The Hallowed Isle Book Three

by Diana L. Paxson

  “She will keep a fire going in the house so that any who pass will believe we are all still there.”

  For a few moments he was silent. “Does that mean we will be gone for some time?”

  “For a space of several days. It is time you saw how folk who have not abandoned the most ancient ways of our people keep the festival.”

  Medraut’s eyes brightened as he realized that she was at last going to share with him the secret of her mysterious journeys.

  At thirteen, he had reached an uneasy balance between boy and man. He would never, she thought, have the height and sheer muscular power of his brothers. But the size of his hands and feet promised growth, and even now, at a boy’s most awkward age, he had an agility that should develop into uncommon speed and grace. Gualchmai and Gwyhir and Goriat possessed physical splendor, while Aggarban, when last she saw him, had been cultivating a dark truculence that was impressive in its own way. Her youngest son would have an elegance that verged on beauty. Already, when he chose to do so, Medraut knew how to charm.

  And sexual maturity was coming early as well. She had seen him bathing with the other boys, and though the fuzz on his cheeks was not yet worth shaving, his man’s parts were full sized, surrounded by a bush of red hair. Medraut had an eye for women already, and only the most dire of threats to her maidservants had preserved his virginity thus far. Morgause would have preferred that he hold on to that power, but since chastity was probably unattainable, she meant to channel the magic of Medraut’s sexual initiation through ritual.

  “And in what way, Mother, are the rites of the Pretani different from Votadini ways?”

  From his expression, Morgause could tell that there was something strange about her answering smile. “There is more blood in them,” she said softly, “and more power.”

  The current had been with them, and the northern shore was already near. On the beach, horsemen were waiting. Morgause felt her pulse begin to beat more strongly. She took a deep breath, scenting woodsmoke and roasted flesh on the wind.

  They came to Fodreu in the evening when the sun, still clinging to his season of triumph, turned the smoke from a multitude of cookfires to a golden haze. Coming over the rim of the hill they could see the gleam of water where the Tava curved abruptly eastward. Just above the bend was a ferry, with rafts to take them across the swift-running stream, and then they were following the road along the far bank towards the royal dun. Drest Gurthinmoch had emerged victorious from the turmoil following the death of Nectain Morbet and married the queen. He reigned now over the Pretani of both north and south from a stout dun near the sacred grove that held the coronation stone.

  But that was another mystery. Today, their way led to the wide meadow where a women’s enclosure had been prepared for the honored guests of the Pretani queen. Here, Morgause parted from Medraut, with certain words of warning to the warrior assigned to escort him. Then she passed through the gateway where Tulach was waiting to escort her to the queen.

  The inner enclosure had been hung with woolen cloths embroidered with sacred symbols. Behind the queen’s high seat the hanging stirred in the draught, so that the red mare pictured upon it seemed to move. Above it were images of the comb and mirror, symbols of the Goddess who ruled both in this world and the next. The queen herself wore red garments, also heavily embroidered, and was eating dried apples from a woven platter held by one of her maidens.

  Uorepona—the Great Mare—was for her both a name and a title, always borne by the ruling queen. She was older than her husband, having been queen to Nectain Morbet before him, a little woman with grey hair, her body sagging with age.

  Morgause made her obeisance, wondering nervously if Uorepona had loved her first husband, and if so, whether she might seek vengeance on the sister of the man who had killed him.

  “The Great Mare of the Pretani bids you welcome,” said Tulach in the British tongue.

  “The Great Queen of the Votadini gives thanks, and offers her these gifts in token of her friendship,” answered Dugech, motioning one of the slaves to bring forward the casket. Courtesy was all very well, but too much humility would be taken as weakness.

  The atmosphere warmed perceptibly as Uorepona examined the ivory comb, the ornaments of golden filigree, and the vessels of Roman glass. A length of crimson silk was unfolded and immediately put to service as a mantle. The queen’s woman offered Morgause apples from the platter, and she began to relax, understanding that as an accepted guest, she would be safe from now on.

  “I have brought with me my son to be initiated into manhood—” she said later that evening as they sat around the women’s fire. “He is the son of a king and comes of a line of warriors, and has never lain with a woman. I will give you the first offering of his seed if you have among your servants a clean maiden to receive it.”

  Uorepona spoke to her women in the Pictish dialect and laughed, by which Morgause concluded that though she did not speak British well, she understood it. When she had finished, one of the women replied.

  “He is the bronze-haired lad that came with you, is it not so? My lady says that if she were younger she would take his seed herself, but as she is old, she will set her ornaments upon one of her servants to stand in her stead. The lady Tulach shall help you to choose . . .”

  The Great Mare was served entirely by women. Even the slaves were of good blood, captives taken in war. Almost immediately, one of the girls caught Morgause’s eye, a slim child scarcely older than Medraut, though her breasts were grown. But what had attracted the queen’s attention was the bright red-gold of her hair and her amber eyes. She was very like Guendivar.. . .

  “That one—” she gestured. “Where is she from?”

  Tulach shrugged. “She is British, taken as a child in Nectain Morbet’s war, but her lineage is not known.”

  Morgause nodded. “She will do very well.”

  The longest day continued endlessly beneath the northern sky. Earlier, the men had competed in contests of strength and skill, and the cattle had been driven through the smoke of the herb-laden fires. Now the sun was sinking, although it would be close to midnight before the last light was gone from the sky. The scent of cooking meat drifted through the encampment as the carcasses of sacrificed cattle roasted over many fires, but the smell of blood still hung in the air.

  Tonight, the gods of the Pretani must be rejoicing, thought Morgause. Even the Votadini festivals were not so lavish, and as Christianity strengthened in the south, Artor’s feasts had become bloodless travesties. A distant drum beat was taken up by others; her blood pulsed in time to the rhythm that throbbed in the air. Soon, the Goddess would receive another kind of offering.

  Morgause had been given a place of honor with the women. On the other side of the circle she could see Medraut, sitting with the other boys. He had a gift for languages, and his agile tongue had clearly mastered the speech of the Pretani well enough to make them laugh. But from time to time his gaze would flicker towards her, questioning.

  Trust me—She sent reassurance back with her smile. This is for your good. You will see.. . .

  The slaves brought platters of meat still steaming from the spit, and skins of mead and heather beer. Some of the men were already becoming drunken, but what was given to the boys had been diluted. The ritual required that they be merry, but not incapable. Chieftains rose in place to boast of their achievements and praise the king. Young warriors marched into the center of the circle and danced with swords. And presently, after Drest’s bard had completed a song in his honor, the drumbeat quickened, and the boys, with the awkward grace of colts just beginning their training, danced into the circle in a wavering line.

  Morgause had spared no pains in her son’s education. At this age, all boys were somewhat ungainly, but Medraut had not yet begun the growth spurt that would make his body for a time a stranger’s, and in addition to her more private teaching, he had been rigorously schooled in running and leaping, in riding and in swordplay, and in the styl
ized movements of the warrior’s dance.

  It was a tradition the Votadini shared with their northern neighbors. Medraut’s thin body took on grace as he recognized the quickening rhythm, spine straightening, shoulders braced, and the belted kilt that was all he wore swinging as his feet stamped in time. This was a tradition of unarmed combat. The beat shifted and the boys paired off, leaping and feinting with clenched fists or open hands, proud as young cocks of their energy and skill.

  Skinny torsos shone with perspiration; differences in conditioning became apparent as some of the boys began to slow.

  Medraut, who had learned a few movements not included in the formal sequence, leaned close to his partner as they switched positions, feet flickering, and in the next moment the other boy fell. Face flaming with shame, he pulled himself upright and shambled off to the sidelines to join those whose endurance had given out.

  Again a shift in the drumbeat signaled a change, and the pairs became a line once more. Faster and faster the rhythm drove them, and the dancers circled and spun. Another boy fell, with no help from Medraut, and rolled away. The drumming crescendoed and fell silent. The boys stopped dancing, one or two of them sinking to their knees, chests heaving, as the power of the music let go. Medraut stood with his head up, perspiration running in glittering rivulets down his chest and sides. The hair that clung damply to his neck was the color of old blood, but he had the air of a young stallion that has won his maiden race and vindicated his breeding.

  Now a shimmer of tinkling metal brought heads up, eyes widening. A line of young women was filing in, their garments sewn with bits of silver and bronze. Singing and clapping hands, they circled the boys, and then drew back, leaving the girl Morgause had chosen standing alone.

  She moved along the line of boys, as if considering them. Her movements were stiff and her smile anxious, as if she were not quite certain she would be able to follow her instructions. Her bright hair, combed in a shining cape across her shoulders, stirred gently as she moved. The boys twitched and licked their lips as she passed them, and halted at last before Medraut, as she had been told to do.

  Medraut’s eyes widened, and his mother smiled. The ornaments the girl was wearing belonged to the Great Mare, but the gown was one he would recognize as her own, with her perfume still clinging to every fold. When you take her in your arms you will see Guendivar’s face, but it is my scent you will smell, and my magic that will bind you.. . .

  She had borne five strong sons in pain and suffering, and except for the last, she might as well have been a barren tree. One by one, Artor had seduced them away. Her granddaughter had been taken by Igierne. Medraut was all that remained to her, and she meant to use all her magic to make sure that the link between them stayed as strong as if the cord still connected him to her womb.

  The maiden twirled before her chosen champion. From around the circle came a soft murmur of appreciation as she unpinned the brooch that held her garment at the shoulder and let it fall. The girls sang louder and she swayed, cupping her naked breasts in her two hands. They were small, but perfect, pale nipples uptilted beneath the necklet of amber and gold. Medraut’s kilt stood out in a little tent before his thighs, and Morgause knew that the girl was arousing him.

  The boy had been told what the reward would be if he did well in the dancing, just as the maiden had been told what to do. Did he understand how the act was accomplished? Surely no lad brought up in the dun could be ignorant—he had seen animals coupling, and humans as well, when the revelry became too drunken in the hall.

  Seeing the admiration in Medraut’s eyes, the girl smiled and held out her hand. He sent a quick glance of appeal towards his mother, who nodded. Then he allowed the maiden to lead him away to the bower that had been prepared for them. The other girls followed, singing, and the rest of the boys, relieved or resentful, went back to their place in the circle and began to tease the serving girls to give them more beer.

  To the queens, they offered mead. Now that her son had met his challenge, Morgause could afford to relax. She accepted a beaker and drank deeply, tasting the fire beneath the sweetness and sighing as the familiar faint buzz began to detach her from the world.

  The royal circle began to break up as they prepared to light the great bonfire that had been built in the center of the field where they had held the competitions earlier that day. The sun had set some time ago, and the half-light was fading, soft as memory, into a purple glow. In the east, the waning moon, late rising as an old woman, was just beginning to climb the sky.

  Morgause got to her feet, taking a deep breath as the world spun dizzily around her. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears, or was it the Pictish drums she was hearing? Uorepona was retiring with her women, but Morgause felt desire rising within her. Since those few days during Leudonus’ funeral, her courses had not come. Surely, if she worshipped the Goddess at the Midsummer fires, she would become fertile once more!

  The drumming deepened. From the other end of the encampment a procession was coming, the light of torches danced and flickered across the grass. Morgause joined the throng that was forming a circle around the pyramid of logs. Tinder of all kinds had been stuffed within it, and the whole doused with oil. In times of danger, that frame of tinder would have held a man.

  It will burn, she thought, taking her place in the circle, and so will I....

  Shouting, the torchbearers danced around the waiting pyre, rushing inward and then retreating once more. Again and again they surged, in and back and in again, while the first stars began to prick through the silken curtain of the sky. Each thrust was echoed by a cry from the crowd. The shouting got louder, the dance more frenzied, and Morgause swayed, feeling warmth kindle between her thighs. And then, as if the need of the gathered clans had driven them to climax, the dancers leaped forward and plunged their torches into the pyre.

  The tinder caught, flame began to spark along the logs. Morgause felt a blast of warmth against her cheeks as fire billowed skyward. The drumming picked up and suddenly everyone was dancing. She laughed, whirling in place, and then began to move sunwise around the bonfire, hips swaying, arms outstretched.

  One of the men caught her eye and began to dance with her, but she did not like his looks, and whirled away. Soon enough a bright-haired warrior found favor, mirroring her movements as they danced together, burning with the same flame. The dance brought them closer and closer, until her bobbing breasts brushed his chest. He seized her then, kissing her hungrily, and staggering like drunkards they wove among the other dancers until they reached the edge of the circle and collapsed together, bodies straining, on the grass.

  Her warrior served her well, but when he had left her, Morgause still felt hunger. Take me! her heart cried as she began to dance once more, fill me with your seed, and I will live forever!

  And soon another man came to her, and when she had exhausted him, a third. By this time, her clothing had gone, and she danced clad only in her own sweat and her necklaces of amber and jet. After that, she ceased counting. At one point she lay with two men together, and then, just as the early dawn was lightening the eastern sky, she enticed one of the drummers, for there were not many dancers left upright, though coupling figures still writhed upon the grass.

  Morgause drew him down, pulling at his clothing with hasty caresses until he grunted and entered her. He was tired, and took his time at it, but a satiated exhaustion was finally overcoming her as well. She lay spread-eagled on the earth, quivering to his thrusts, until above his harsh breathing another sound caught her attention. She looked up, and gazing past the man’s muscled shoulder saw Medraut, his hair glinting in the first light, disgust in his eyes.

  “You are a man now—” Morgause said harshly. “This is what men do. Did you think you were so different?” Her partner groaned then and convulsed against her, and she laughed.

  It was nearly noon when Morgause woke, her head throbbing from too much mead and her body aching from rutting in the grass. After she had bathed, she
began to feel better and returned to the women’s enclosure. Medraut was nowhere to be seen, but she recognized his maiden, working with the other slave girls to clear the detritus of the night’s carousing away. She was wearing a bracelet that Morgause had last seen on her son’s arm.

  She ducked beneath the shade of the striped awning to pay her respects to the queen.

  “Your son performed well last night,” Uorepona said through her interpreter.

  “He did. But now the girl may bear his child. Will you sell her to me?”

  “If that is so, she would be all the more valuable,” came the answer.

  “I will be frank with you,” said Morgause. “The children of princes must be begotten at the proper time and season. It is not my desire that there should be a child, nor that the vessel that received this holy sacrifice should be tainted by the use of one less worthy. But I cannot dispose of your property.”

  Uorepona bent to whisper into Tulach’s ear.

  “Ah—now I begin to understand you. But she is a pretty thing, and has been useful. If I had known your intention, I would have offered you a slave of less value.”

  “She was the best choice for my purpose,” answered Morgause. “I will pay well.”

  Tulach nodded, and they began the delicate process of haggling.

  For the two nights that remained of the festival, Medraut slept with the slave girl and hardly spoke to his mother at all. The girl herself had not been informed of the change of ownership, and when the time came for Medraut to depart, clung to him, weeping. The boy had already tried to persuade Morgause to bring the slave south with them and been refused. When at last they took the road towards the firth, there were tears in his eyes as well.

  “Will we come back here? Will they be kind to her?” he asked as the grey waters of the Bodotria came into view.

  “She will be well taken care of,” answered Morgause, knowing that by now the slave collar would have been replaced by the mark of the strangler’s cord. In time, she would tell Medraut that the girl was dead, and he would forget her.