I stared at the man, aghast, my head spinning with a dozen questions. “What about Agravain? What’s she going to do to him?”
“Morgan believes the rite she’s devising will both purge him of his guilt for slaying his mother and bring the Goddess’s blessings on us all.”
“How?” Stories from the days of heroes and glory, when Celts and Gods lived side by side, have been passed down for generations. I had heard them as a child, and come too close to seeing my own father offered up not to be aware of the possibility it might happen again. “Is she planning to use him as a human sacrifice?”
“I don’t think so,” Cathbad observed. “I don’t know why she is doing this, but it could be simply to help the man. He is her nephew, after all.”
I nodded, still puzzling over the matter, and asked the Druid why he had come to tell me about it. He stared out one of the windows, and his expression became ineffably sad.
“Morgan le Fey has been a devout leader, a woman of enormous conviction…but in the last half-dozen years there’s been a change. At the Sanctuary all prayers are directed to the Great Mother…not only are the male Gods no longer honored, their names are never spoken aloud. As a consequence men are no longer included in the ceremonies. Morgan claims that in the old times only the Priestess and her nine acolytes were accepted as holy, and she’s determined to reinstate that regime.” Cathbad sighed and looked back at me. “She’s become fanatic on the subject and has lost many of her supporters as a result. Oh, the commoners will continue to revere her, but the major families no longer send their most promising children to be trained at her Academy.”
He paused, and I thought of the fine schooling Lancelot had received at the Sanctuary. It was there he had learned the arts of science and history, medicine and war, and all the other things that made him invaluable as Arthur’s lieutenant.
“Perhaps it’s Morgan’s fear of the Christian Father God that makes her so difficult,” Cathbad continued. “She tolerates no discussion, allows no dissent…particularly if it comes from a man. She’s even organizing a crusade to make it mandatory that all people worship the Goddess. All people,” he repeated slowly, “regardless of their own desires.”
We had heard rumor of this before, though without the support of the High King, she would have little success. “You know Arthur won’t allow that,” I interrupted. “Of all the things my husband holds dear, the right of every man to choose the Gods by whom he lives—and dies—is one of the most important.”
“That is why I am seeking asylum with you and the King,” the Druid said slowly, as though it hurt even to put the idea into words. “There is no longer a place for me at the Black Lake, but I understand that all holy people are welcome here.”
I searched my mentor’s face, wondering if this was some sort of trick on Morgan’s part to embroil Arthur in a religious war. But Cathbad returned my gaze, his eyes full of the sorrow of seeing all that he had dedicated his life to become corrupted. There was no way I could doubt his sincerity, and I smiled as I put my hand on his sleeve. “Of course you can stay here—at least until you have a chance to talk to Arthur.”
He bent his head and his voice was soft and humble. “I knew there were reasons why the people call you the most gracious of queens.”
“I had the best of teachers,” I quipped, refusing to let the scene become sentimental. He raised his head with a laugh, and I saw the flash of humor make his eyes lively again.
So I set about finding quarters for the Druid as well, though my mind played constantly with the question of the ceremony. What was the Lady planning? What role would Agravain have? And how would the people respond? Finally I decided to attend the midsummer rite in secret and see for myself what my sister-in-law was up to.
***
“I don’t like it, Gwen,” Bedivere stated flatly when I confided what I meant to do. “Don’t like it at all. Who knows what kind of plots she’s hatching about you and Arthur? And she can be very persuasive—if you’re discovered, she could whip the crowd into a frenzy against you.”
His point was well taken, but with my lanky build and plain face, I’d been mistaken for a man more than once when I wore breeches and covered my hair with a cap. And since this was a matter that had to be attended to, the one-handed lieutenant finally gave in, agreeing to provide me with a hooded peasant’s cloak if I promised to let Griflet come too. The Kennel Master has saved my life once before and, since he was not one of the better-known Companions, would not be likely to be recognized.
“But you must take a vow of silence,” Bedivere warned him after he agreed to accompany me.
Griflet looked at me with great solemnity. “For the Queen’s safety, I will not even tell my wife,” he promised. Considering how close he and Frieda were, it struck me as a remarkably dear pledge.
News of the ceremony was sweeping through the countryside and soon became the talk of the household. Mordred immediately asked permission to take Cynric to the event.
“For all that you’ve become friends, the Saxon is still a hostage, and as such cannot leave the Court,” I told him hastily, looking for an excuse to keep the two of them from Stonehenge; even an accidental penetration of my disguise could mean my life. “Arthur left him specifically in Bedivere’s care. I will not go against that wish.”
My stepson accepted my decision, but gave me one of his odd, unfathomable looks. Like his father and his Aunt Morgan, Mordred could drop an impenetrable mask across his feelings whenever he wanted to keep the world at bay. It seemed to be a family trait.
My foster sister, Brigit, had recently moved to the convent at Amesbury, which was quite close to Stonehenge, so I let it be known that I was going to visit her and would be away from Camelot for several days. Griflet and I left early in the morning, without fanfare or fuss, and had exchanged our courtly clothes for raggedy peasant costumes well before noon.
We let my old mare Featherfoot set the pace, and by the time we reached Amesbury we were just another pair of tired and dusty pilgrims among so many. It was evening when Griflet left the horses at a stables and we joined the flow of people making their way to the Standing Stones.
The Gods have left circles of upright stones all over Britain, but none are more sacred than the one known as Stonehenge. The huge, rough pillars stand three times the height of a man, and those that form the outer ring are topped by equally large lintels which bind them together to make an enormous circle. The Greeks assumed it was a temple to their sun god, Apollo, but we Britons know it as the Giant’s Dance, and have no thought that it was the work of one God alone: even the most powerful of deities could not have erected such a structure without help.
In his youth Merlin had been commissioned to replace several of the stones that had fallen, and he made the place a monument to past Celtic heroes. But by the time the Magician had completed the task, his own father lay dead and buried beneath the Altar Stone. Years later Arthur’s father was buried there as well, making it a kind of crypt for High Kings. Someday Arthur himself would be interred within the inner Sanctuary.
As we rounded the last gentle rise, the ragged stones came into view, looming stark above us against the evening sky. The majesty of the scene was breathtaking, but I stopped dead still at the sight of the whole panorama, for the entire circle of Stonehenge was ringed by campfires. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of pilgrims were gathered around communal pots, sharing bowls of bubbling stew and filling the twilight with the sounds of laughter and dancing. It was a far bigger gathering than I had expected, and a chill of apprehension ran across my shoulders.
Pulling my hood well forward so that it hid my face, I trailed along beside Griflet, letting him do the talking for both of us. He greeted everyone affably, occasionally mentioning that we were brothers come up from the country to celebrate midsummer’s dawn and see what miracle the Lady would perform. His story was readily accepted since everyone else had come for the same reasons.
There was much speculation as to
what was going to happen, and quick glances flitted frequently toward the torchbearers Morgan had stationed at every arch of the outer circle. Whether they were there to keep the rabble out or to hold unspeakable powers within, they would stand in stony silence throughout the night. Some of our companions made the sign against evil, while others nodded reverently toward the Sanctuary, but I noticed that none made the sign of the cross. Perhaps the Christians had no desire to confront Morgan in her terrible rite.
Neither Griflet nor I wanted to join the revelry that would go on all night long, so we spread our bedrolls within the shadow of one of the monoliths and got what sleep we could.
In the coldest hour just before dawn we were wakened by a deep, somber tolling, as of a massive bell. Everyone began to run toward the great stones and as Griflet and I scrambled to our feet, the crowd surged past, carrying us with it. Somehow we became separated, and I found myself in the front row of observers, who were swept into the inner circle. The torchbearers had regrouped around the central precinct to keep the audience from advancing too close. They were big men, perhaps part of the cadre of bodyguards Morgan took everywhere, and my neighbors jostled for position in order to stare around them, trying to see through the horseshoe of rough pillars that surround the Altar Stone.
A pair of flambeaux had been placed at either end of the altar, and in the center of their light a dwarf was slowly and rhythmically swinging a two-handed hammer against a gong that stood taller than he was.
The sight made me shiver. Morgan’s lieutenant had the powerful upper body of a smith, broad-shouldered and bull-necked, but his legs were so short that he only came up as high as the average man’s ribs. Grim and determined, he accompanied the Lady of the Lake everywhere, and some said he loved her with a deep, if hopeless, passion.
When all the faithful had gathered, the dwarf let the last note of the gong fade out into the night. In spite of his size, he had an immense voice and shortly announced the arrival of Morgan le Fey, High Priestess of the Goddess and Lady of the Lake. The crowd hushed, straining forward to see, and murmured in wonder when my sister-in-law swept out of the shadows and leapt onto the flat table of the Altar Stone.
Always beautiful and petite, she stood still as a statue while the torchlight flickered over her long white robe. The wild, nightblack cloud of hair that surrounded her face was unbound like a girl’s, and a massive golden torc ringed her neck. Slowly she turned to address the whole circle, her arms extended in the traditional blessing, and once she had commanded all attention, she raised her hands to the starry sky in silent salute to the Goddess. As the sleeves of her gown fell back, I saw the golden serpent she had twined around one arm, and the flash of heavy enameled armbands on the other.
Standing there, taut as a bowstring, the High Priestess waited for the coming of the deity. I thought of the single purpose that binds priest and monarch together: both must be willing to offer their life as a bridge between the Gods and their people. In return we expect both loyalty and cooperation, readily given. Here the crowd responded fully, sending wave after wave of respect and love toward the Lady. At last she brought her arms down with a grand, sweeping gesture and, after calling the Goddess from every quarter of the horizon, began her prayers.
Morgan’s voice was pure magic, swooping and soaring on the air around us, reaching from the heights of heaven to the depths of earth as she called forth the Mother. Spellbound, the crowd followed her ritual as she paced about the altar, now sprinkling it with water from a special caldron, now flinging bits of incense into the embers of a thurible. For more than an hour she purified the holy precinct, built up walls of mystic protection, and prepared for the coming of the dawn.
As the eastern sky lightened, the giant stones seemed to coalesce into faint, pale mists that took silent shape in the darkness. Above them the great lintels hung in space, suspended between silvering heaven and darkling earth. We mortals in the middle drew together within their arc, trembling with hope and fear.
The High Priestess moved into a dance, turning in a slow, pulsing pattern to a music only she could hear. Her green eyes glazed as the trance took hold, guiding her feet, moving her faster and faster. She gave herself over to it until she became a whirling, spinning dervish, skin dripping with sweat and wild hair whipping out in strands like a head full of snakes.
“Send us Your blessing, O Matrix of Life,” she panted. “Extend to us Your compassion, Your power, Your forgiveness!” She tossed her head back and forth, surrendering totally to the force of the Great One, and her voice grew in power as both body and spirit built to a crescendo. “Forgive Your son, Your poor blemished son who, in a moment of despair, took the life of her who bore him. Purge him of the Furies, make him whole and clean and new again. Raise him up, O Mother, raise him as You raise the sun!”
With a great sob she flung herself flat on the Altar Stone, her arms outstretched toward the entrance of the Hanging Stones. All eyes followed her gesture. There to the east, silhouetted against the midsummer sun that peeked over the horizon, the Heel Stone stood pointing like a black finger to heaven. Slowly, inexorably, the blinding silver disk lifted skyward, casting the long shadow of the outlier straight toward the High Priestess. An immense silence surrounded us as though the whole world held its breath while we waited, watching the shadow shrink as the sun climbed. And then the miracle occurred—uncoiling himself from the dark earth at the base of the Heel Stone, a man came slowly erect until he, too, stood black against the glory of flooding light.
“Agravain!” Morgan cried, and the crowd let out a long-drawn sigh as high overhead a lark began to sing. “Come forth and meet your brothers, who embrace you once again and forgive you the death of their mother.”
Morgause’s son paced slowly along the Avenue from Heel Stone to Altar, and the murmur that welled up from the assemblage grew into a chant.
“Agravain, Agravain!” they called, all attention riveted on the penitent. In that moment I cast a surreptitious glance at the High Priestess, and ice poured through my veins. Gareth, Gaheris, and Mordred had joined her on the Altar Stone.
I stifled a cry of disbelief. Had I not expressly forbidden the boy to come? Or had he thought only Cynric was denied? How long had Mordred and his brothers been with Morgan, and what had she revealed to them? The prospect of the crowd hearing of Arthur’s having lain with his sister brought tears to my eyes and pain to my stomach…incest is the most ancient of taboos, and who knew what punishment the people might demand?
By now Agravain had reached the Altar and knelt with abject humility before his siblings. Gareth reached out to him first, and between the two of them he and Mordred lifted the penitent to his feet. Bathed in the light of a new day, it was clear that all three faces were wet with tears.
When they came together in a familial embrace, a roar went up from the congregation. Relief and joy poured from every throat, swelling to a cry of triumph that filled the air. People were falling to their knees in grateful homage to the Goddess and I sank down as well, bowing my head forward until the hood completely covered my face. I dared not look up for fear one of the Orcadians would recognize me, so I waited, staring at the dark earth, sick with fear of what Morgan was about to unleash.
The crowd grew calmer, then silent with expectation, and Morgan sent a declaration ringing out over our heads.
“Would that your Queen were here! As your High Priestess I represent the Gods, but Gwenhwyvaer”—she let the ancient form of my name hang on the air—“Gwenhwyvaer represents you, the people. She should be here for you. She was invited, but chose not to come.”
The crowd began to mutter, and my stomach tied itself in knots. In my concern for Arthur I had not foreseen that Morgan would use this as an excuse to turn the people against me.
The voices around me were growing ugly, and I hunkered down farther, until my forehead touched my knees. I had heard the dreadful rumble of the mob when my father almost died, heard them crying for his life, knew the blood-lust mobs
could feel.
Finally the wave of discontent crested and as it began to ebb, the Lady signaled for silence.
“At least we are fortunate to have the scions of the House of Lot before us. All, that is, save one.”
Now she will lay bare the truth, I thought, feeling my gorge rise.
“And he, Gawain of the Bright Hair, heir apparent for the High King’s position—he is off confronting the barbarians in France!”
A fine shout of approval spun above me as I lay, fists clenched and body drenched with sweat. I couldn’t believe Morgan was calling the crowd’s attention to Gawain, not Mordred. What possible reason could she have to meander through simple things when Mordred was her greatest weapon?
I swallowed hard against the bile in my throat. Was it possible she didn’t know of Mordred’s paternity? Or was she playing a longer, more vicious game, wherein she would set up the son to challenge the father later on?
Finally, when the congregation had had their fill of applauding the sons of Lot, the crowd began to stir restlessly, wanting to disperse. So Morgan gave them a final blessing and sent them on their way.
The people began to mill around me, but I lay crumpled in a heap, wrung out and exhausted by what might have been. Griflet came to my side almost immediately and dragged me, weak and wobbly, to my feet. “Told you to leave off that wineskin,” he bellowed as he slung my arm over his shoulder. “What sort of fellow are you, getting drunk at a holy celebration? Why, if you weren’t my brother…”
I hung my head and let him carry me along, staggering now and then as though I’d been trampled physically as well as mentally, and when we got the horses from the stable, Griflet insisted we go directly to Brigit’s convent.
“Lord help us, what have you been doing to yourself?” my foster sister cried when she saw me. “Queen or no Queen, you can’t be any use to anyone when you’re this unstrung.” With a flurry of efficiency she had me undressed and put to bed immediately, and told Griflet I was not to consider traveling until the next day.
Guinevere, the Legend in Autumn: Book Three of the Guinevere Trilogy Page 16
