Heart of Ice

by Alys Clare

  All of them perished in the unforgiving seas.

  When it was all over, there was nothing left on the surface of the water to show where there had once been land. But, listening carefully, Joanna thought she heard the doleful sound of a slowly tolling bell.

  Then, without any sensation of travelling, she was somewhere else. It was a dark, sombre place, and the mood was sorrowful. Violence had been done; pain had been inflicted and there had been a death; the victim had been a great and important figure and both the death and the manner of it were greatly mourned. Joanna was looking down into a glade that was very familiar but, before she could latch on to that thought and identify the place, her mind was wrenched away. Now she saw a vast circle of white-robed figures moving slowly like a huge wheel, their heads bowed, small flames in their hands. They were chanting and, as the words translated in Joanna’s head, she knew that it was a lament for the dead one. In the centre of the circle an enormous fire had been lit and as the flames scorched up into the sky, it seemed to Joanna that a figure rode upon them, a figure miraculously returned to youth who smiled and laughed and sang aloud for joy.

  I know you! Joanna thought, you are—

  But, again, her mind was torn away. And now, bizarrely, she was looking down at herself. She was dressed in a hooded red tunic decorated with rich embroidery and over it she wore a cloak in a sort of speckled wool, fastened at the neck with a gold pin. Her head was bare and her dark hair hung in a long, thick plait down her back. In her hand she held a short wooden stick, the end of which had been hollowed out so that a smoky brown crystal could be inserted. The crystal was roughly the length of her palm, cut to a flattened hexagon and with a pointed tip. She stood with her eyes closed, holding the wand over a bowl of clear water.

  People were sobbing with pain, or perhaps fear; it seemed that they were calling out to her. Then suddenly Meggie was beside her; an older Meggie who stood confidently on her own two feet and, looking up at her mother, tried to speak. As Joanna stared at her vision self, she saw her daughter slowly begin to open her hand . . .

  The transition back to the shore and the October night was brutal. Joanna lay on the sand, eyes tight shut, trying to control the dreadful dizziness that filled her head and her belly, putting her hands to her head to crush the terrible pain that seemed to be splitting her skull in two. The bile rose into her mouth and, raising herself up, she leaned over the sand and vomited.

  There was a cool hand on her forehead, holding her while she heaved and convulsed. Then a voice said calmly, ‘It is often thus the first time. You will never suffer as badly as this again.’

  Small comfort, Joanna thought, as another spasm tore through her. She heard herself groan, then the same cool hand pressed her back so that she was once more lying on the cloak. Huathe appeared with a blanket, which he tucked around her; she was grateful for its warmth and tried to give him a smile of thanks. He muttered something about fetching her a restorative, and turned towards the fire.

  Joanna stared up at the hooded figure. ‘I know who you are,’ she said, her throat sore from the vomiting.

  The figure drew back the hood, revealing deep-set dark eyes in a face whose skin was so smooth and unlined that it belied the long, snow-white hair. She – for it was a woman – wore a pale robe under the dark cloak and around her throat was a silver lunula.

  It was the Domina and, eight months ago, it had been she who initiated Joanna into the tribe. Now, looking down on Joanna with a kind smile, she said, ‘Aye. I have been with you, child, for some time, for I am your anam chara. Your soul friend,’ she translated. ‘You have done well.’

  ‘You were at Folle-Pensée?’ I didn’t see you, she wanted to add.

  ‘I was in the forest. I stayed close to Nime’s spring.’

  ‘Yes.’ It made sense, for the spring was the source of the power.

  ‘You have just made your first soul journey,’ the Domina went on, ‘and, although I sense that I know what you saw, we wish you to tell us.’

  Huathe had made her a hot drink, which he gave to her; she sipped at it and felt the restorative honey which he had melted into whatever herbal brew he had prepared course through her. The nausea had receded; she sat up and began to speak.

  The vision was so fresh that she did not think she had omitted anything. As she spoke she saw the Domina and Huathe exchange occasional glances and once, when she described the death of the beloved figure in the dark wood, Huathe made as if to speak, but the Domina hushed him.

  When Joanna had finished, the Domina briefly closed her eyes and raised her head, almost as if she were giving thanks. Then, dark eyes snapping open and drilling into Joanna’s, she said, ‘You are honoured. You have been granted a sight of the blessed land that was our first home here beyond the great sea, where the Korrigan settled and built their city of granite, marble and glass.’

  ‘It’s gone,’ Joanna said, a sob in her voice. ‘It slipped under the waves and they all drowned.’

  ‘Not all,’ the Domina corrected. ‘Did you not hear the sea birds? The Korrigan flew away to safety as gulls; the Grac’h as terns.’

  ‘The Grac’h?’

  ‘We call them the fiery-haired ones; they were the high priestesses of the land.’

  Joanna reached deep into her mind, for she was certain that she knew what the land had been called. The Domina waited calmly. Eventually Joanna said, ‘It was Lyonesse.’

  And the Domina said, ‘It was. The land held true to the old ways and the men who brought the new faith could not abide that. They came with soldiers and would have slaughtered everyone in the land, down to the youngest baby. So the Grac’h called up the west wind and the waves blew in on the great sea that rose to their bidding. The land was lost to them, that loveliest and most serene of lands, but that was preferable to witnessing its rape and despoliation at the hands of the invader. The Korrigan flew south to the shores of Armorica and they discovered that, although this was no Lyonesse, it was a tolerable substitute.’ The Domina sighed. ‘But still, those of us who remember lament our first home.’

  She must, Joanna decided, be speaking figuratively, perhaps of a folk memory that lived on in the people, kept alive by the bards’ retelling of the old legend. Anything else was just impossible . . .

  As if keen to move on, the Domina said, ‘You also saw something else; the death whose wake you witnessed was that of one of our Great Ones.’

  ‘Yes,’ Joanna put in eagerly, ‘and I really felt that, given a moment to think, I could have—’

  ‘And you also saw a vision of your own future,’ the Domina interrupted. ‘This moment that you saw will come soon, for the time for you to take up your skill and your power is at hand.’ Giving Joanna no chance to comment, she went on, ‘We have prepared these things for you. Stand up and take off your tunic and shift.’

  Joanna did as she was bidden. Standing naked on the sand, the Domina led her closer to the fire. Huathe came to stand beside her and he poured a clear liquid from a flask into a small cup of gold.

  ‘Drink,’ the Domina ordered.

  Joanna obeyed. The liquid tasted clean and cool, and as the taste developed on her tongue an image of mossy stone around a lively stream came into her mind; she knew then that the water had come from Nime’s spring. Then the Domina pushed her closer to the fire, so close that she feared the flames would singe the fine hair on her body and sear her bare flesh. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to endure it.

  The Domina’s cry rang out into the night as she chanted a long string of words whose meaning Joanna could only guess at. It seemed to be a summons, and this was borne out when the Domina switched from whatever archaic tongue she had been using and cried, ‘Hear our prayers, oh Great Ones of Lyonesse, and by the fire and by the water that must one day prevail, receive this woman Beith, who now takes on her new name in recognition of her adoption by her people.’

  The fire was scorching now, burning Joanna’s legs and thighs. Forcing herself not to move, the
pain quickly became unbearable. Then, as if she had passed some test, the Domina gave an order to Huathe and he dragged her away from the fire, throwing the contents of a skin water bag over the front of her body. As the cold sea water doused the heat in her skin, she gave a cry that had in it more exhalation than pain.

  And the Domina nodded, as if to say, well done.

  Huathe repeated the sea water bathing several times and then he dried her with a soft cloth. The Domina reached into her pack and produced a clean white shift of fine linen, which Huathe dropped over Joanna’s head. On top of that went the red embroidered tunic of Joanna’s vision; in reality it was even more beautiful because, as well as feasting on it with her eyes, she could also touch the heavy gold embroidery and smell the sweet scent of new cloth. Over the tunic Huathe draped the speckled woollen cloak, fastening it with a gold pin in the shape of a stylised running horse. The cloak was heavy and warm and, at last, Joanna stopped shivering.

  Finally the Domina gave her the short, thick stick. ‘This is hawthorn,’ she said, ‘and hawthorn protects from both physical and psychic harm; it will protect you and also those upon whom you wield its power. The wood was gathered on the most auspicious day of the year and the wand has been prepared especially for you.’ Pointing to the brownish-grey crystal embedded in the end of the stick, she continued, ‘This is Caledonian quartz and it is sacred to us. Use it wisely, child.’

  She put the wand into Joanna’s outstretched hand. Not knowing what to expect, but anticipating something, Joanna was surprised to find that there was no jolt of energy, no force that made the hairs on her arms stand up. She might as easily have been holding a piece of driftwood.

  She heard Huathe chuckle. ‘Do not worry, Beith,’ he said quietly, ‘for when you need the power, it will be there.’

  The ceremony was over. Huathe carefully poured sand on the fire, extinguishing it and then burying the embers so that every trace disappeared. The Domina fastened her pack, saying to Joanna, ‘You may wear your finery for what remains of the night. Tomorrow, put it away and revert to anonymity.’

  Joanna bowed her acceptance. Standing still barefoot on the sand, she wondered if it was permitted to put her boots on; the tide was coming in and the sand felt damp under her toes.

  Huathe gave her a hug. ‘Farewell, Beith,’ he said. ‘We shall meet again, but it may not be for many years.’ He bent and kissed her, twice on each cheek, then, with a low reverence to the Domina, hastened away towards the cliff path. Joanna, who had by his action received the confirmation of what she already suspected – that she was leaving Armorica – looked expectantly at the Domina.

  ‘Aye, child, you and your daughter are to sail this night back to Britain. The ship will be here soon. But, before you go, I would speak with you on a matter that has been kept from you.’

  Several possibilities flashed through Joanna’s mind. When the Domina spoke, it was concerning none of them. Instead she said, ‘Have you not asked yourself why it is that you have been accepted into the tribe?’

  Immediately Joanna was reminded of many small moments and incidents; of all the times that her new people had spoken of her as one of them; of the growing sense that they had all known about her long, long before she had been aware of them. She said, ‘Yes. I have.’

  ‘It is time,’ the Domina said heavily, ‘for you to be told.’

  What she learned on the shore that night was such a shock that, when the small boat came grinding up the shingle to carry her and Meggie out to the ship that awaited them, Joanna could barely walk by herself and had to be helped by the two sailors. She felt weak and did not trust herself to take adequate care of Meggie, and the Domina entrusted the child to the sailor who was not engaged in rowing the boat. Joanna heard her daughter give a little cry of protest, but even that could not restore her. The Domina stood on the shore watching as the boat set off towards the ship; she might have been waving, but Joanna did not notice.

  What she had just been told had removed, in a few words, everything that she had believed herself to be. The fact of that former identity having been replaced by something far more interesting, and with many times the potential, she managed, for the time being anyway, totally to overlook . . .

  The ship took her to a place the sailors called Ellan Vannin; the island, set in the seas between England and Ireland to the north of Mona’s Isle, was to be her home until Imbolc. Still in a daze even after four days at sea, Joanna meekly followed the orders that anyone chanced to give her, going ashore into yet another new place and settling into what in fact seemed like better accommodation than she had enjoyed before. Sometimes she would hold on to the bear’s claw on its chain around her neck, as if that alone had the power to reassure her that it was true, not a dream or the last fling of the wonder voyage she had taken on that Armorican beach.

  In time she accepted the truth. As if they had been waiting for that moment, her new teachers set about the most intensive period of study that she had ever had, instilling into her that she had gifts but they had no virtue and no purpose if she did not learn to use them. Building on what she had learned at Folle-Pensée, they showed her how to make the soul journey into the heart and mind of another, how to seek out whatever malady might lie there and how to cure it. When Samhain came round, the combined effects of her mysterious studies and her exhaustion meant that she was very close to what lay the other side of the veil. Too close, in fact; her teachers, afraid that she would be tempted to raise the veil and venture beyond, would not let her attend the festival. ‘Wait until next year,’ they said kindly, seeing her bitter disappointment, ‘next year you will be strong and the danger will be less.’

  She was allowed – encouraged – to celebrate Meggie’s first birthday on the last day of October. But on Samhain night they gave her a strong sedative and she slept, deeply and dreamlessly, into the month of November.

  Yule passed. Joanna worked harder and harder, knowing, for all that she had not been told, that she would soon be leaving. In the New Year they sent her back to Mona’s Isle, where she was received joyfully – and, it had to be said, with a certain amount of awe – by the friends she had made there. She celebrated Imbolc with her people there and then, a few days afterwards, the man with the gold earring came for her again and rowed her back to the mainland.

  She knew what she had to do, for there had been so many hints that she had taken matters into her own hands and used her scrying bowl. As she trod the long road back to Hawkenlye Forest and her little hut, she was already building her mental strength for what lay ahead.

  Part Three

  The War

  Chapter 10

  As Josse awoke in his quarters in the Vale on the morning following his visit to Gervase de Gifford, he went over their conversation. It had not amounted to much, but anything was better than allowing himself to think about the growing number of sick people who lay sweating and suffering not twenty paces from where he sat.

  The welcome news that there were no cases of the foreign pestilence down in Tonbridge encouraged Josse to mutter fervent prayers of gratitude as he sipped at the hot herbal drink that Brother Saul had just brought him; Tonbridge lay on the river and its flat, marshy, mist-prone lands seemed to trap foul air. Many people living in and around the town suffered from the ague, and the disease was by no means limited to those who lived in the squalor of poverty. The consequences of this new peril let loose among such a weakened population did not bear thinking about.

  Well, then I won’t think about it, Josse decided. As long as sick folk come up here to Hawkenlye – which is, after all, the obvious place if they want help – then Tonbridge ought to be safe.

  Brother Saul brought him a bowl of porridge. With a smile of thanks, Josse took it and, although he didn’t feel much like eating, forced himself to finish it. Then he stood up, straightened his tunic and took his bowl and mug to wash them at the monks’ trough. Saul hurried to take the utensils from him; although Josse protested, clearly Saul considere
d that washing up was no job for a knight.

  Saul dried his hands on a piece of sacking and reported that morning’s figures, which Josse had offered to pass on to the Abbess: the son and daughter-in-law in the party of five who had arrived the previous day were now very ill and unlikely to survive the day; the woman’s sister was also feverish, although her child remained well. The crippled boy and the man who had arrived on the cart were also very poorly, but the woman who had brought them in had not sickened and was proving a great help to the nursing sisters.

  Poor Sister Beata had developed an agonising headache but as yet showed no signs of developing a fever; two more nurses, Sister Anne and Sister Judith, had been ordered to report to the makeshift infirmary in the Vale.

  There was one notable exception in Saul’s report. Putting a hand on the man’s arm, Josse said softly, ‘And Brother Firmin?’

  Saul’s eyes filled with tears and he shook his head.

  All in all, it was not very good tidings for Josse to bear to the Abbess.

  Helewise had been waiting for Josse for some time when he finally arrived and as he gave her the news from the Vale, she was aware of exhibiting a degree of impatience, for which she quickly apologised.

  ‘Please, think nothing of it, my lady,’ he said courteously, ‘I quite understand how you must feel.’

  Oh, dear Josse, I don’t think you do, she thought ruefully. Then, deciding that it would do no good to hedge around what she had to say, that, in fact, such tactics would probably annoy him and increase the chances of a refusal, she said, ‘Sir Josse, you may have already been informed that yesterday Sister Tiphaine and Sister Euphemia made various attempts to harness the power of the Eye of Jerusalem in drinks and, for those too sick to swallow, in washes with which to bathe their wounds and their faces.’