The Hallowed Isle Book Three

by Diana L. Paxson

  She held the circle even as she felt something flare towards him like a spear of light. But the shock as Merlin caught it shattered the link. For one terrified moment the spirits of the priestesses were tossed like leaves in a high wind. And then another power blossomed in the midst of them, rising from the hearth like a flame into which all other powers were subsumed.

  Bright as fire, serene as pure water, strong as the earth below, Brigantia Herself arose from the midst of Her priestesses and directed their joined powers towards the goddess image on the boss of Artor’s shield. Through Her eyes, Igierne saw the image blaze, saw an answering radiance in the faces of Britannia’s warriors, and saw, as the Saxons felt the land itself turning against them, the enemy break and flee.

  To Igierne, Aquae Sulis had always seemed an outpost of civility and culture in the midst of the wild hills. The warm stone of the temple of Sulis and the enclosure surrounding the baths in the center of the city glowed in the afternoon sunshine, and the tiled roofs of the Roman buildings around them had the mellow beauty of an earlier age. Even the Saxon war had not really touched it, though the land to the north had been trampled and torn by the two armies. Igierne had wept, passing the twin mounds where they had burned the bodies of the slain Britons and those of their foes. In life, she reflected, they had been enemies, but in death they all fed the same soil.

  The Saxons had kicked down a few doors when they searched Aquae Sulis for foodstuffs, but by Artor’s order, the town had been stripped of booty and abandoned before the armies arrived. If the place had not been full of wounded soldiers, she might never have guessed there had been a war.

  Those fighters who were still fit to travel were already off to their homes, or harrying the retreating Saxons. Most of the warriors who had been badly wounded were dead. Those who remained in Aquae Sulis had wounds which were not severe enough to kill them outright but required a longer convalescence. The minerals in the water healed torn flesh as its warmth eased aching muscles, and each morning the altar of Sulis bore new offerings.

  At dawn, before the day’s complement of wounded came to seek the goddess, Igierne and her women visited the baths. Some of the hot and cold pools that had been added to the facilities in the previous century were no longer usable, but the rectangular great bath was still protected by its vaulted ceiling. Seen through the steam that rose from the surface, the marble gods stationed around the pool seemed to nod and sway. Cradled in the warmth of the water, Igierne saluted them: Venus and Mercurius, Jupiter and Juno and Minerva, Ceres and Bacchus, Apollo and his sister Diana with her leaping deer.

  Only Mars was missing from this place of healing. But on Mons Badonicus the Britons had made offerings enough to the god of war. Not only Oesc, but Ceretic, the leader of the West Saxons, had fallen there. Aelle, who had led the rebellion, was an old man. It would be a generation or more before the Saxons could hope to field such an army again.

  Afterwards, relaxed and glowing, she joined Artor for breakfast in the house of the chief magistrate.

  “You look well,” he said as they sat down.

  “I wish I could say the same for you,” she answered. In the pitiless illumination of morning the lines that pain had drawn around his mouth and responsibility had graven on his brow showed even more clearly than they had by torchlight the night before. “You look as if you had lost the war.”

  “I lost a lot of good men,” he said tonelessly. He had filled his bowl with porridge, but he was not eating it. “I lost Oesc.”

  “He was your enemy!”

  Artor shook his head. “Never that. If I had not failed him, there would have been no war. I killed him,” he said flatly.

  “Not in hatred or anger . . .” she objected softly.

  Her son sighed. “I was spared that, at least. It was by his request. His back was broken in the battle, and he wished the mercy stroke to come from my hand.”

  Igierne considered him, frowning. You are wounded too, my son, as sorely as any of those men I saw outside the baths.

  “When Uthir died,” she said slowly, “I saw no reason to go on. Morgause did not need me, and I did not know where you were. I was no longer a queen. It took time for me to understand that there was still a role for me to play, and things I was needed to do.”

  “Indeed . . .” Artor breathed, “I felt your presence on the battlefield. And then—” a memory of wonder flared briefly in his eyes “—the goddess came, Sulis Minerva, or Brigantia Herself, filling our hearts with fire. Britannia owes a great debt to the women of the Holy Isle.”

  “And now you need me again—” she said, not quite questioning. He did not answer. His face was grim, and she realized that he was not seeing her at all. “Artor,” she said sharply, “why did you summon me here?”

  “I do need you.” His face brightened with a rueful smile. “There remains one task that is too much for my courage. Only a woman—a priestess—can help me now.”

  Igierne set down her tea and looked at him expectantly.

  “I swore to Oesc that I would bury his ashes beside Hengest’s mound . . . and I promised to see his wife and infant son back to Cantium.”

  “Cataur will give her up to you?”

  “Has already given—” Artor said grimly, “which is the only reason his head is still connected to his shoulders. Enough Saxon blood has been spilled to satisfy even the Dumnonians. Rigana and her child are safe now at Dun Tagell. I want you to go there and escort her home.”

  Igierne sat back in her chair, staring, her mind awhirl with memory. “I have not seen Dun Tagell since your father took me away to be married, after Gorlosius died.. . .”

  After a moment she realized how much of that ancient grief and anger must have shown in her face by its reflection in Artor’s eyes.

  “Does it get any easier, Mother? Do the rage and the sorrow fade in time?” he asked then.

  “They do . . .” she said slowly, “if you seek healing; if from the destruction you build something new.”

  He nodded, still holding her gaze. “Healing is what we all need now. After so many years of warfare, Britannia, bruised and battered as she is, knows peace at last. The Sword and the Spear must be put to rest. It is time to bring forth the Cauldron and use its power.”

  “And for that you need the Lady of the Lake,” answered Igierne, “I understand. But you also need a queen.”

  “Still trying to marry me off, Mother?” The pain lines vanished in a brief grin. “Well, perhaps you are right. I will arrange to visit Leodegranus—after I have confirmed Oesc’s son as lord of Cantium.”

  “So—did Artor send you because he was afraid to face me?” Rigana turned, skirts flaring as the sea breeze caught them, but then there was always wind at Dun Tagell.

  “There are a great many demands on the High King’s time,” Igierne answered neutrally.

  “Oh, indeed!” Rigana took a quick step away from the cliff’s edge, brown curls blowing across her face and head cocked like an angry bird. “Too many for him to pay attention when that bastard Cataur abducted me, and far too many for him to take the time to rescue me! I would still have a husband, and you would not have had this war, if there had not been so many demands on your son’s time!”

  Igierne took a firm hold on her own temper. “The women of Demetia whom he saved from slavery in Eriu might not agree with you, but hindsight is a wonderful counselor.” She had met Oesc a time or two when he was Artor’s hostage, and thought him a pleasant, if rather dour, young man. How had he ended up married to this virago? “He sent me because I know what it is to lose a husband,” she continued. “Artor will be waiting for us in Cantium.”

  “With Oesc’s ashes.” Rigana’s narrow shoulders slumped. “At night I lie awake, remembering all our bitter words. And yet I loved the man, even though he was Saxon and the heir of my family’s ancient enemy.”

  “Artor loved him too,” said Igierne quietly.

  Together, the two women started along the path that wound about the edge
of the rock. The stone wall was low here, a protection for those inside rather than a defense, for no boat could live among the rocks at the base of the sheer cliff that faced the dancing glitter of the sea. They picked their way thorugh the tumbled remains of beehive-shaped huts where monks had lived until Gorlosius turned Dun Tagell into a guardpost, following the curve of the rock back towards the hall.

  “Oesc trusted him—” Rigana said bitterly. “He would not have turned against his own folk for my sake, but I think he might have done so, if Artor had called.”

  “He went to war with Artor for your sake,” Igierne reminded her.

  “Do you think I haven’t blamed myself for that, too?”

  “Blame Cataur—”

  “Who goes unpunished!” Rigana exclaimed.

  “Not entirely. I am told he will never sit a horse again.”

  “Artor should have killed him! He taunted me—called me a whore who had sold out to my country’s enemy for the sake of a warm bed and a crimson gown!”

  They had stopped once more. Below them the sea shone luminous as emerald in the slack water by the shore.

  “He wanted to,” answered Igierne, “but he needed Cataur’s men. The greater good outweighed the desire for revenge—a lesson you will have to learn if you are to hold Cantium until your son is grown.”

  “Is that what Artor intends?” Rigana’s eyes widened.

  “Cantium is the Eastern Gate of Britannia. Artor trusted Oesc to hold it for him, and promised it to Oesc’s son. You are of the old blood of the land. Until Eormenric comes of age, you will be Cantium’s queen. You will have to choose a good man to lead the house-guard—” She stopped, for Rigana was not listening.

  Overhead gulls darted and soared, squabbling. Rigana had turned towards the hall, and Igierne heard a fainter cry above the mewing of the birds.

  “Eormenric—” Rigana crossed her arms above her breasts, where a dark stain was already spreading as her milk let down in response to the baby’s cry, and hurried down the path.

  Igierne followed more slowly, bracing herself against memories that surged like the waves of the sea. In her mind’s eye, the bright afternoon gave way to moonlight, and once more she saw Uthir coming towards her. When a cloaked figure rose up before her, she was not surprised, and reached out eagerly.

  “Lady . . . I greet you.. . .”

  A woman’s voice—Igierne recoiled, blinded by the light of day. Someone seized her hand and pulled her back to the path, and she stood shaking with reaction.

  The woman who was holding her was a little bent, with grey in her hair, wrapped in a grey shawl. It took a moment for Igierne to realize that the glimmer of light around the stranger was no failure of vision, but the aura of power. She took a deep breath, centered herself, and looked again.

  “You are Hæthwæge, Oesc’s wisewoman,” she said then. “Merlin has told me about you.”

  Hæthwæge smiled, and suddenly she did not seem so old. “And all Britannia knows the Lady of the Lake.” Her nod was the salutation of one priestess to another. “I am glad that you have come.”

  To Igierne’s relief, she used the British speech, accented but clear. “Do you understand why Artor kept Rigana here?”

  The wisewoman’s gaze grew bleak. “To keep her safe until Oesc’s Wyrd was accomplished. The runes told me what had to be. I loved him dearly, but I knew his life would not be long. Now he goes back to the land.”

  Igierne looked at her with sudden calculation. That the Saxon woman had power was clear—but what, besides the runes, did she know?

  “A time of peace is coming in which our peoples must learn to live together,” she said slowly. “And it seems to me that as the years pass, those of us who follow the old ways, both Saxon and Briton, will find we have more in common with each other than we do with the priests of the Christians. You would be welcome at the Lake, to teach our young priestesses, and learn our mysteries.”

  Hæthwæge stopped short, her gaze gone inward as if she were listening. Then she laughed. “I would like that well, but you must know that where I go, there also goes the god I serve. He has always been very willing to learn from women, and I may teach what I have learned from him. But my duty lies now with Oesc’s young son. Until Eormenric is taken from the care of women, I must stay by him. If you are still willing, when that day arrives I will come to you.”

  “I understand,” said Igierne, “and Rigana is fortunate to have you at her side. But we have a journey to make. While we bear each other company, let us share what wisdom we may.. . .”

  The harvest was in and the first storm of autumn had swept the west country, cleansing the land and setting the first touch of vivid color in the leaves. But when it was past, the gods seemed to have regretted their threat of winter, for the skies cleared and the air grew warm once more. The Vale of Afallon lay in dreaming peace, and the hills that sheltered it basked beneath the sun.

  Even at the villa, where the family of Prince Leodagranus had gone to escape the heat of Lindinis, the air was hot and still. Guendivar, clad in the sheerest linen tunica her mother would permit her, untied the waist cord to let the garment flow freely from the brooches that held it at the shoulders and still felt rivulets of perspiration twining across her skin. Even the wool she was spinning felt slick beneath her fingers. She detached them distastefully and tossed the spindle onto the bench that ran along the covered porch.

  Sister Julia started at the clatter, then returned her attention to the even strand that was feeding from the cloud of wool wrapped around her distaff onto her own. She had been Guendivar’s constant companion for almost a year, when Petronilla, dazzled by the prospects implied by Queen Igierne’s letter, had sent to the Isle of Glass for a nun to guard her daughter’s chastity. Mother Maruret had offered them Julia, an orphan of good family who had not yet taken her final vows. She was plain enough to convince Guendivar’s mother of her virtue, and at eighteen, young enough so that Guendivar would tolerate her company.

  “How can you bear to spin in this weather?” Guendivar exclaimed, resting her hands on the railing and gazing out across the stubble of the hay-meadow. “If they could, I daresay even the sheep would be shedding their fleeces now. But then—” she turned back to Julia “—you always look so cool.”

  Julia flushed a little, and Guendivar laughed. She had discovered very early that the young woman’s fair skin showed every shift in emotion. She was clad, as always, in a gown of heavy undyed linen, and when Guendivar looked more closely, she saw a sheen of perspiration on Julia’s brow.

  “You are hot! Well, that settles it. We are going down to the stream to bathe!”

  “But your mother—” Julia stopped her spinning.

  “My mother will not be back from Lindinis until tonight, but why should she object? The war is over, and all the lust-crazed soldiers are on their way home!”

  It was too bad, really—for all their fears, not one warrior, lusty or not, had come near. It would have brought a little excitement into what had been an anxious but boring summer. Guendivar sighed, knowing her mother would have told her to use the bathhouse attached to the villa, but she saw no reason to make more work for the slaves when what she really wanted was to get out into the woods once more.

  Before Julia could protest further, Guendivar had dashed inside for her sandals and some towel cloths and a blanket, and was running down the path. In the next moment, she smiled as she heard the young nun hurrying after her. By now, she had found that within the limitations of her mother’s rules, Julia was quite persuadable. Guendivar would even have been glad of her companionship if she could just, once in a while, have spent some time alone.

  It had been months since she had had a glimpse of faerie radiance. Did growing up mean that one could no longer see them? But they had promised that she would stay the same! Guendivar clung to that knowledge in the lonely nights when she lay awake watching the moon pass her window and listening to Julia’s quiet breathing from the other side of the r
oom. Sometimes she thought about simply climbing out the window, but Julia was a light sleeper and would rouse the household to follow her.

  But I will do it! she promised herself as she reached the woods and slowed. No one, not even the High King himself, will keep me locked in for long!

  Julia gave her a reproachful glance as she caught up with her. She was breathing hard and sweating visibly. Guendivar suppressed an impulse of pity. It was Julia’s own fault—she knew where Guendivar was going, after all.

  But now she could hear the cheerful gurgle of the stream as it purled among the stones of the ford. Below the ford the ground had been cleared so the sheep and the cattle could come down to drink there, but above it, where a screen of alders shaded the water, her father had hollowed out a bathing pool.

  Guendivar dropped her towel and stripped off her tunica in a single motion, and made a dash for the pool.

  “Oh, it’s delicious!” she cried as the coolness closed around her. She ducked beneath the surface and came up laughing, splashed Julia, who had folded her gown and was testing the water with one toe, and laughed again to see it sparkle in the sun. She leaned backward to let the water embrace her and floated, her bright hair raying out around her, her breasts bobbing like pale apples.

  Carefully, Julia waded in. Standing, the water lapped her breasts, larger than Guendivar’s, though the younger girl was taller, with rosy nipples, erect now in response to the water. Julia’s face might be plain, reflected Guendivar, but her body was rounded and beautiful. It was a shame to hide that curving waist beneath a nun’s shapeless robe.

  She allowed herself to sink beneath the surface once more, turning, opening her legs so the cool water rushed between her thighs. She felt the pressure of the current against her side—or was it the spirit of the pool? Her spirit reached out in wordless longing, and she felt the current curl around her in an insubstantial embrace.

  Too soon she had to come up for air, and the moment was gone. She could only be grateful that she was wet already, so Julia could not see her tears. She gathered up her hair and twisted it to wring out the water, then started for the shore.