instant but decided it was probably the right thing to do.
He looked relieved, as if the things had preyed on his mind. "That’s a good idea. Thank you, dear Eleanor. Will you still be my friend?”
"Oh, Arthur, of course I will. And don’t be sad that I want to bury myself in the wilds of Wiltshire. Doyle and I will come to visit. I just think it will be a lot better for everyone if I go away, until people forget about my part in your story. You get enough odd looks with your black hand without having a witch at court as well.” He sighed. "Practical to the last. Women!”
Eleanor could not tell if that last comment was directed at her, at his mother, or at the female sex in general. She simply marveled at the complex intelligence that could have conceived the two sexes and given them such wondrous strengths and weaknesses, so much good and such great evil.
The crowd around her stirred and rustled in the great
chamber. It smelled of burning tapers and musty finery, for the people of London had had few festive occasions during John’s reign, and the nobles not many more. Eleanor took a child’s delight in the bright colors.
The brazen blare of trumpets turned all heads toward the rear doors. Pages first, small, proud boys, solemn or grinning as their natures led them, then squires, knights, barons, and earls. Finally Arthur appeared in a blue silk robe, a scarlet cloak billowing behind him, held by four knights. William the Strong, Marshall of Albion, strode behind him. A great cheer made the candelight waver from the turbulence. The procession wound through the crowd, bringing Arthur to the foot of the altar where Thomas, the archbishop, stood garbed in a white chasuble.
The old man’s voice was too frail for the cathedral, so it took on the aspect of a pantomime. He blessed the king, then the congregation. Two honored nobles— Eleanor had quite given up trying to remember all the names—bore the Harp and the pan pipes, now sewn into a sack, and these were blessed and carried up to the altar while Arthur knelt patiently. The mass stretched on and on with plain song echoing sweetly against the stones. People coughed and shifted respectfully.
After what seemed an eternity, Thomas of Salisbury lifted a crown up in his frail hands. His lips moved in benediction, and he lowered the golden circle onto the young king’s brow. Arthur kissed an aged hand, then stood and turned to face his people. A great shout of "Vivat Rex!” leapt from the mouths of the congregation.
Eleanor looked at the great iron candelabrum that stood behind the altar and saw a figure, a grave, fairhaired woman in a very familiar blue cloak. The cheering died around her, so she knew the apparition was not solely her own. People went to their knees with whispers of "Ave Maria” on their lips. Doyle helped her kneel, for the sleeping Dylan made an awkward burden, as Eleanor thought a bit cynically that Bridget was up to her usual tricks. Arthur seemed a little puzzled by this sudden homage, but he could not see what was happening behind him. The archbishop turned, stared for a second, then slipped onto his knees as if he had been struck.
The vision smiled, and every heart was lifted. She raised her right hand in blessing. Arthur finally craned his neck around to see what was drawing everyone’s attention, gave a sharp glance in Eleanor’s general direction, then knelt again. She shimmered in the candles for perhaps a minute more, absorbing the awed admiration of the onlookers.
Eleanor felt the now familiar brush of the goddess in her mind. Well done, daughter. Come to me on my day. Then she was gone, leaving Arthur with a legacy of divine approval, which would tint his reign a golden hue.
XXXVI
St. Bridget’s Priory looked very much as it had a year before, a little more weatherworn but nothing more. Eleanor got out of the wagon and reflected on the contrast between the two occasions, for there were a dozen wagons in her train instead of one large wolf, a greedy baby at her breast, and a husband who was gay and morose by turns. She would have gladly traded her rather hefty entourage for Wrolf in a minute, for she found th
at being Eleanor d’Avebury was a bit trying but not for the child or the man.
As they had traveled, it had occurred to her that this audience might be disastrous. Bridget might just ship her back to her own time and place, and while she tried to believe that the goddess would not be so cruel, she still fretted over it. So she clung to Doyle in the nights and to the baby in the day and was sharp-tongued and short-tempered.
On the journey, they had seen remnants of the Shadow, for it had not departed Albion entirely with John’s death. They met two ragged bands of listless folk, starved-looking and sad. Doyle and the dozen men-at-arms who served her gave them the mercy of death, and Eleanor was left depressed.
So she was sober and somewhat careworn when she greeted Brother Ambrosius, glad that he still trod the earth, but apprehensive. "I’m back, like a bad penny.” "I see that, but I knew already. We heard that John was dead and Arthur returned, and I knew you had accomplished what tasks our gracious lady had set you. But come in from the cold. You seem weary.”
"A little. I lost the book you gave me, and I’m sorry. Stop wriggling, Dylan. I’ll change you in a minute. Babies are a lot of bother,” she added fondly,
Ambrosius chuckled and led her inside. "You still say unexpected things, I see.”
"Do I? I want you to baptize my son, Brother Ambrosius.” It was the ostensible reason for their halt, though Eleanor had some doubts that a child with a snake for a grandmother was subject to the rituals of the church. And gracious was not an epithet she was willing to apply to Bridget. High-handed was closer to the mark.
"Me? I am honored, milady. You could have had one of those London priests do it.” His voice carried his low and uncharitable opinion of London’s clergy, for which he would undoubtedly do penance later.
"No. You were my first friend.”
They sat and talked while Yorick oversaw the unloading of barrels of salted fish, bags of corn, bolts of cloth, jugs of wine, honey and perry, and much else, for Eleanor had not forgotten her first meal nor the bare state of the priory’s larder. It was the first time she had retold her entire adventure in one sitting, and she drew it out to avoid the inevitable. Also, she had promised to tell him the story a year before, and she felt she might have no other opportunity.
But finally, her household was settled in, filling the priory’s modest facilities to the bursting point, and she knew it was time. She followed Ambrosius to the chapel, the- starry cloak over one arm, the baby in the other, with Doyle close behind. It was dim and cool and just as she remembered it, the large figure of Saint Bridget dominating the whole.
Eleanor stared up at it and shivered. Doyle touched her shoulder with a gentle hand, for though she had not spoken her fears, he knew them. The statue shimmered, and the face became animated.
"Welcome, daughter.”
"Greetings, Bright Bridget. I bring you back your cloak. The sword I have no more.”
"Yes. It passed beyond you when you bestowed it on a man of woman born. ’Twas well done, that giving.” Recalling her own confused reasons for giving Arthur the sword, Eleanor was not sure she agreed, but she wasn’t going to argue. "I am glad you are pleased.” "You have done well, more even than I dared hope.
Give to me those objects, the wristpiece and the collar, which you so wisely bore away from Arthur.”
"Happily.” They were in the belt pouch, a dark, heavy burden. "Now what?” she asked as she put the cloak and the other things at the foot of the statue.
"Now you live your life.”
Eleanor stood up and looked directly into the glorious face. "Here? With my husband and my baby?” She felt a pang of guilt. "What about my mother?”
"Yes, here. How will Rowena and Beatrice and little Eleanor be born else? As for the other, it was all a dream. You were never really there, child. You will go to my solemn sister and sing her songs, bringing the healing of the Willow into the world and bearing your children, so they can finish what you began.”
"What?” She knew she wasn’t going to get any explanation of how she had "dreamed” her first two decades, for Bridget reveled in obscurity, but Eleanor was determined to get some further elucidation of that final cryptic statement.
"There are other swords to be brought from the realms of the gods into the world of heroes, and the Shadow still darkens many places. But that is not your task.” The goddess gave a kind of sigh. "I would that you had loved me more, but you are the Light which breaks the Darkness, and always will you seek to bring laughter to those who are merry with difficulty. That is your special gift. It is a great power, Eleanor, greater than you know. You have served me well, if not always with respect, and I now release you. I thank you for your boundless joy, for the living person you are.” Bridget faded, and the chapel was still.
Eleanor turned into Doyle’s arms, burying her face against his chest while she felt tears flow. "Why can’t I just love everyone?” she whispered.
He stroked her hair. "Because even the gods cannot command the heart, my dear, foolish Eleanor.”
Adrienne Martine-Barnes - [Sword 01] Page 39
