“Water of blessing flows from the earth . . .”
She shook her head—perhaps it had been her imagination. She knew that with age her senses had become less dependable.
Now the bath was three-quarters full. Nest and Ceincair were coming through the gateway with Artor, wrapped in a green robe between them. He moved slowly, depending on the priestesses for support, but he was on his feet, though the beads of sweat stood out on his brow.
“We come from the Mother and to Her we return . . .” the women sang, and then were still.
The king and his escorts stopped at the edge of the pool.
“Child of the Goddess, why have you come here?” asked Igierne.
“I seek to be healed in body and in soul—” came Artor’s answer. She held his gaze, hoping that it was true, for she had not been able to get from him, waking, an explanation of the words he had muttered in his fevered dream.
“Return, then, to the womb of the Mother, and be made whole.”
The priestesses untied the cord and eased the robe from his shoulders. Face and arms were sallow where illness had faded his tan, but the rest of Artor’s body was pale, growing rosy now as he realized he stood naked before nine women. But their gaze was impersonal, half tranced already by the ritual, and after a moment he regained his composure and allowed Nest and Ceincair to steady him as he descended the steps into the pool.
He halted again at the first level, as if surprised by the heat, then, biting his lip, continued downward until he stood in water halfway up his thighs, the mark of his injury livid against the pale skin. At the end of the bath there was a stone headrest. When the priestesses had helped him all the way down, the headrest enabled him to lie half-floating, his body completely submerged.
The priestesses had settled themselves cross-legged around the pool, singing softly to invoke the healing powers of the herbs. From time to time one of them would fetch more water to maintain the heat of the bath. Gradually the tension faded from Artor’s body. He lay with eyes closed, perspiration streaming from his face.
The singing continued as the night grew darker, gradually increasing in intensity. Igierne, who had been watching the gateway, saw first the pale figure appear within it, and then, as if some change in the air had aroused him, a sudden tension in the slack body of the king. He opened his eyes, and they widened as a light that transcended the blaze of the torches glowed around the shining robes of the priestess and the silver Cauldron in her arms.
The wonder remained as the maiden came fully into the light and he saw her dark hair, but the hope that had been there also was gone. Igierne understood. She had tried to persuade Guendivar to bear the Cauldron, and could not understand why the queen would not agree. Neither her son nor her daughter-in-law would share their secrets, but she understood now that Artor loved his queen. For a moment sorrow shook Igierne’s concentration. Then the momentum of the ritual swept all other awareness away.
“Be reborn from the water of life!” her voice rang against the stones. “Be healed by the water of love!”
The priestess lifted the cauldron, and the hallowed water it held poured in a stream of light into the pool.
VIII
THE GREAT QUEEN
A.D. 500
THE SKIRLING OF BAGPIPES THROBBED LIKE AN OLD WOUND IN the chill spring air, so constant that one forgot it until a touch, or a memory, brought the pain of loss to consciousness once more. King Leudonus was dead, and the Votadini were gathering to mourn him. The great dun on the rock of Eidyn was filled with chieftains, and the gorge below crammed with the skin tents and brushwood bothies of their followers. Morgause, marshalling provisions and cooks for the funeral feast, settling quarrels over precedence and ordering the rituals, was too busy to question whether what she felt was grief, or relief that he was gone.
These past ten years she had been a nurse to him, not a wife, watching his strength fade until he lay like a ruined fortress, never leaving his bed. And as the rule of the Votadini had passed into her hands, Morgause had become not only the symbol of sovereignty, but its reality. In his day, Leudonus had been a mighty warrior, but in the end death had taken him from ambush, with no struggle at all. She had drawn aside the curtain that screened his bed place one morning and found him stiff and cold.
It was just as well, thought Morgause as Dumnoval and the southern Votadini chieftains came marching in, that grief did not overwhelm her, for upon the strength she showed now, her future here would depend. She had sent word to her sons who were with Artor, but she had little hope they would come. The spring campaign against those Irish who still clung to the coasts of Guenet and Demetia had just begun, and the king’s nephews were among his most valued commanders.
Perhaps it was as well, for the fighting provided a credible excuse for Gualchmai’s absence. As it was, she could pretend that only a greater duty kept him away, though it had long been clear to her just how little he cared for the lordship of his father’s land. Nonetheless, just as her marriage to Leudonus had legitimated her authority, her status as mother to the heir might continue to do so, even when everyone knew his rule to be a fiction.
It was not, she thought as she offered the meadhorn to Dumnoval in welcome, as if she had not prepared for this day. There was scarcely a family in the land that had not cause to be grateful for food in a hard year, the loan of a bride-price to win a family alliance, gifts of weapons or cattle or honors. And so, as Dumnoval slid down off his pony, she greeted him as the Great Queen of Alba, receiving one of her men.
That evening she dressed in silk, its crimson folds glowing blood-red in the torchlight. Ornaments of amber and jet gleamed from her neck and wrists, amber drops swung from her ears. For some years now she had used henna to hide the silver in her hair, and kohl to emphasize her eyes. In the firelight, the marks that time and power had graven in her face were hidden. She was forever young, and beautiful. She passed among the benches, smiling, flattering, reminding them of her ties with the Picts and the benefits that a united Alba could bring, persuading them that they still needed her to be their queen.
The next morning, veiled, she walked behind Leudonus’ bier, her son Goriat, who at seventeen towered like a young tree, on one side, and the thirteen-year-old Medraut, with his shining bronze hair and secret smile, on the other. Up from the Rock of Eidyn to the Watch Hill above it wound the procession, and then around the slope to the little lake on whose shores they had prepared the pyre. The ashes would be buried by the tribal kingstone below the ancient Votadini fortress, a day’s journey to the southeast. It was here where the king had ruled that the Druids chanted their prayers and spells; and here, while the pipes wailed and the drums pounded heavy as heartbeats, that the holy fire released Leudonus’ spirit to the winds.
That night the men drank to their dead king’s memory while the bards chanted his deeds. The queen remained in the women’s quarters, as was fitting. Morgause was grateful for the custom, for her woman’s courses, which for several moons had been absent, had returned in a flood. She was lying in her bed, listening to the distant sounds of revelry and wondering whether she could sleep if she drank more mead, when she heard from the direction of the gate the sounds of a new arrival.
“My lady—” Dugech spoke from the door. “Are you still awake, Morgause?”
“Someone has come. I heard. Tell him to join the other drunkards in the hall—” she answered, lying back on her pillows again.
“But lady, it is your mother who is here!”
Morgause sat up, calculating swiftly the time it would have taken for a messenger to reach the Lake, and for Igierne to make the journey to Dun Eidyn. Did her mother have a spy here, as she herself did on the Isle of Maidens, or was it Ia, receiving the word from her brother, who had willingly or unwillingly let the high priestess know?
She swung her feet over the edge of the bed and reached for a shawl. Whatever the truth might be, she must suppress any reaction until she could find out why her mother was here.
Even the warmth of the firelight could not disguise the pallor of Igierne’s skin, and Morgause was aware of an unexpected and surprisingly painful pang of fear. At times she had longed for the day when her mother would be gone and she should inherit her place on the Isle of Maidens. But not now, when she was battling to retain her hold on the Votadini. The idea that she might still long for her mother’s love was a thought she could not allow.
“Bring us some chamomile tea, and show my mother’s women where they will be sleeping,” she told Dugech. Igierne had brought two priestesses whom Morgause did not know, an older woman and a dark-eyed girl with corn-colored hair, who were bringing in baskets and bundles.
“The burning was this morning. You missed it—” she said then. “Did you think I needed a shoulder to weep on? I am doing well. You did not have to make such a journey for my sake.”
“Gracious as ever . . .” murmured Igierne, drinking from the cup of tea Dugech set before her. A little color began to return to her cheeks. “Perhaps I came to honor Leudonus.”
“Since your son could not be bothered,” said Morgause. “Or was Artor unable to come? I hear he has never quite recovered from his wounding two years ago, despite your attempts to heal him.”
“He can ride—” Igierne answered, frowning. “Yet even if he could leave his army, the king would not have been here in time for the funeral. But I remember Leudonus in his youth, and even if you do not, I will mourn him. It was long since I had seen him, but he was one of the last men of Uthir’s generation. The world is poorer for having lost him.”
Morgause snorted and lifted a hand as men do to acknowledge a hit when they practice with swords. “Very well. But you cannot wonder that I am surprised to see you. We have not been close these past years.”
“I will not quarrel with you regarding whose fault that is. I am too tired.” Igierne set down her tea. “I had hoped that now you are a grandmother yourself, you might be able to put aside your resentment of me.. . .”
Morgause felt the color flood up into her face and then recede again. “What do you mean?”
“Gualchmai has a girl-child, did not you know? She is the daughter of some woman he met in the hills. She is twelve now. He sent her to me last year.” At the words, the younger of her companions looked up, her eyes wide and dark as those of a startled doe. “Come, Ninive, and greet your grandmother—”
Seen close to, Ninive was obviously a child, gazing around her as if any sudden sound would send her bounding away. A wild one, but I could tame her, thought Morgause as the girl bent to kiss her hand. Why did Gualchmai not give her to me?
But at a deeper level, she knew. Her brother had stolen her two elder sons already, and now her mother was claiming the girl, the granddaughter that she could have trained as a priestess in a tradition older than anything in Igierne’s mysteries. Igierne had been foolish to bring her here, or foolishly sure of her own power.
“You are very certain of her—” she said when Ninive had been sent off for more tea. “It is not an easy life, there on the island. What if the child wants a man in her bed and children at her knee? She ought to have the chance to choose—”
“Why do you think I brought her here?” Igierne replied, with that lift of the eyebrow that had always exasperated her daughter, so eloquent in its assumption of authority.
For a moment, Morgause could only stare. “How generous! Well, I will speak with Ninive after the assembly, and then we will see if she takes after you, or me.. . . But I can see why Gualchmai did not wish to bring a girl-child to Artor’s court,” she added reflectively.
“What do you mean?”
“My brother does not write to me, but others do,” Morgause replied, “and there are many who say that the queen’s bed is not empty, though Artor does not lie there.”
“It is not so—” said Igierne, but Morgause suppressed a smile, seeing the uncertainty in her mother’s eyes.
“Is it not? Well, I have no objection if Guendivar follows northern ways. If the king is not potent, it is up to the queen to empower the land.”
“By taking lovers, as you have? Who fathered your sons, Morgause?”
Morgause laughed, having goaded her mother to a direct attack at last. “What man would dare to boast of having fathered a child on the queen, especially when it was not she with whom he lay, but the Goddess, wearing her form, and he himself possessed by the God? My children are more than royal, Mother, they are gifts of the gods!”
In the next moment she realized that this stroke had missed its mark. Igierne sat back and took another sip of tea.
“Ah—so that is how it came to pass. Beware, daughter, lest the gods call you to account for what you have made of their gifts to you.”
Morgause frowned, aware of having revealed more than she meant to. But even if Igierne knew Medraut’s parentage, what could she do? This child, at least, was her own, body and soul.
“You have had a long journey, Mother, and you must be weary,” she said then. “And I must be fresh for tomorrow’s assembly of the clans. Dugech will show you where you are to sleep.” Morgause rose, summoning the woman who waited by the door. But despite her words, she herself tossed restlessly until the dawn.
Still, the gods had not abandoned her, for by the end of the council, the clans, while recognizing the claim of Dumnoval to lead the southern Votadini, and choosing Cunobelinus as warleader for the northern clans, had agreed that Morgause should continue to rule in Dun Eidyn as regent for Gualchmai. But Ninive chose to return to the Isle of Maidens with Igierne.
“They tell me that you are shaping well as a warrior.” Morgause looked up at her fourth son as they stood on the guard path built into the rampart of Dun Eidyn. Goriat over-topped her by more than a head, and she was a big woman. Indeed, he towered over most men. She was not entirely certain who had fathered him, but as he grew it seemed likely that it was a man of Lochlann, who had come bringing furs and timber from the Northlands that lay eastward across the sea. She remembered the beauty of the trader’s long-fingered hands.
“Men say that Gualchmai is the greatest warrior in Britannia. If I cannot surpass him, I have sworn to be the second.” Goriat grinned.
“But are you the best fighter in Alba?” she asked then.
“I can take any man of the tribes—”
“South of the Bodotria,” she corrected, “but you have not yet measured yourself against the men of the Pretani.” Morgause gestured northward, where the lands of the Picts were blossoming in tender green beneath the sun.
Goriat shrugged. “If Artor fights them, I suppose I shall find out.”
She looked up, startled by his tone. It was natural that he should think of following his brothers into his uncle’s service, but she had not realized he considered it a certainty.
“Perhaps Artor will not have to fight them,” she said carefully. “If one of his kindred is their warleader.. . . The Pretani have a princess of the highest lineage who is ripe for marriage. You know they seek outlanders to husband their royal women to avoid competition within the clans. They have sent a messenger, asking me for one of my sons. Marry the girl, and you will lead their armies and father kings.”
“The Pretani!” Goriat exclaimed in revulsion.
“Alba!” Morgause replied. “If the Votadini and the Pretani make alliance, the north will be united at last!”
“And then may the gods pity Britannia!” He turned to face her, his long fingers curling into fists. “But it will not happen. If you think I will lend myself to this plot, Mother, you have gone mad. Play your games with Medraut, if you will, but I will stand on the other side of the board.”
“You are an idiot without understanding,” she hissed. “With one of my sons on the high seat of Britannia and my grandson on the sacred stone of the Pretani, we will rule this entire Hallowed Isle! You will go north, Goriat, or you will go nowhere! You think yourself a man and a warrior, but I am the Great Queen!”
Morgause turned and st
alked away along the parapet, leaving him there. He was young and rebellious, but she held the purse-strings. His brothers had gone outfitted with arms and horses and servants as befitted their station, but her fourth son should have nothing until he agreed to do her will.
But the next morning, when she called for him, Goriat had disappeared.
For three days, Morgause raged. Then she began to think once more. For a time she considered sending Medraut to the Picts instead, but he was not yet a warrior, although in other areas he was precocious enough to give her concern. Yet even if he had been of an age to marry, Medraut had a different destiny. At heart, Morgause, like Goriat, held Britannia to be the greater prize, and of all her sons, Medraut was the one with the greatest right to it.
At Midsummer, the tribes of the north celebrated the sun’s triumph by clan and district, making the offerings and feasting and blessing their cattle and their fields. Each year, it had been the custom of the queen to keep the festival with a different clan, but the summer after the death of Leudonus, she gave out that this year she would observe the holiday in seclusion, and her youngest son with her, in honor of her lord.
A few days before the solstice they set out east along the shore of the firth, towards a headland with a house to which Morgause had often retired when she needed to recuperate from the demands made on a queen. Her folk were accustomed to this, and there was no surprise when she dismissed all attendants except Dugech and Leuku. But none knew that the following evening a boat was beached on the shore below, whose crew spoke with Pretani tongues, or that it pushed off once more before the sun was in the sky, bearing the queen of the Votadini, her maid Dugech, and her son.
“Why does Leuku not come with us?” asked Medraut as the land grew dim behind them.
The Hallowed Isle Book Three Page 14
