He repaired the roof, and thatched it securely. He brought stones and mud with which to repair the shattered wall. While he was gathering them he had noted a boulder half his height, and almost as wide. When all else was done he went out during the night, and chanting to focus his strength, managed to roll it inside. Then, using a chisel and mallet that he had found in an outbuilding, he began to carve into the stone a new channel in which to sheathe the Sword.
It was precise and patient work. Long before he completed it he heard men in the road outside the chapel, talking of the death of the High King. Some whispered of poison, but others said it was only that he had exhausted his last strength in the battle. It was said that his queen was bringing the body to the Giant’s Dance to lie with that of his brother and the British lords.
Merlin remembered a Samhain Eve beside the sacred stones and the wonder in Uthir’s eyes, and wept, but he did not stop chiseling at the stone.
There were more rumors after that, as first one lord and then another sought support in order to claim the overlordship of Britannia. But there was no one on whom all the princes could agree.
The autumn was well advanced by the time Merlin finished his work at last, and slid the Sword into the channel with the secret twist that prevented anyone who did not know the secret from drawing it out again. And when it was sheathed, he carved into the front of the stone these words—
Quicunque me distringet rex iustus Britanniae est . . .
Then, at last, the compulsion released him. Over Sword and stone he draped his mantle, and walked out of the little chapel for the last time.
A ghost of the man he had been whispered that he should go to Igierne in Londinium, or to Artor in Demetia. But he no longer trusted his own wisdom. Let the men who lusted to rule Britannia and the gods they served do the fighting. He had had enough of humankind.
Merlin’s feet carried him northward, traveling by night and speaking to no one. By the time he reached the Wall it was hard to remember human language, and so he passed into the shadows of the Forest of Caledonia and disappeared from the knowledge of men.
X
THE SWORD IN THE STONE
A.D. 475
IN HER DREAM, IGIERNE WAS SITTING IN AN APPLE TREE.
Cradled in its branches and rocked by the wind, she watched the slow-wheeling stars, yet even as she marveled at their majesty she knew that these visions were not hers but those of another, whose dream she shared.
Her tree was surrounded by oak and ash and stately pines, for the forest had grown over an old orchard and only the single apple tree remained. Hungry, she reached for an apple; the arm that moved was long, sinewy, and covered with coarse hair. Abruptly she realized whose mind she shared.
“Merlin,” she called, “where are you? We feared you dead—Britannia needs you, I need you!”
“I am the Wild Man of Caledonia. . . . Merlin is a dream. Are you my little lass? I have seen you in a moonbeam, Lady, but you do not speak to me anymore. . . .” Through his eyes she saw leaves that glittered in the moonlight and the pale shapes of distant hills.
“It is Igierne who calls you. Return from your wanderings!”
He bit into the apple, and she felt the swift rush of sweetness on her own tongue.
“Merlin loved Igierne, when he was a man. . . . The Wild Man loves the little pig that roots beneath his tree. . . .”
For a moment surprise and pity held her silent, then need drove her on. “If you ever loved me, find my son! The princes tear at this poor land like ravens at a carcass, and only he can make it whole—”
A sudden wave of anguish blurred her vision; she smelled once more the deathly reek of the battlefield. Then the image faded, but the sorrow remained.
“Let the White Raven beware the Raven of Battle. To Calleva come the princes in search of sovereignty. . . . Where you find the Sword you shall find the King. . . .”
Branches tossed as he climbed downward. The ground blurred beneath her vision as he began to run, faster and faster until his awareness dissolved into pure motion and Igierne’s consciousness fell away.
She opened her eyes, grasping for memories that were already fast fading, but on her lips the taste of apple remained.
How long had it been, she wondered, since she had awakened with happiness in her heart? Whatever her dream meant, it was better than nightmares in which Uthir died in her arms yet again. She had buried him in the barrow by the Giant’s Ring, as he had asked, and then begun the long journey back to the north, staying for a time in one town and then in another, until she came to Isca in Demetia, where Bishop Dubricius had welcomed her.
Igierne was in no hurry to continue on, for what remained for her, even at the Lake, but to live out an empty existence mourning the death of Britannia’s joy and her own?
But today she had hope once more, hope, and a fragment of prophecy. Bishop Dubricius was accounted a wise man. Together, perhaps they could make one last attempt to persuade the warring princes to seek unity.
In Calleva, one could almost believe that Rome had never departed from the Isle. Its walls were intact, its amphitheater only a little overgrown, its gracious houses, set amidst their gardens and orchards, still the homes of cultured men. It was also convenient in location, far enough to the west to be out of asy reach of Saxon raiders, and connected to the rest of the country by good roads. If summoning the lords of Britannia to this place had been no more than a night fancy, thought Igierne, then it had been a useful one.
For the warlords and chieftains and magistrates were coming in.
During the two years since Uthir’s death there had been no central authority. Hengest, recovering from the shock of Octha’s loss, had designated his grandson Oesc as heir, and though he no longer took the field, the chieftains he had summoned from Germania were swift to fall upon their British neighbors. In the North, Colgrin and Baldulf had made alliance with the old enemy, the Picts and Scots, and were extending their holdings. In the West the lords of Demetia and Guenet fought the men of Eriu and each other.
But now, when the first winter storms were putting an end to the fighting season, the British had braved bad roads and wild weather to converge on the old civitas of the Atrebates. The chieftains and their families were given hospitality in the better homes of the town, while the lesser lords and gentiles set up camp, with their men, in the fields outside. Even Leudonus had left the Votadini lands in charge of his clan chiefs and come south to the conclave, and with him came Morgause.
Igierne was sitting in the atrium of the chief magistrate, made pleasant by shrubs in pots and beds of late-blooming flowers, when a light step on the flagstones made her turn and she saw that her daughter had arrived.
Though the atrium was protected from the wind, Morgause’s draperies fluttered with supressed motion. Clearly, marriage and motherhood agreed with her. What the girl’s face had lost in childish roundness, her breasts had gained, and her complexion was blooming. Igierne frowned in sudden suspicion.
“Morgause, are you breeding again?”
Quick color came and went in the girl’s face, then she set her hands over her belly and smiled.
“I shall have three children in four years of marriage. In all your years as a wife, you never managed but the two!”
Igierne’s eyes widened a little at the taunt; she had not meant to sound disapproving—well, not very.
“I congratulate you on being one of those women who are built for bearing.” She managed an answering smile. “Your husband must be pleased.”
“I will give him enough sons to defend the North with the fruit of my own womb! Or perhaps they will rule a greater kingdom. Clearly, Uthir meant Leudonus to be his heir.”
“Certainly he respected Leudonus’s abilities as a commander,” Igierne said evenly. “But the lords of southern Britannia may feel that his strength lies too far away.”
Morgause shrugged and paced across the stones. Her mantle was dyed a deep crimson, not the color that had clashed s
o with her complexion at her wedding, but a shade like Gaulish wine. Heavy earrings of gold and garnet hung in her ears, and her golden pennanular brooch was set with garnets as well. Igierne remembered when she used to adorn herself in jewels. She had worn only black since Uthir died.
With a swirl of her skirts Morgause turned to face her once more.
“That argument might be used against any of them. At least Leudonus has strength. I will be Tigernissa, and it will be your turn, mother, to sit on the Isle of Maidens and watch the world go by!”
“Oh, the Lady of the Lake can do a little more than that—” said Igierne tightly. “Did you learn nothing when you were there?”
“I learned a great deal. And I am learning more in the North, where they revere their queens. Leudonus’s mother was a princess of the Picts, who trace their descent through the female line. They choose their husbands to defend the land, but they are the source of power.”
Igierne picked up her embroidery again and took a stitch or two. What Morgause had said agreed with the secret teaching of the Isle, but southern Britannia had been Roman too long, and the men who ruled it had forgotten many things.
“Neither queen nor king is the source of sovereignty,” she said at last, “but the Goddess Herself who is Lady of this land. Do not forget that, daughter. Whatever I have done or you shall do, we are only Her deputies.”
Morgause responded with a rather odd smile. “Oh, I have not forgotten. But the Lady sometimes wears a different face in the northern lands. . . .”
Igierne raised one eyebrow, but before she could inquire she heard voices in the entry and another woman, draped in a gown and palla of dusty blue, came into the atrium, followed by a lanky boy.
“Domina—” She made a reverence to Igierne, and then, after a moment’s hesitation, to Morgause. “I do not know if you will remember me, for it has been many years—”
“Of course I do! You are Flavia, wife of Caius Turpilius.” And indeed, though Flavia’s figure had become more matronly, she had not really changed. “I am glad that you and your husband have come. They will need his good sense at the Council.”
Flavia nodded. “He and young Cai are down at the meadow where the warriors will show off their strength in the games. God send that it does not become a battlefield!”
“Will not your younger son be fighting?”
For a moment Flavia looked troubled, then she smiled. “He is only fifteen, though he is taller than Cai. Time enough for him to be fighting when he has grown into his bones. . . .” She looked fondly at the boy, who flushed red as he realized he was the center of attention.
He reminded Igierne of a young colt, still all legs and neck, but with the promise of grace and speed. At least his skin was not disfigured by the spots that afflicted so many lads that age.
“If he has the time, perhaps you would lend him to me as an escort,” she said to Flavia. “I no longer have a real household, and the town has become very crowded as the chieftains come in.”
“Too crowded . . .” Morgause said softly, eyeing the newcomers.
Igierne frowned at her. Why should Morgause care if her mother showed some kindness to this gangling boy? But clearly it was so. She still wants my approval, thought the queen, despite all her proud words.
“I would be honored—” The boy spoke for the first time. If he resented being shuffled off among the ladies he was too well-bred to let it show.
“Come to me tomorrow,” said Igierne. “You may be my escort to the warriors’ games.”
“My children in Christ, to this place I have called you to take counsel for the safety of your own children and the future of this land.”
Bishop Dubricius stood on the dais at the end of the basilica, illuminated by light from the upper windows, which picked out the golden embroidery on his robes. He was a humble man, who on ordinary days dressed as simply as any of his monks. But he was not an unworldly one, reflected Igierne, watching from the gallery, and he knew the power of a judicious display of gold.
“The heathen encompass us on every side, and we have been abandoned by the eagles of Rome. Under the authority of our own emperors we have fought them; at times we nearly drove them from our shores. But only when we were united. When each lord cares only for his own lands, the devil’s spawn can gobble us piecemeal, like a herd that has been scattered by the wolves!”
From his audience came a murmur of appreciation, if not for his text, at least for his rhetoric. The farther windows lit them as well, glinting on swordhilts and brooches and torques of gold.
The basilica of Calleva was second only to that of Londinium. The nave was seventy feet high, arches supported the upper walls and separated it from the aisle. In happier times, the decurions of the district had met there to conduct the business of government; now the benches were filled by nearly a hundred proud men from all over the Island.
“Indeed, your grace.” Cataur of Dumnonia, representing his father and his grandfather, the prince Gerontius, rose from his bench to answer. His brother, Gerontius the younger, was at his side. “If we did not agree with you we would not have come here. But there is no man remaining of the direct line of Constantine to inherit, and how else shall we choose?”
His question seemed innocent enough, but every man there knew that through the female line Cataur was descended from the British emperor who had challenged Rome. It occurred to Igierne suddenly that Morgause, through her father, carried that blood as well. Had she thought of that? From the intent way in which she was watching, her mother felt it likely, and if so, Leudonus would be considering it as well.
Despite four centuries of Roman emperors, who were as likely to be raised to the purple for their popularity, or their power, their competence, or sometimes by pure chance, as for their heredity, an honored bloodline still carried weight with these descendents of Celtic kings.
If Uthir had allowed Merlin to bring back their son, thought Igierne, there would have been an heir in the male line. Where was he now, her little boy? Did he know of his heritage? Or was he dead, and had Uthir and Merlin resisted her pleas to bring him to her because they feared to tell her so?
It hardly mattered now. Cataur had just proclaimed himself a candidate. Igierne remembered him as energetic but headstrong, requiring a firm hand. Would he have the self-discipline to rule?
“Who is that?” asked Flavia as Eleutherius got to his feet.
“The prince of Eburacum. His father ruled the lands from the Wall to Lindum, but the Anglians are carving out a homeland there now.”
Eleutherius cleared his throat. “Any lord we choose must care for the peoples of the North as well as the South; the remnants who hold out in the East, surrounded by Saxons, as well as the safe western lands. The sons of Ambrosius came back from Armorica to lead us. We do not want a High King who will flit oversea to Dumnonia if things go badly here.”
That was close enough to a challenge to make all eyes turn to Cataur, for the northern coast of Armorica had been given its name by Britons who fled there from the lands his father had ruled. But before he could answer, Catraut, who had established himself in Verulamium after the battle, spoke in favor of choosing a man with experience on the Saxon frontier. He was followed by others, as each region proclaimed its importance, or its needs.
Throughout all this, Leudonus had sat in silence. He had put on weight since his marriage to Morgause, but he was still in his prime, broad rather than tall, with thinning reddish hair. His mantle was woven in wool of many colors, in the traditional royal style. Igierne had seen him in Roman dress, which he wore well, and knew that this appeal to Celtic memory must be deliberate.
He will let them talk themselves out before he makes his move, and hope that in their desperation they will accept even a northerner, if he has sufficient power.
The light through the windows was deepening toward sunset when Bishop Dubricius held up his crozier. Reluctantly, the men fell silent.
“We will not decide this issue today,
but I think that those who have spoken have set forth the qualities we must seek in our king—strength, wisdom, a care for all parts of this land, a right to rule which can be accepted by everyone here. . . .”
“A miracle . . .” whispered someone nearby.
“Christ Himself in His second coming could not win acceptance from them all!” another voice answered.
One of the local men got to his feet. “We will never agree until God Himself gives us a sign! But in the hermit’s chapel just beyond the town there is a sword thrust into a stone which no man can pull free. The writing on the rock says it belongs to the king!”
Igierne sank back against the wall as if she had been struck to the heart by that same blade.
Her dream of Merlin had been true! And this was what had happened to the Sword, and why he had told her to seek Calleva! But why? Only Merlin and she knew the trick of making a slot that would hold the Chalybe blade. Had he meant her to draw it herself and choose her king as a priestess of the Lady of Sovereignty?
“My lady, are you unwell?” asked Flavia, and Igierne realized that her skin had gone clammy and she was perspiring beneath her veil.
She shook her head, though she was trembling with a sudden awareness of great forces building around her. She dared not touch the Sword, she realized then. She had given it to Uthir, and it had killed him. She straightened, striving for calm. She could not interfere, but she would bear witness to what must come.
The combats had already started when Igierne arrived at the amphitheater, accompanied by Flavia’s boy. The horse races were scheduled for later in the day. The amphitheater lay to the northeast of the town, where it caught the morning light, but the day had dawned cloudy; now and again a cool breath of mist touched her skin. She had wrapped up warmly, and the people of Calleva had set up a shelter over part of the seating and made it comfortable with rugs and cushions for the benefit of the noble ladies and the older men.
The Hallowed Isle Book One Page 17
