by Judith Tarr
“No,” Robin said softly, reading him as that strong enchanter and long lover so often could. “You remember what I said. That was foreseeing. Hubris—do you know what that is? It’s a great leveler of kings.”
“Are you threatening me?” William asked, his voice just as soft.
“Never,” said Robin. “I’ll protect you as I can. But what you’ve set in motion—none of us may be strong enough to stop it.”
“What? Stop what?”
Robin shook his head, spreading his hands. “What will be will be.”
“Nothing will be,” said William, “but what I say will be.”
“Indeed,” said Robin. He sounded strangely sad. His glance shifted to Walter Tirel; he bowed slightly. “Messire.”
“Messire,” said Walter Tirel a little stiffly. He must be able to tell that there was something between William and the stranger—something strong.
Not as strong as what William had with him. William let his arm rest on Walter Tirel’s shoulders, lightly, not gripping, simply letting them both know how things were. Walter Tirel had sense enough not to overdo it: he leaned a little on William, but that was all.
It was all Robin needed to see. He bowed with scrupulous correctness and turned, going back the way he had come.
William almost thought—feared—that he might leave the castle again. But he stayed in the hall for a while, moving among the courtiers. William felt every movement as if it were in his own skin. He barely relaxed when Robin slipped out, until he was sure it was to go up to the room he had always had in this castle.
He was staying. William could breathe. He lowered his face to Walter Tirel’s shoulder for a moment, drinking in the scent that had become so familiar.
The young lord slid a glance at him, with a question in it. “Not yet,” William answered. “Soon.”
Walter Tirel sighed faintly, but accepted it. He was more obedient than Robin had ever been. It was pleasant, William told himself. Restful. He needed that.
Soon was soon enough. They were all in bed not long after the sun set—dark had closed in some time before. It was cold in the royal chamber, even with a fire roaring, but Walter Tirel helped William to warm the air wonderfully.
William fell asleep blessedly quickly, but there was a price for that. He woke in the dark, hours before dawn. It could not have been much later than midnight.
The wind had died down. The snow might still be falling, but if so, it was silent. He was warm under blankets and furs, with Walter Tirel’s sleeping body wrapped around his, but his nose was cold. When he blew out a breath, it puffed into mist.
The world was very still. The only sound was Walter Tirel’s soft, regular breathing, and his own less composed breath, and the beating of his heart. It felt like the moment in church before the processional began, when everyone was suddenly quiet, and no one moved or spoke.
This was nothing so holy. William’s bones knew it. The gate that was going to open was no sanctuary gate. What was waiting to come through was terrible. Powerful, and deadly.
It was the eve of All Hallows, when the old folk said the gates to the Otherworld opened, and the dead walked, and things worse than the dead hunted the skies. William knew those things all too well. They had almost killed him, nigh on seven years ago.
He had put them out of his mind, but in this icy silence, with no light but the dim glow of embers, there was no escaping memory. The Hunt was mounted and ready to ride. It hunted souls. None of the wandering dead was safe, and the living were mad if they ventured outside their houses.
William was safe here. There were blessings on the walls, wards laid long ago and renewed at every festival of the Old Things. That was why Robin had come back. That was why one of the Guardians was always near at such times. They were charged with William’s protection, and they took that charge deeply to heart.
The last time William had been in Gloucester for an ancient festival—winter solstice, was it?—Robin had been the warm body beside him. This young lord, however beloved, was no enchanter. All he could give was his living presence.
It would do. When the gates opened and the Hunt came howling forth, William steeled himself against terror. No evil thing could pass his door, nor creeping death slip through his window.
He crossed himself, to be certain, and murmured a prayer. He did not particularly care which God or gods heard it. He meant it, wherever it happened to find an ear.
CHAPTER 40
That winter, the last of the old century and the first of the new, was fully as terrible as it had threatened to be. Storm followed storm. When the snow was not piling itself halfway up the castle’s towers, the sun was shining with complete absence of warmth. Poor folk froze in their houses, and beasts in the fields died of the cold. Deer were starving in the forests, and wolves hunted up to the walls of the towns.
Naturally the priests looked for something to blame. William was always their easy target, and they whipped themselves into a frenzy that winter, preaching blistering sermons from their frosty pulpits. It was a wonder some of the churches failed to catch fire—which would have been a gift, in that weather, where people struggled to find enough fuel to burn.
Old Osmund of Salisbury died that winter, at the beginning of Advent. He was not the first of the old or weak to let go, but he was a greater nuisance than most, since his place had to be filled before Rome got wind of it and tried to force its choice on the king.
There was a blessed break in the weather just after the new year. In other years it would have been reckoned a cold spell, but this winter it counted as a thaw. The sun even melted a little of the snow, and riding out was bracing rather than grueling. Better yet, the storms held off long enough for William to ride with a small, fast escort to Salisbury.
Walter Tirel rode with him—and Robin, who had kept a careful and at times distressing distance since he first came back to Gloucester. William supposed he should be glad there was no catfighting. Each kept his place and performed his duties, and stayed out of the other’s way. Even on the road, where that was not so easy as in a royal castle, they managed it.
He loved them both for it, and was glad they were there as he got a good look at what the winter had done to his kingdom. Trees were down and farmsteads collapsed under the weight of snow. What seemed to be branches across the road, too often were stiff and frozen bodies of people or animals.
He sent men to offer food and shelter to those who needed it. It would not be enough, not for a whole kingdom, but even a little was something.
Salisbury was in a better state than some of the towns he had ridden through. Someone had had the sense to prepare for a hard winter: there was wood and fuel enough, and a large store of food. Livestock that had been slaughtered earlier in the winter had kept fresh in the storehouses, packed in snow.
“Who did this?” William asked after he had been taken on a tour of inspection. “Osmund?”
It was his brother Henry who answered him, rather than the clerk who had been his guide. “Bishop Osmund had the gift of foresight. I expect he foresaw his death, too.”
The clerk nodded. His eyes were watery with either tears or winter rheum. Possibly both, considering how cold it was in this last of many storehouses. “He prepared well in all respects. His death, even though he foresaw it, was a great loss.”
“I’m sorry he’s gone,” William said. His teeth were chattering; he rubbed his hands together. In spite of gloves lined with fur, they were half frozen. The thaw, such as it was, was over.
None of them was reluctant to escape to the warmth of the bishop’s palace. The clerk’s lips were blue. Even Henry, who seemed to keep himself warm in any weather, was moving a little stiffly.
The hall was as warm as they had hoped. William went straight to the hearth and basked in the heat. Henry chose to thaw more slowly, accepting a cup of hot spiced wine from a page and sipping it as he looked for the best place to soak up the warmth.
There were not many people in the
hall this late morning. Anyone who could stay warm in bed was doing it. Rumor had it that a few of the wilder knights had braved the weather to try a hunt—though what they would find apart from frozen, starved cattle, Henry could not imagine. They were probably more interested in finding an escape from boredom.
Henry settled on a bench along the wall halfway between the door and the dais. He could see everyone from here, but not be bothered unless he wanted it. The wall was warmed somewhat by a tapestry, an intricate embroidery depicting the Tree of Jesse, with the lineage of the Lord Christ stitched on it in painstaking detail.
It reminded him faintly of a tapestry his mother and great magic had made, that had gone to her grave with her. “It’s as much a part of her as any of her children,” old William had said. “Let it be her shroud.”
Henry would not have done that, but there was no stopping the old man. The thing had been a potent work of magic, an image of the old king’s past and present and, it was said, of the world to come.
Henry could not have said if that was true. He had not been allowed to see it before it went into the tomb. That its image of the great oak tree giving birth to the world had changed constantly, adding visions even while it lost others, Henry had seen for himself. But his father had prevented anyone from seeing what had appeared on it during its maker’s last illness and death.
Maybe that was a good thing. Prophecy could be perilous: the more one tried to prevent a disaster, the more likely it was to happen. But if one tried to force a triumph, that was a sure way to prevent it altogether.
Human blindness was safer. Henry made the wine last a long time—with a tiny working on it to keep it from growing cold—and watched William be king. That was an interesting and rather surprising spectacle, because he was good at it. There were brains inside that brawn, and they had grown into the office rather well.
Noon came and went; the day waned to early dark. Clouds were gathering again, lessening the cold but bringing yet another threat of snow.
Not long after noon, while William bent over the rolls of the diocese with a handful of clerks, Henry started awake. He had fallen asleep on his bench, watching a game of knuckle-bones and listening to a page’s soft singing.
In sleep he had dreamed. Shreds of it stayed with him. Beltane again, and her face.
He shook himself free of it. People were stirring; there was a babble of excitement at the door. A riding had come in: an embassy. Very strange, and quite unexpected—and all women.
“Nuns?” asked William as the babble washed up at his feet.
The squire who had been hanging about when the riders came in shook his head. He opened his mouth to speak, but William was no longer aware of him.
There were seven of them, standing in the doorway. They were wrapped in mantles the color of rain. Two wore white robes beneath them. The rest wore grey. Hoods shadowed their faces.
There was no question that they were all women. Nor was there any doubt in Henry’s mind—or in his bones, either—as to who was hiding behind one of those deep hoods.
He rose, setting his cup down carefully on the bench. Through two reigns now, Cecilia had come and gone as she pleased, wearing a nun’s habit although the vows she had taken were not to the Church or its God. For the first time she came to court as what she was: a Lady of the Isle of Avalon.
Henry felt as if the world had shifted on its pillars. He had slid into a doze of the spirit since his arrival in England at Easter, letting all the oddities and portents and the sense of imminence pass beneath the surface of his awareness. His spirit had been subtly and imperceptibly dulled, while he went on oblivious.
These ladies brought him into sharp and painful focus. The winter’s bitterness was part of it. So was the deadness in the earth, and the sense that the air was not quite clean enough or thick enough to breathe, and—yes—the malaise in his body, too.
He found himself in motion, drifting toward the dais, somewhat behind the ladies. Cecilia did not lead them, rather to his surprise. She deferred subtly to the other lady in white, who was smaller and slighter than she, but carried herself with great dignity and a sense of deep and quiet power.
The rest of the embassy felt younger, their presence less potent. They were still strong, standing behind the greater ladies like guards behind a king.
William had risen as they approached. He had that much of the gift: he could sense the power in them. He did not look overly pleased.
“Ladies,” he said as they came to a halt in front of the dais. They bowed, but it was not full royal obeisance: rather, it was the acknowledgment of equals.
Even that, Henry thought, was a great concession for those fabled enchantresses. He doubted that William appreciated the honor they were paying him.
The Lady who led them spoke in a clear and carrying voice. “Majesty. We come to you with a warning and a challenge.”
William blinked. As blunt as he could be, he had seldom been as forthright as this. It said something for his wits that he was able to muster them so quickly. “Indeed? Have you a green knight whose head I must cut off?”
The Lady showed no sign of offense. “That may be,” she said. “The warning is this: Unless you accept the full burden of your kingship, Britain itself will exact the price.”
“And the challenge?” William asked.
“To be king of all Britain, in heart and soul, as you have long refused to be.”
William’s face set in an expression Henry knew too well. He had seen it in mules who felt themselves excessively put upon. “You know I will not do that.”
“Even though, in refusing, you destroy your kingdom?”
William laughed, loud and long. “Does this look like destruction to you? The weather’s bad, but that’s an act of God. The kingdom’s richer, the people are better off than they were when I was crowned. The sea goes quiet when I cross it. God’s blessing is on me. With all due respect, Lady, your pagan gods are dead and gone, and their prophecies are empty wind. It’s a new world. A new God rules it.”
“‘Pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.’” The Lady’s face was not visible, but Henry heard the coolness in her voice. “I have read your Scriptures, sire. Your God suffers arrogance as poorly as mine.”
“Is it arrogance when it’s the truth?”
The Lady gazed up at him. He must be able to see her face within the hood: his eyes fixed on it. Even more coolly than before, she said, “You have been given great gifts and a great charge. You have squandered them both. Now comes the reckoning. There is still time to soften the blow—but that time is short.”
“If you know my sister,” said William with visible care, “and it seems you do, you know that I do not traffic in the things of your world. I rule men, and I rule well. If you need a king for the rest, I give you leave to make one. As long as he keeps to his side of the bargain and leaves the mortal realm alone, I’ll give him no trouble.”
“Would to the gods it were so simple,” Cecilia said. She let fall her hood, arousing a gasp or two as some of the court recognized her. “If we could do that, believe me, we would. But we can’t. One king for both—that’s the law.”
“Then change it,” William said. “Or do you want me to?”
“This is not a mortal law,” said Cecilia. “Only the Great Old Ones can break it—and they will not.”
“Why?” demanded William.
“That is beyond your understanding,” Cecilia said.
If she meant to provoke him, she was doing wonderfully. Henry stepped forward before William sprang down from the dais to throttle her. “Peace,” he said to both of them. “Remember who you are.”
“I do remember,” William snarled. “She does not.”
“Oh, no,” Cecilia said. “It’s you who adamantly refuse to do any such thing. More than Old Britain is going to fall, brother, and every bitter shard of it will be on your head.”
The Lady laid a hand on her arm. She shook it off. Henry
’s was more persistent—and he was forewarned. When she struggled, he tightened his grip. “If you’re going to bait the lion, sister, at least make sure he’s secure in his cage. What is this destruction you’re speaking of? Saxon uprisings? Magic dying?”
“Worse,” Cecilia said. She had calmed somewhat, enough to seem almost her usual, carefully controlled self. “The waste land; drowned Lyonesse: those are old stories, but none the less true for that. This is an island, and the sea is always hungry. A weak king and a false one brought the downfall of the Summer Country. A stubborn king and a prideful one may bring down the rest of Britain.”
“I’ll set the priests to praying,” William said, “and do whatever penance they set for me. God will protect my kingdom.”
“That will not be enough.” It was the Lady who said it, gently but with unshakable surety. “Only the old way and the old rite will suffice—and even that may fail.”
“I’ll put my trust in God,” William said.
He was no more to be moved than she. She sighed. “On your head be it,” she said.
CHAPTER 41
Cecilia would have had much more to say, but the Lady’s words silenced her. It even gave William pause; but he rallied soon enough, and offered a knightly consolation. “Look; dinner’s coming. It’s bloody cold outside, and from the sound of it, it’s storming again. Eat and drink with us, and let us lodge you for the night, or however long the storm lasts.”
The Lady bowed. “You are most generous,” she said, “but—”
William raised a hand. “No, no, I understand. You don’t want to sully your pure selves with this rough male company. But I won’t send you out into that storm of hell. There’s a guesthouse with its own hall. I’ve got the men-at-arms bivouacked in there, but there’s room enough for them elsewhere.”
“We’ll take it,” Cecilia said over the Lady’s murmured demurral. She kept her glare for her brother, but there was enough to spare for anyone else who might stand in her way. “You have our thanks.”
