Voices of the Stars

by Rowena Whaling

  “You are a beautiful girl.” She accused. “Beautiful girls usually turn into beautiful women. It is said that your Grandmother, the Sorceress, was very beautiful. But not, of course, in our God’s eyes. Beautiful women lead men to folly and themselves to damnation.”

  Mother Mair was a very plain woman without any redeeming features.

  “That long black hair,” she continued, “will be of no use to you here. I will have it all cut off today. You do understand you have come here to work, pray, and learn about our Lord?”

  “Yes.” Rowena replied.

  Gildas interrupted at this point because he saw Rowena’s lips quiver and one tear roll down her cheek. He drew the heat of Mother Mair’s attention away from Rowena, to speak of future endowments to pay for Rowena’s upkeep and of course to help towards the building of an Abbey.

  At that, Rowena – as any curious ten year old would – looked more intently about her surroundings. First she noticed the great Fire in the hearth pit. Large logs had been placed upon it, seemingly sparing nothing for Mother Mair’s comfort. Then her eyes alighted upon the books. “Books!” At a scorching look from Mother Mair, she became silent again. She patiently waited for a lull in the conversation to blurt out again – “Books! You have three books! Are they written in Latin? Are they wonderful? You must have read them many Times.”

  Gildas raised an eyebrow to Mother Mair as if to ask – “Well, have you?”

  Mother Mair’s distaste for Rowena must have turned to hatred on that moment. What is more, when she finally admitted that she did not read Latin, Rowena, trying to soften Mother Mair’s obvious dislike of her, offered to read them to her. Of course, the child meant well, but not only did the offer humiliate Mother Mair, but she saw it as great impudence on Rowena’s part.

  “No!” she thundered. “You will teach me nothing, do you understand? Here, you are not the great-grandchild of a King, you are a servant of the Lord and of this Monastery – which I command.”

  The military term – command – coming so easily from her lips shocked Gildas. Perhaps it did even herself, but that ended the interview.

  “I will come to see how she is faring soon,” proclaimed Gildas.

  Mother Mair answered, “That is not really necessary.”

  “Nevertheless,” said he. “I will be back. You do not object, do you?” Gildas said as he placed the bag of gold on her table.

  “No, I do not object.”

  That evening Rowena was bathed in cold Spring Water with lye soap that burned her skin. Her lovely clothes were burnt and her long black hair was shorn completely from her head. Even her leather boots, that were perfectly good and sound, were taken from her and she was given worn out felt ones with two holes in the bottom of them. In the windowless hut that she was assigned to, the floor was bare – no rushes – and the walls were in disrepair, allowing the cold to seep in. The bed that she would share with another of the girls was a thin layer of straw, covered with a blanket, also with holes in it – which the straw pushed through. A blanket too short even for a child was given to her to cover herself with, but it would not cover her feet as well as her arms. And, unlike in Mother Mair’s cottage, the Fire to keep her and the other three girls she shared the hut with warm was little more than just a pile of warm ashes from dried Cow pats. The other girls explained that “to suffer was good for the soul. After all, our Lord suffered for us.” A Fire was lit every other Night only, they said. Perhaps, Rowena thought, when I learn about their Lord, I will better understand.

  Her work was hard. She churned the butter and pulled the wool from the Sheep. She mucked the stable of their one work Mule. Of course, she made mistakes. She was berated, made to go to bed hungry, or slapped, depending on the grossness of her mistakes. Such was her situation there that, for any made-up offense, she was beaten with a reed. Her every attempt at learning or questioning was met with charges of impudence, for which she was also beaten.

  By the Time Gildas returned two Moon’s Dances later, the pale, thin girl with stubbled hair and dark circles under her eyes was almost unrecognizable to him.

  “Brother, I was told that I would work and learn – you remember Mother Mair saying that.”

  “Yes,” he replied.

  “I do not mind the work although it is very hard, but I have been taught nothing, except the prayers that is. Was it like this for you went you first went to the Monastery?”

  Gildas thought of his first years.

  “Well, to some extent, but not to the extent of what you have suffered.”

  This he said sternly as he removed the bandage on her arm to reveal skin torn from the lash.

  He demanded audience with Mother Mahr. Soon, their raised voices inside could be heard by all of the girls.

  “This child is filled with the Spirit of God.” He told her. “She has the Gifts of prophecy and even Healing. She reads and writes Latin. She should be a treasure to you. Perhaps, even, someone to take your place in the eventuality of your being too old to continue – or should you die. As a Bride of Christ, there is no room for your jealousy of this child.”

  “Jealousy!?” said she. “This child is an evil one! She hears demon Voices – did you know that?!”

  “How can you judge from whence her Voices come?” said Gildas.

  “How can you?” she retorted.

  “All I know is that she is my sister and I have known for all of her life she has only ever been good and kind. No evil lurks within her!”

  “Then what about her Grandmother, Morganna Le Faye, and her aunt, the heathen Priestess and worshipper of Stones?”

  Gildas shook his head in sadness. “Poor Rowena.” Then he left. He kissed his little sister.

  “Well, I will not be able to come back for about three more months. Please, just do as you are told… I will speak with my Bishop on your behalf. Perhaps I will be able to move you to another Abbess’ rule.

  Rowena cried – “Oh please do not leave me!”

  “Rowena,” Gildas admonished. “Pray to the Holy Mother for your comfort and protection. You are in need of a Mother’s Love.”

  As Gildas rode away, he remembered the words he had used: “Abbess’ rule.” It was then he wrote to me again.

  “I had begun to see and feel the innate viciousness and hard heartedness of this woman.”

  I was sorry to read in his words the growing cynicism that I feared was in his nature.

  Two more Moon’s Dances passed, and several more beatings, as well as many missed meals as punishment for offenses that Rowena was unaware of committing. It was then, finally, that the Voices of the Stars spoke to her.

  “Rowena, there is but ONE, do you know that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Seek the Holy Mother as your brother Gildas has advised. Although She is here for many of the girls and women, this is not where you will find Her. Run to her, Rowena. Seek her at the Standing Stone of the Roman crossroad. She will send a way.”

  “How? I do not know where She is,” said Rowena. But the Voices were gone.

  And so, four Nights later – when the Moon was dark – Rowena took the holey boots and the largest of her two blankets and ran quickly and silently as a Hart through the deep Woods away from Mother Mair and that bleak compound that would be an Abbey – never looking back.

  Yes – I later thought – perhaps it might one Day have been an Abbey, but for the fact that pestilence accounts no difference between the Holy “Bride of Christ” and “the servants of the Evil One.” Nor, for that matter, the rest of us, who are neither Saint nor Demon. The plague passed through their compound and Mother Mair and every one of her “children” were wiped out. Countless people from the North to South and East to West of Our Fair Isles died. Many of my sisters and brothers had the plague that year, as well. But Rowena lived and so did Gildas – for the Weavers knew that they were both to have a great part in the histories of Our Fair, but troubled, Isles.

  Rowena

  To my dearest Aunt
Morgan, Lady of the Lake...

  I have asked my dear brother to bring this letter with him when he comes to visit you. My Gildas promised that he would do this for me. If you are reading it, I know he is with you and that he has fulfilled his greatest desire. May every God and Goddess bless him – and you, as well, my Lady.

  Unfortunately, I have very little Time to write, yet wish to say so much.

  I will begin with my decision to run from the cruel bonds in which I found myself. I am sure that Gildas has written to you of my sorry circumstances. Very worried was he on my behalf.

  The Voices came – as a guidance, a comfort, a strength and to give me determination.

  “Seek the Holy Mother at the Standing Stone – by the great Roman crossroad,” they spoke.

  “But where is that?” I asked.

  They did not reply. I was completely disoriented as to where I was or to whence I should go. But, when the right Time came, I ran, fast and far away.

  Aunt Morgan, the Christians speak much of faith, which is believing in something although you have no assurance that it is – although you cannot see it or touch it. Well, that is exactly the power by which I ran – the power of faith – Faith that the Holy Mother would rescue me and send “a way” as the Voices had promised.

  For two Days and Nights I ran – cold, hungry, and frightened. I met one old man with a hay wagon on the second Day. He asked where I was going and from whence I had come. I hesitated to tell him anything about myself; for fear that someone may be looking for me. But then, again, I acted on faith. I looked into his eyes and saw there only compassion. So I told him that I must find and meet someone at the Great Roman Road where a Stone marks its crossroad.

  He chuckled.

  “My girl, you are on the Roman Road. As to how great it is so long a Time after it has been built and with no more Roman money or laborers to keep it up... well, as you see, the stones are here beneath your feet – with all this mud covering them.”

  I looked down. He was right. I was so excited! At least I had found the Roman Road. But to where?...

  “Which way is the crossroad with the Stone marker?” asked I.

  “Now, that I cannot say,” said the man. “There is more than one such place. But if I were you, I would go the way we both go now. Several more miles in this direction is a small farm settlement with a Stream running through it. Not far from there are the old deserted Roman barracks and Fort. There is a wondrous bridge nearby – the Romans it built too – just beyond the barracks by a mile or so. A crossroad with a Stone marker is just before the Fort. Perhaps, someone in the settlement will help you, child.”

  He gave me a bite of cheese and a dried piece of flat bread. He asked if I would walk along with him for a mile or so, where he said he would reach the field where his hay was to go.

  And so I did. Mostly we walked in silence, but at one point he noticed that I was limping and asked if I was injured. I showed him the bottoms of my boots, which by that Time had huge holes in them. The soles of my feet were blistered and bloody… He said, “Oh, poor Sweetling – here, I have a bit of leather – perhaps we can cut some for to line the bottoms of your boots…” He did – it was much better… A bit later, he asked my name. I became afraid to tell him, so I told him it was something that sounded in the tongue of the Britons like ro wen, which as you know, means the small white River or Stream Pebbles.

  “White pebbles, how strange.” he said.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because in the village near to the old Roman encampment, there is a Stream that runs through and it is filled with the ro wen. Folk gather them from the stream and use them for their Divining and offerings to the Old Spirits and Gods of the Wells or Springs – or to the Saints.”

  My Lady, then I knew I was on the right path.

  I parted ways from the old man in an hour or so. I thanked him for his kindness.

  “Be safe and well girl” he told me...

  “Farewell” said I.

  It began to get dark and cold again for the third Night. But upon this Night, the weather had taken a change for the worse. The Wind rose... The Night – it howled and thundered. Ice began to form and cover each blade of grass. The great boughs of every Tree groaned. One goodly sized bough snapped just ahead of me. It did not strike me though. On I went – although my feet were numb and my hands burning from the cold. I was covered with only my shift and the thin, holey blanket. I felt as if I would not live the Night through.

  Then I saw it – a three point crossroad marked by a large Stone with Roman writing chiseled into it. It told the name of some long forgotten Commander. The rest was chipped away – probably by the Clan traditionalists who had spurned all trappings of Roman dominion long ago.

  At the Crossroads...

  There I was – alone in the darkness...

  It was three Nights past the Dark Moon. I knew that She – as you would call the Moon, my Lady – would look like a Hunter’s bow in the Night Sky, if I could clearly see Her, that is. But the Sky was clouded and violently churning. The Wind was up as high as ever I had seen and every thing that was frozen from the low hanging Mist was creaking and cracking.

  The old Forest had been partially cleared here, I supposed to build the barracks and fort long ago – and had never thickened again.

  I ran to the Stone as if it was the God... or an Altar... a Sacred thing. I threw myself down on my knees in front of it and wept. I wept for everything that had happened. Then I prayed a fervent prayer:

  “Oh Holy Mother, Mother of us all, please find it in your infinite Love to look upon my plight. Oh great Lady of Compassion, You who wears the Stars as your cloak, embrace me as your daughter. As Gildas, my brother, has said, I am in great need of a Mother’s Love. Please reveal yourself to me and save me. Let me come to know you.”

  Just then, I heard the sound of Horses – two Horses – and men speaking in the Roman tongue. They were close – on the road coming toward me. Lightning lit the Sky – I saw them! Waving in the Air beside them was... I thought I saw... a Dragon. Quickly, I ran to a bush and hid myself as best I could behind and beneath it. But just as they came to the crossroads, my hand leaned upon a frozen twig and it snapped.

  Oh, the bell has rung for the call to repose... I must stop writing now. I will write more in the morn, if I am allowed the Time... If he must leave before I have been able to write more, Gildas can tell the rest of my story to you.

  Know that I will ever hold you in my deepest respect and Love.

  Rowena.

  A note from Morgan...

  I remember thinking – “My Goddess! What language for an eleven-year-old girl – or was she still ten? What a brilliant child!”

  I wondered what this meant. She left herself in a dire predicament by a Roman crossroad. Yet she says the bell has rung for the call to repose? I looked at Gildas…

  Chapter 52

  Across the Continent

  Lucian

  I have never married. Although my life has been well and good, always at the edge of my heart is Briton and Morgan. Is she still alive? She was seven years older than I. I received a letter from Bedwyr four years ago. In it he spoke of Morgan being well and strong. However, I do not know when it was sent to me...

  Pestilence, Barbarian raids, political wars and intrigues have all robbed the glamour and culture that was once Rome. Even when I was a boy – and it was well past her years of greatest fame – Rome still shone like the child of Apollo. She was respected by the entire world.

  My family of both wealthy Merchants and nobles were proud people, refusing to accept the downfall of the Western Empire, which for the most part did not exist anymore.

  But my head had been filled with dreams of glory.

  A Warrior I would be, and so I was – but not for Rome.

  It was to Arthur in Briton that I would give my blood. For more than twenty years I was his faithful companion.

  After the final battle between Arthur and Mordred, t
he Confederacy crumbled. All seemed lost, so I returned to my family in Rome.

  But, I did not stay long in the life of a Merchant and moneylender. My mouth drooled for the taste of military command. A Warrior was who and what I was.

  So my uncle, who was highly placed in the Emperor’s Guard, recommended me. I was immediately accepted and given a commission in and under my uncle’s prestigious command. It seemed my reputation had preceded me.

  For years, growing and much imbellished tales of King Arthur and his companions had spread across the blue Mare Nostrum and over the Mountains to Rome and Eastward to Constantinople and beyond. Some of these tales I hardly recognized. Yet with each mention of them, I was filled with bittersweet stirrings of memories. Always... memories...

  I have grown many years past my prime. My once golden hair is all silvery white now. I have taken to wearing it long – as I had done in Briton so many years ago. My old military companions had all but tried to disgrace me for this – only with their teasing words, of course. I am still well regarded by them, even though I have left military service. Three years have passed since then.

  Now, as I write this, I am past seventy years old. I remain fit and strong. I ride and train with sword, pike, and bow everyday – as if I were still a young Warrior. If I fool no one else, I fool myself, for I still feel as young as ever in my thoughts and in my heart – young and fit enough to have decided to return to Briton... perhaps to stay there, or at least to visit one last Time.

  The top ranking of the Emperor’s guard has very kindly and respectfully arranged for a personal Guard to travel with me and has honoured me by allowing us to ride under the banner of the Purple Dragon, the emblem of The Caesar’s Elite Guard.

  He offered four men, I accepted only one – but with gratitude. The man’s name is Wilhelm. He is of Northern Teutonic stock. He is young and enormous. Both of my upper arms could make one of his. He looks terrifying – all the better to be my Guard. Despite his barbarian physique and facial features, his dress and manners are purely Roman. He is an intelligent man and we share good conversations and companionship. Our long voyage should not be overly tedious. We leave one week from the Day I am writing this.