What are you? Who are you? the queen’s heart cried as the light drew closer. Now it seemed to her that forms moved within that radiance; a procession of bright beings was passing through the hall. What do you want from me?
And then it was before her, swallowing up all other sensation except the pressure of her husband’s hand.
An answer came. “I am as full of wonders as Faerie, and as common as day. I am what you most desire. Now I stand before you, but only when I stand behind you will you understand Me truly, and be fulfilled.”
And then it seemed to her that the light shimmered, and she glimpsed within it a woman’s form. The radiance surrounded her, and she tasted sweetness beyond the capacity of mortal food, though she never afterward was able to say if it had been truly taste instead of sight or sound.
Betiver heard singing, as he had heard it in the great church of Saint Martin as a child. With it came the sweetness of frankincense, filling the hall in great smoking clouds of light. The brightness drew closer, surrounded by a shifting glimmer like the movement of mighty wings. For a moment then he glimpsed a Chalice, through whose pure curve a rose-red radiance glowed.
“I am thy true Lord and thy Commander. Follow Me!”came a soundless Voice, and Betiver’s spirit responded in an ecstasy of self-offering—
“I am Thy man until my life’s end. How shall I serve Thee?”
“Serve Britannia . . . serve the King.. . .” came the answer, and he bowed his head in homage.
“Always . . .” he murmured, “always, wherever the road may lead___”
To Igierne, alone among all that company, the visitation had a tangible form. She saw the glowing silver and knew it for the Cauldron, but as it approached, the image of the Goddess grew out of the low relief of its central panel to a full figure that expanded until it filled the hall.
“Brigantia, Exalted One, power upwelling—” she whispered, “watch over Your children.”
“When have I failed to do so? It is you who turn away from Me . . .”
“Did I do wrong to bring the Cauldron to the king?”
“You did well, though a time will come soon when you will question that choosing. But for now, be comforted, for in the flesh your son has his healing, though he will not be whole in spirit until he sees Me in another guise.”
The radiance intensified, growing until she could no longer bear its brilliance, carrying her to a realm where the spirit and the senses were one, and she knew no more.
To each soul in that circle the Cauldron came, after the fashion in which he or she could see it most clearly, and each one received the nourishment, in body and in spirit, that was most desired.
And presently folk began to blink and stir, gazing around them as if the painted pillars and the woven hangings, their own hands and each other’s faces were equally strange and wonderful. It was no supernal radiance that showed them these things—that Light had disappeared. But the great door to the hall still stood open, and beyond it glowed a clear, rose-tinted sky, and the first golden rays of the rising sun.
Betiver looked exalted, as a warrior who has seen his victory. It was an expression that illuminated the faces of many of Artor’s Companions, though they gazed around them now in confusion and loss.
“I had it—” whispered someone, “I almost understood—where has it gone?”
Igierne lay still, with her priestesses around her, but her breast rose and fell, and Guendivar knew that in time she would wake, restored. Father Kebi was murmuring prayers, on his face an unaccustomed peace. The cooks and the kitchen slaves gazed about them in amazement. But Manus’ eyes shone like two stars.
Guendivar turned to her husband, understanding that she had seen the thing that was behind the faerie-folk who had once so enchanted her, and the source of their magic, though the images were fading so swiftly that she could no longer say just what it had been.
“What did you see, Artor?” she whispered. “What did you see?”
But he only shook his head, his eyes still wide, half-blinded by looking on too much light. She reached out, and he drew her to him and held her close against his heart, and for that moment, both of them were free.
Morgause gazed at the glory of the new day and cursed the gods. A night of elemental fury, followed by a dawning that might have belonged to the morning of the world, could only mean that Igierne had unveiled the Cauldron. The mysteries Morgause had studied during these past years had taught her how to sense the cycles of the land as once she had charted her own moontides, and she knew that this had been no natural storm. Such lore as she had been able to glean in the years she spent on the Isle of Maidens suggested that the precautions with which the Cauldron had always been surrounded were not only intended to control access to it—they were needed to control its power.
On the night just past they had surely seen the result of letting that power flow free. The ground was littered with leaves, and the woodlands were striped with pale slashes where entire branches had been torn from the trees. As the horses picked their way along the muddy trackway towards Camalot, she saw that the homes of men had fared even worse. Huts stood like half-plucked chickens, the bracing of their roofs bared where the thatching had been torn away. At that, the Celtic roundhouses, whose frames flexed with the storm, had fared better than the square-built Roman dwellings, which tended to crumble when the wind ripped off their terra-cotta tiles.
For anyone caught in the open, as she and her escort had been, the hours of darkness had been a nightmare. The cloak Morgause wore still steamed with moisture. Only the yew wood in which they had found shelter had saved them from an even worse battering by the storm.
And then, in the most secret hours before the dawning, the wind had dropped. For a few moments Morgause had wondered if the fury of the storm had transcended her powers of hearing. Then the air grew warmer, and she knew that the stillness betokened a Presence and no mere lack of sound.
Until then, she had hoped her suspicions might be mistaken. Her spy in Artor’s kitchens knew only that Guendivar had summoned the Lady of the Lake. But in her dreams Morgause had seen the Cauldron rising like a great moon above the land. And so she had come south—but not swiftly enough to prevent her mother from bringing the Cauldron—the Hallow that was Morgause’s birthright—to Artor.
This smiling morning only confirmed her in her conclusion. She felt orphaned; she felt furious. She had learned much from the witches of the Pretani, and yet she was a foreigner among them, always conscious that they kept secrets she could never learn. With the Cauldron, she could face them as an equal. During the past few years her desire for it had grown from an irritation to an obsession. It had to be hers!
There was no point in following her mother to Camalot and confronting her—the damage was done. Still, Igierne must leave eventually. Better, Morgause thought now, to keep her presence in the area a secret. Just ahead, the road had been washed out by the storm. Any party attempting to return to the Lake from the south must detour through the woodland. The damaged forest could hardly have been better arranged for setting an ambush. Limbs of alder and oak littered the ground, while sallow and willow had bowed to the blast. The marsh grasses were half submerged and the higher ground muddy. At her feet a marigold nodded in the light breeze. Morgause wondered how it had escaped the fury of the storm.
“We will stop here,” she told her men. “Uinist, set a watch and send scouts around the woods to watch the southern road. Doli, it will be your task to position the men where they can attack successfully. And when we have finished, we will flee westward. If there is suspicion, they will be searching the main road that leads north from Lindinis. No one will expect us to skirt the higher ground and push towards the sea.”
They had three days to wait before her men reported a large party coming up the road from the direction of Camalot. The horselitter, Morgause knew, must be carrying her mother. But even without the scouts she would have known who, and what, was coming—she could feel the presence of
the Cauldron, as if its recent exercise had increased its power. She could feel it, and she wanted it, as a thirsty man desires the well.
Morgause ordered her men to do no harm to the Lady of the Lake. Far better, she thought vengefully, to let her mother live with the knowledge of what she had lost, as she herself had had to live without her birthright. The others they might kill, so long as they carried off all of the baggage and gear.
And so she waited while her men disappeared into the woodland, and just past the hour of noon, she heard women screaming and northern warcries, and smiled.
“Mother, it was not your fault!” Artor grasped Igierne’s hands, chafing them. “Were it not for my weakness, the Cauldron would never have left the Isle of Maidens.”
“It was my message that brought you—” echoed Guendivar.
“—but my decision to respond . . .” Igierne forced out the words.
She was still shivering, as she had ever since the attack. The men of her escort had been killed, but Ninive had caught one of the horses and galloped back to Camalot for help. That had been at midmorning, and now it was nearly eventide. The Cauldron was gone, and since Uthir’s death, she had known no greater disaster. Ceincair wrapped blankets around her and spoke of shock, but Igierne knew it was fear.
“But who were they?” asked Aggarban.
“Men, with spears and bucklers and shirts of hardened leather,” answered Nest. “The only words I heard were in British as we speak it in the north, but not the Pictish tongue. They could have been reivers, or masterless men.”
“I thought all such had been hunted down by the king’s soldiers,” said Guendivar.
Artor’s eyes flickered dangerously. “So did I . . .”
“It does not matter who they are—we must be after them!” exclaimed Gualchmai. “If that was indeed the Cauldron that by the power of the gods came shining through the hall, I would give my heart’s blood to see it again!”
“And I!” said Vortipor. Other voices echoed his vow.
When the priestesses returned to the House of Women after that night of storm and glory, they had found the Cauldron safe in its chest, and no one could be brought to admit having touched or moved it. But what else could it have been? Now it was gone, and Igierne shuddered to think of the disaster it might bring in hostile hands.
She coughed and tugged at Ceincair’s sleeve. “Did you note, among the riders, any women?”
“I did not,” answered the priestess. “Do you think that Morgause—” She fell silent, seeing Gualchmai’s stricken gaze.
“Do you think it is not as hard for me to say it, grandson, as for you to hear?” asked Igierne. “But your mother has always desired the Cauldron. In your searching do not forget the northern roads.” And if she has taken it, the fault is mine—her thought continued. Morgause begged me to teach her its mysteries, and I refused.
“We will search all the roads, Mother,” said Artor. She heard him giving orders as she sank back into the shelter of her blankets.
“And we will take care of you here,” added Guendivar, “where you can hear the reports as the searchers come in.”
Igierne shook her head. “The quest must take place in the mortal realm, and it is the High Queen, the Tigernissa, who is for your warriors the image of the Goddess in the world. I will go back to the Lake . . . I should never have left it, for I am Branuen, the Hidden Queen, and the quest of the spirit must be directed from there. Perhaps the Cauldron will hear our prayers and make its own way home.”
X
THE QUEST
A.D. 502
OF THOSE WHO HAD RIDDEN OUT FROM CAMALOT IN SEARCH of the Cauldron, the first to return was Betiver. When he came in, Guendivar was in the herb hut, stripping the tender leaves from mints she had gathered in the woods. The sharp, sweet fragrance filled the air.
“Where is the king?” he asked when he had saluted her.
“He rode over to Lindinis. He should be back for the evening meal.”
“The king is riding?” he asked, astonishment sharpening his tone.
“He is much better,” Guendivar said softly, “and the weather has been fine as well. If anyone doubts that what we saw was holy, surely its works speak for it.”
“I do not doubt it, though I believe that vision is all that I shall ever see—” He sank down upon a bench, the glow which his eyes always held when he looked at her intensifying. “Perhaps that is why I do not feel compelled to continue trying to see it again.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, watching him closely.
“When the Light came to me, what I saw within it was the Chalice of our Lord, and I was fed, and made whole. We have no assurance that the wonder that moved through the hall was the Cauldron. Igierne’s priestesses say they did not take it from its chest, so how could it account for such a miracle?”
Guendivar frowned thoughtfully. Igierne had told her that she saw the figure of a goddess emerge from the Cauldron, while Julia’s vision, like that of Betiver, had been of the chalice of the Christian mass. She herself had seen only luminous forms in a haze of light, and no vessel at all.
“The others who have gone said that the vision left them with an aching desire to see it again . . .” she said then.
“That is so, but when I had gone away, I found that all I truly longed for was here.”
For a moment Betiver’s gaze held hers, and she flinched, seeing his unvoiced love for her naked in his eyes. She had become accustomed to recognizing lust or longing when men looked at her. One or two had threatened to seek death in battle when she would not return their passion. Only Betiver seemed able to love her without being unfaithful either to his concubine in Londinium or to his king. She had not realized what a comfort that steady, undemanding devotion was until she noted her own happiness at seeing him back again.
His tone flattened as he went on, “But the theft of the Cauldron must not go unpunished, whatever its nature may be. I have sent word to all our garrisons, and set a watch upon the ports, and having done so, see no purpose in continuing to wander the countryside when I could better serve Britannia by helping Artor.”
“The king will be grateful,” Guendivar said carefully, “and so will I. It has been very quiet here, and lonely, with all of you gone.”
The power of the Cauldron grew with the waxing of the moon. As Morgause and her men worked their way crosscountry along the edges of the sodden lowlands, travelling by night and lying up during the day, she found herself constantly aware of its presence, as even with eyes closed, one can sense the direction of a fire. But this was a white flame, cool as water, seductive as the hidden current in a stream. She could feel her moods change as they had done before her moon cycles came to an end. At some times the smallest frustration could drive her to fury or tears, and at others, and these were ever more frequent as the moon grew from a silver sickle towards its first quarter, she was uplififted on a tide of joy.
Slowly, for the paths were rough and they often had to backtrack and find a new path, they travelled westward. Presently the folded hills with their meadows and patches of woodland gave way to a high heathland where a constant wind carried the sharp breath of the sea. In the days of the empire, these hills had been well populated, for Rome needed the lead from Britannia’s mines. But most of the shafts had been worked out or abandoned when the trade routes were interrupted, and grass grew on the piled earth and rock where they had been.
Morgause and her party moved more openly now, taking the old road to the mouth of the Uxela where the lead ships used to come in. Only once did they pass a huddle of huts beside a working mine shaft, and no one greeted them. At the rivermouth they saw the remains of the port, which now was home only to a few fishermen whose boats were drawn up on shore. Saltmarsh and mudflat stretched along the coast to either side of the narrow channel; at low tide the atmosphere was redolent with their rank perfume. But when it changed, the waters surged up the estuary of the Sabrina, bringing with them fresh sea air and seabird
s crying on the wind.
And there, as if the gods themselves had conspired to help her, a boat was waiting.
“Go to the captain and ask where he comes from and what he carries,” she told Uinist. “If he is loading lead to take to Gallia say no more, but if he is sailing northward, ask if he will accept a few passengers.”
Morgause had meant to follow the estuary and strike across country from there, but as her awareness of the Cauldron grew, it had come to her that perhaps Igierne would be able to trace the movement of power. If tike Cauldron were at sea, surely its identity would be masked by that of the element to which it belonged.
And so it was that Morgause took ship with three of her men while the others turned back with the horses, travelling in groups of two and three to divert any pursuers who might have traced them.
Aggarban returned to Camalot on a stretcher. Hearing the commotion, Guendivar came running from the hall. For a moment she thought they had brought her a corpse to bury, then she saw his chest rise and fall.
“We heard there were strange riders in the hills to the west,” said Edrit, the half-Saxon lad whom Aggarban had taken into his service. “We caught up with them just as night was falling, and when they would not stop, we fought. In the confusion, my lord and I were separated. It took me too long to kill my man, and by the time I found my way back it was full dark. There was a dead man in the clearing, but I had to wait until morning to track my master. He was lying in his blood with the body of his opponent beside him. I bound up his wounds as best I could, and then I had to find a farm with a cart to bear him. I am sorry, my lady—” He gazed at her with sorrowful eyes. “I did the best I could.. . .”
“I am sure you did,” she said reassuringly, one eye on the old woman, of all their folk the most skilled in treating injuries, who was examining Aggarban.
“He was unconscious when I found him,” Edrit babbled on, “and by the time I came back with the cart, he was burning with fever. But now that we are here he will better. You will heal him, lady, I know!”
The Hallowed Isle Book Three Page 17
