Not far now . . .
Oblivious to his novice’s troubled thoughts, Dominian trudged on through the heart of the wood. Ahead now lay the ancient sacred well, its moldering roof covered in damp lichen and moss. Behind it loomed the low stone hermitage, likewise dank and dripping in the bone-crunching cold.
Dominian looked at Simeon. “Wait here,” he ordered.
It would do the boy good, he decided, to stand shivering in his thin habit, enduring the cold on his sandaled feet. That was nothing to his own ordeal, having to live every day without God’s love. Dominian felt the jagged tears starting again. Simeon’s trial would be over soon. His sufferings would last till the day he died.
My God, my God . . .
Jerome’s narrow cell was colder inside than out. A film of ice covered the earthen floor, and the old man’s drinking water was frozen in his cup. A trickle of melting snow dripped from the roof, and even the lowly bed was glistening with damp. Jerome sat cross-legged in the center of the floor, his white head nodding on its fragile neck, his frail body in its thick woolen habit no more than skin and bone. Dominian touched the cross above the threshold, stepped inside, and fell to his knees.
“Bless me, Father,” he groaned, “for I have sinned.”
“Sinned, my son?” Jerome swiveled his blind gaze toward the door. “How?”
“I dreamed of ousting the Great Goddess from these islands, just as God taught us in the Bible, in the holy Book of Kings. I wanted to be like King Asa when he threw down his mother’s idol in the groves of Hebron, where Queen Maacha worshipped the Great Whore of all Asia and danced before her shrine.”
“The Great Mother a whore?” the old man pondered. “Remember Our Lord had a mother whom He loved.”
Dominian recoiled. “But Mary was chaste!” he spat out. “Not like the loose-loined women of these islands, who claim the right to share their beds with any man.” He shuddered with disgust. “There was none of that for the Mother of God!”
“Son—”
But Dominian was not listening. “Was I too ambitious, Father? I only wanted to make Mark a Christian king.”
Jerome’s voice was as paper-thin as his frame. “Was that all?”
Dominian’s cry shattered the crystal silence of the cell. “Was I wrong, Father? I meant to make all these islands a place of God.”
“These islands alone?” An edge of interrogation had entered Jerome’s tone. “Or did your hopes lead you farther afield?”
Dominian did not hesitate. “I wanted to lead our mission all the way to Rome. The Holy Father rewards those who serve the Mother Church well.”
Rome . . .
Dominian’s sight dimmed. The Eternal City on her Eternal Hill, the rock of Saint Peter, the foundation of God’s church. Already he could feel the hot sun on his back, see the thousands of holy men gowned in black, white, brown, and red, keeping the flame of faith triumphantly alight among the city’s merchants and tradesmen, mountebanks, thieves, and whores.
Yet he, who had dreamed of kneeling before the Pope, must now languish forever in the deserts of disgrace. And he would pay for his failure at the Last Judgment, too. There were some sins that God could not forgive.
He howled like a dog. “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?”
“Take comfort, my son. Rome is not all the world.” Jerome held up his hand. “Our Father alone sees what we do. And you are a faithful servant, He knows that.”
The old man’s fingers were as fine as twigs, his flesh translucent in the wintry light. Dominian felt a sudden lurch of fear. How many more winters could Jerome survive? And what would become of him when Jerome had gone?
From the time Jerome had found him, left to die in the wood, the old man had been the only father he had ever known. Cast out by his mother, a Goddess-worshipper, both for being a hunchback and for being a boy, he had had Jerome’s love and guidance all his life. And if Jerome left him . . . Dominian wanted to weep, to scream, to tear his flesh. Suddenly he understood how the great saints could scourge themselves hour after hour till they passed out from loss of blood. Anything was better than the pain of losing God, and Jerome was all he knew of God on earth.
“Oh, my son . . .” The old man felt his despair and tried again. “Remember, Dominian, we must keep the faith.”
The faith—
Dominian thought of the ardent, intimate love Jerome shared with God. He had often overheard the old man chattering away as if to a lover, and he had no doubt that God was answering him. He searched his master’s face, racked with the excruciating envy he always felt for children who enjoyed such love from their mothers in his wretched youth. Bitterness overwhelmed him. “Compared with you, Father, I have no faith!”
The old man leaned forward. “Do not deny your God.”
“But He denies me.”
“Never!” Jerome declared. “God loves us all, as I have loved you. And that love will never leave you. Even in death, I shall walk by your side.”
“But God knows I have failed!”
“With Queen Isolde, perhaps. But you have not lost King Mark. He will never return to the Mother-faith as long as he is Queen Igraine’s vassal and resents her power.”
Dominian pondered. That at least was true. He felt his spirits stir.
“Take heart, son,” Jerome said feelingly. “God sees your suffering and has given us the words of prayer for times like these. Come, sing with me.” He struck off in a high, gnat-like tone. “De profundis, Domine—”
Dominian felt the tears rising again, but this time with a sweet healing flow. Stumbling, he began his part of the psalm. “Out of the depths, O Lord, have I called upon Thee: Lord, Lord, I beseech you, hear my voice—”
The old man reached out and felt for Dominian’s hand. “Remember when you were a child and I told you of the Father who loved little ones like you?”
His heart bursting, Dominian clung to Jerome. “You said that our Lord had marked me out as one of God’s chosen,” he said hoarsely, “destined for a special place in Heaven.”
“All true.” Jerome nodded. “And truer than ever now. Hear me, Dominian.” The reedy voice rose to a sonorous chant. “God is love. He loves you, as I love you, world without end.”
Dominian’s head was boiling. “Father—”
Jerome stared at him with his milky, blue-white eyes. “Remember, Dominian, you were not named in vain. Dominion will be yours. God will give you mastery. You and others like you will root out the Great Mother in these islands and destroy all her works. In years to come, no one will know her name.”
“But how can this be?” wept Dominian. “King Mark was mine when I won him to the Christian faith. I was his confessor, his guide, his all-in-all. Yet for twenty years I have been working in vain while the pagan Isolde holds sway as Cornwall’s queen.”
There was a pensive pause. Then the gentle papery voice rustled again. “The King is still married. Could there yet be a child born to him?”
A child?
Born to Mark and the Queen?
Dominian burst out into a savage laugh. “Never!” he said scornfully. “I bore down on him for years to do his duty and the work of God. But the whore closed her thighs to him on their wedding day. For almost twenty years now she has shunned his bed.”
“But could you not bring him to renew his vows?”
“I have tried.”
“Then try again, my son. A child is all we seek.”
A child of Mark and Isolde?
Dominian closed his eyes as the force of the idea took root. A child, yes! For years he had been too weak with Mark, infected by the King’s own weakness and lack of faith. But this could be the new opening he sought. And if it was God’s will, both King and Queen must submit.
Yes, yes . . .
Dominian’s heart swelled. Step-by-step he traced his way through the task ahead. First he would have to bring Mark to the sticking point, either to master his wife or to cast her aside. And then, alas, Isolde would have
to learn that sex and childbirth tamed any woman, even her. What was marriage ordained for, after all, but as an instrument of God to keep women in their place?
And once Isolde was broken, the Mother-right would soon be gone . . .
A pageant of glory passed before Dominian’s eyes. He saw sturdy churches rising in every town and mighty cathedrals proclaiming the faith of Rome. Crosses would crown every building in the land and mark the humblest grave. Christianity would be taught in every school and enforced on every child. Women would be stripped of thigh-freedom, and men would be given God’s power and the use of the whip. Avalon would be no more, and neither man nor woman would know the Great Goddess or even remember her name.
Now God be praised! Dominian sighed with delight as fierce visions of conquest and power inflamed his mind. Then we shall once again be pleasing to Rome. The Holy Father himself will call me to his side. Our faith will take over the world when the these pagans are gone. I see it all, once Cornwall is in my grasp. And Cornwall will be mine when Isolde is no more.
“Magnus Dominus, great and mighty is Our God—”
Jerome launched again on his thin, high cricket’s chant, his ancient countenance transfigured with bliss. Dominian gazed at him with adoration, feeling a new sense of purpose flooding his veins. He clutched the old man’s hand, weeping with joy, murmuring the prayer of thanksgiving Jerome had taught him long ago. All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.
And this he knew to be true.
For Dominian had once again seen the face of God.
chapter 5
So the King’s loyal barons had asked Mark to name his heir? And they’d made their choice, Tristan was their man?
Trembling, Sir Andred hurried through the court. They had turned against him, then, and rejected him as the next in line? Well, they would pay the price. Of course, when he had them writhing at the end of his sword, they’d all protest that they only wanted the best for the country, the people, what you will. But he’d hang the whole pack of them when he was king.
All except Nabon. Andred paused to relish the prospect. That old fox he’d take care of himself. How would it be? Would he slowly slit Nabon’s windpipe or sink a sword and twist it in his guts? As long as he could enjoy the terror in the old man’s bursting eyes and catch the last rattle of breath in his dying throat, he did not care. Then he’d hang Nabon’s head on the highest battlement, as a warning to others that he would not be defied.
Yes, he would have his revenge. But it would not wipe out this insult to his pride. That ever the barons would choose Tristan over him . . . A murderous rage swept through Andred’s soul. He bunched his fists. What in the world should he do?
He dragged an angry breath into his lungs, oblivious to the gentle, rain-laden spring air. Darkness and devils, if only Elva were here! Andred’s mind turned hungrily toward his longtime love, the tall, vibrant woman who years ago had thrown her lot in with him. He’d been so sure of her love then that he’d persuaded her to make advances to the King. If Elva could capture the heart of the love-starved Mark, he had urged her, then between them they’d have the whole country in their power.
Well, the Gods loved to jest. Who would have dreamed that Elva would come to love the shallow, selfish Mark, a cowardly wretch whom all the world despised? Nothing had prepared Andred for that peculiar pain and all that had followed, the years of sharing his love with another man. But now Elva’s hold over Mark was waning, and she did not know why. It had all been in vain.
A new anguish gripped Andred, and his desperation increased. Yet I can still be king and make Elva my queen. Let me get to Mark and find out . . . plan . . . decide . . .
Slowly his thoughts took shape. First he should find Elva and get her advice. Her counsel was always worth having in difficult times. Then it might be a good idea to take her with him to the King. Who knows, perhaps she could catch Mark’s fancy again today, and then . . . and then . . .
His mind aflame, Andred increased his pace through the main courtyard toward the King’s House on the castle mound. Ahead of him he caught sight of two knights lingering casually in the shadow of an arch. So Fer de Gambon and Taboral were lying in wait for him?
News traveled fast at court. Andred gave a mirthless grin. It would be no secret to these two royal hangers-on that Tristan was the barons’ favorite to succeed. Had they come to gloat over him?
He eyed them in an evil frame of mind. A head taller than his friend, Sir Taboral cut an impressive figure in the tiltyard, where the short, bandy-legged de Gambon could never shine. But Sir Fer de Gambon regained his dignity on the ground, and his keen eye betrayed a sharp intelligence that Taboral lacked.
Why were they waiting for him, Andred wondered cynically, when surely they should be turning to Tristan to greet the rising sun? Ah, that was it. They must have realized that as soon as Tristan became king, there’d be no place for them left at court. Tristan was too honorable to entertain disreputable knights. The unscrupulous Fer de Gambon, with his ferret eyes, and the brutish Taboral would be swiftly swept away.
Still, Andred calculated, between them they had brains and brawn. And who knows how soon I shall need them? ran through his mind. They’d been useful to him before, and they could be again. But neither of them should know that till the moment came.
“Well?” he said coldly, without breaking his stride.
“There’s a messenger at the gatehouse, sir,” Fer de Gambon offered as he hastened alongside, jiggling his short legs to fall into step. “From the Queen.”
A shock of surprise ran through Andred’s frame. Isolde was due back today at Castle Dore. If she’d sent a message, she must have changed her mind. She was going somewhere else. With Tristan? And in clear defiance of her duty to Mark?
Yesssssss!
An upsurge of hope flashed through Andred’s soul. Now how could he build on this to get his revenge on Mark . . . to move against Tristan . . . to secure the throne . . . ?
Andred closed his eyes. An age-old, warming rage ran through his veins. Gods and Great Ones, how long had he hoped to destroy Tristan and Isolde, too? And Mark himself, now that he knew for sure that the King would not stand up to the barons to defend his right?
Well, he’d stand up for himself. From this moment on. That was the only way he would make himself king. He turned back to Fer de Gambon and Taboral with rage in his heart.
“So, sirs,” he began carelessly. “This messenger from the Queen . . . ?”
“WHAAT?”
Slowly, Mark surfaced from the depths of sleep. The warm, friendly stink of horse slobber, sweat, and wine told him he was in his chamber sprawled out in his favorite chair, after a day at the hunt and a night’s drinking with his men. Later he’d have to clean himself up for the court and put on the finery and semblance of a king. But here in his Privy Chamber, he could please himself. Slack-mouthed, he settled back to sleep.
But there it was again. “Good morning, sire.”
Groaning, Mark recognized the harsh burr that had disturbed more mornings than he could bear to think. “Father Dominian?” he mouthed, struggling to command his thick tongue. “What is it now?”
“Your future, sire. Your fate.”
Blearily, Mark scanned the priest’s burning eyes and stony face. He heaved a resentful groan. “What about it?”
“Your Queen insults you, sire,” the priest began in a low, intense voice. “Moreover, she defies the law of God. It is written that a wife be subject to a husband’s will. Further, that the purpose of marriage is procreation, and that is woman’s task.”
God Almighty, before breakfast? Before the first, much-needed drink of the day? Mark closed his eyes and prayed for the priest to die. Or to disappear without a trace, whichever would be easier for God.
But God was not listening, it seemed. In a whiff of sanctimony and incense, Dominian pressed on.
“Your barons desire that you will name one of your nephews as your chosen heir
. But neither Sir Andred nor Sir Tristan is a man of faith. A Christian child of your loins is what God desires.”
Mark struggled to sit up. “But you know God has not yet granted a child to my wife and me—”
“Oh, sir—” The little priest firmly brushed his protests aside. “This is your task, not God’s. Every man must master his wife in marriage or cast her aside. And He ordained motherhood to tame their sex, which otherwise is rampant and sinful and born to seek command.”
“Well, that’s true enough of Isolde.” Mark gave a furious laugh. “But God knows she’s too much for me. What can I do?”
Dominian’s eyes flared. “God has given to you, sire, and to every man the instrument that tames every woman, even a queen.”
What on earth did he mean? Struggling, Mark closed his eyes and tried to think.
“One of His higher designs,” pursued the priest. “An object of nature that fulfills the divine will. The mark of manhood, to show men they were born to rule. The weapon they may use without mercy if they choose.”
Mark goggled at Dominian. His manhood? His weapon? God’s instrument? Slowly, understanding dawned. God in Heaven, is that what the priest meant? But how was he to do it? Isolde followed the Mother, and believed that a woman had the right to choose who she lay down with, and also to refuse. Would she ever accept that he had a right to possess her against her will? And to force her to submit if she did not agree?
A new voice joined the jangling chorus in his head. “Good day to you, sire!”
“Jesu have mercy, not another one?” Mark shook his befuddled head. Angrily, he focused on the approaching figure, smiling as ever and spruce in black and gray, but with a distinctly meaningful glint in his eye. What was Andred doing here at this time of day? And wasn’t that the Lady Elva behind?
“My lord!” A tall, lithe woman in flowing green silks greeted him with the deepest of curtsies and a flashing smile.
Mark looked at her with dislike. How long had he cared for this woman? Had she really been his mistress for all these years? He stared with a sickly fascination at the shiny green gown clinging to her long, hard, snake-like body and outlining her sharp breasts. He once thought it was wonderful and striking that she dressed herself always in green, every shade of it from lime-yellow to greeny-black. Now her scaly silks bored him, like everything else. Ignoring her completely, he turned away.
Tristan and Isolde - 03 - The Lady of the Sea Page 4
