“I am glad you were there. I have seen a priestess so lost to the herbs of the rite. The girl was never right in the head again, and frequently drooled.”
“I have seen this also,” he said. “But though you spoke to me, you seemed very far away for a time.”
“I am still not feeling quite myself.”
“How came you to this place?” he asked.
I did not answer. Instead, I did a silly flip into the water to distract him. There was a little waterfall nearby, and I sat under it for a moment, letting the water wash out my paste-filled hair … and perhaps wash in some sense. How could I explain away the one thing I did not want to tell him?
Finally, I returned and finished helping him clean off.
“Anya, how came you here?” he repeated. I could feel his mind, so close to mine—but not now within it. He was suspicious, but only mildly so.
“I decided to go looking for rare herbs I heard grow to the north of the castle. I had been too long cooped up in Camelot—that mad pile of stone and gossip! I had to go for a long walk. But I got lost. At some point, I was in a field, and someone hit me over the head. That is all I knew until this morning.” Which was all somewhat true. “Now come, beloved, and I will wash your colorful head.” I hauled him into the water.
“Ah! Oooo!” he shouted as the cold of the waterfall hit him. I combed out his beard and hair with my hands until all the paste was gone. By the time I was done, he was shivering so, I had to help him out of the water.
A little old woman whose face was dyed with symbols in blue woad met us at the shore. She had cloths for us, and our clothes.
Teeth chattering, Merlin bowed to her before accepting the cloth to wipe down with.
I nodded to her—she felt familiar to me for some reason—took the proffered cloth and used it to rub Merlin down vigorously.
Between bouts of shivers, he whispered, “This woman is a Pict—a fierce wild people who were the first to live in these lands. By her dyed face, she is a priestess. Her it was I saw last night.”
I noted the old woman had a lifeglow of a priestess—a deep violet.
I finished helping Merlin dry himself and assisted him on with his cloak. I recalled his robe was back at the castle where he lodged the night before. I put on my dress and cloak.
The three of us walked back toward the altar, saying nothing.
But I knew what was to come.
Merlin cleared his throat a couple of times before saying, “My dear, I need to get back to Alymere’s castle—not just to get my clothes, but to complete my task for Arthur.” He paused to kiss me, then took up my hands and kissed my fingers. “I’ll be away at least another moon. You’ll be at the castle when I return?”
“Yes.” I lied. I had no idea where I would go. I was fairly sure it was not Camelot. “I will miss you, beloved.” That was truth.
Merlin kissed me one more time, then took the reins of his horse, which one of the Pict men had brought him. He rode off, looking around several times, before disappearing into the trees.
I stood for a long moment looking after him, wondering what to do next.
The old woman tugged insistently at my cloak. She made gestures that suggested eating.
I nodded, suddenly ravenous.
The Pict priestess led me to a cave that was clearly her home. There was a small bed, a hearth, and a table with many implements to make medicines. She was a healer-priestess like myself.
I stayed with Mamaidh—the name the Pict priestess taught me for herself, though whether that meant “mother,” “priestess,” or something else, I knew not. Her son, Brudei, also lived in the cave, although he seemed to sleep elsewhere.
The Picts spoke little of Camelot’s tongue, so Mamaidh and I often both spoke and gestured to talk. She explained that Brudei had been hunting and spotted me shouting at the sky near their cave. Not liking strangers—especially hooded ones yelling at no one—he hit me over the head and carried me to his mother. When Mamaidh saw my face, the Goddess told her She’d brought me to this place for the Beltane fires. During the rite, Merlin showed up. This, Mamaidh knew, was the Goddess’s work as well. Brudei was deeply disappointed. He was supposed to have been the god that night.
She apologized for kidnapping me for their rite.
Of course, I forgave her.
So, we settled into a comfortable routine. Mamaidh showed me the plants of that area and their uses when I let the priestess know I was interested. I was stunned at how deep her knowledge was and how little the old healer, Mabina of Avalon, actually knew of the uses of the native herbs growing all around us. I felt as if I were an initiate, learning my Art all over again.
I enjoyed it. Being with another priestess again was soothing. I felt as if my place in the world was somehow more secure. I did not mind the learning. As I once told Merlin, it reminded me of the real purposes of a priestess’ power.
Each night, we talked. Mamaidh struggled to regain the Briton’s tongue, and used it haltingly as we got to know one another. One evening, I asked, “How is it until now I knew nothing of your people? And why does Merlin seem … well, a little frightened of you?”
Mamaidh said, “My people once lived far away south, almost to the sea. But strange dark invaders came in boats, drove us from our homeland.”
After much questioning, I realized the invaders she spoke of were the Romans. “They invaded all of Britain, not just the Picts.”
“The Britons became their pets. Once we lived peacefully with Britons. But invaders made them hunt us. Say, ‘Kill all the small people!’ We fight, but there are too many.” Mamaidh shook her head, as if this happened last year, not hundreds of years ago. “Too many. Their weapons are too strong. Their spirit too fierce.”
“So, you retreated to the north?”
Mamaidh nodded. “We go to the cold, barren lands. But then, invaders from the cold sea attack!”
“Who were those people?” I asked.
“They come in boats with a dragon face. We think they from the ice lands.”
I realized she meant my people—the Rus, called Vikings, here—and felt uncomfortable. Apparently, King Lot was right. The Rus were fierce warriors and had been attacking the north lands of Britain for many, many years. “The Romans have gone back to their homeland. Why not ask the Britons if you might return?” I wondered if she bore King Arthur ill, but decided not to ask.
Mamaidh stared into the fire. “They hunt us still.”
“How will you survive?” I asked
She shrugged. “We cannot fight them—the Britons or men from the sea. They are too many. They kill us too easily. All we can do is go to the hidden places. Or blend in with the people of the villages. But we will not let them sweep us away. We will remember who we are. We will keep our ways, our history, in secret. They cannot take this from us.”
I admired her tenacity, even in the face of adversity. I wished I had half of her calm strength.
A fortnight later, as we stood on a hill picking thistles, Mamaidh said, “Why stay?”
I did not have an answer for her that would make sense. Only that I felt this place was a shelter from a storm I was trying to avoid. How could I tell her that?
“Baby!” she said, touching my womb.
“No!” I gasped and sank to my knees. Oh, Goddess, what have I done?!
Mamaidh nodded. She seemed amused at my reaction. “Baby! Yes!”
The terror I suffered at Camelot welled up again.
The priestess saw the look on my face and drew near. Puzzled, she patted my shoulder.
“Mamaidh, can you tell me—is it Merlin’s?” I could not ask if it might be another’s.
She sat on the ground beside me and placed her hand on my belly and closed her eyes.
I could feel her presence in my mind and let her see what she would. After a long while, the old one said, “The Goddess’s child!”
I was so happy, I hugged her. I did not know what I would do next. But, at least it was
not Arthur’s child.
Mamaidh smiled and touched my forehead. “Priestess. You go home.”
I began to weep, although I could not explain to her why.
Mamaidh and I sat on the hill, under the brilliantly blue spring sky, holding each other for a long time.
Eventually, we got up and went back to the cave. That night and in the morning, Mamaidh helped me pack up all the herbs we gathered together.
That leave-taking felt even more awful than when I left Mabina and Avalon. I knew I would never see the Pict priestess again.
Brudei appeared at the mouth of the cave.
I turned and kissed Mamaidh’s forehead. Calling up the memory of my time as a high priestess in Viborg, I used my power to bless her for all of her remaining days.
She bowed to me and kissed my hands. Then she turned her back to me. I knew it was the only way she could say goodbye.
I demanded of the Goddess: Why is it you cast me out of every Motherhouse? What have I done that it is not sufficient I worship you in peace?
The Goddess did not answer.
I went out of the cave and followed Brudei along the path away from the Picts. He stayed with me all that day. At evening, he indicated he had to turn back.
I thanked him and gave him a small blessing.
Brudei bowed and walked back the way he came, disappearing into the forest.
And I started the long walk back to Camelot.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
If Camelot was my destination, I saw no reason to hurry back.
I occupied myself with finding herbs to pick. I spotted some that grew in Avalon but did not root near the castle and picked them. The days were temperate. I considered becoming what they called a “hedge witch”—a hermit woman who practiced magick. It would be pleasant. Those who needed my aid might find me. Or no one would discover me, and I could live out my days quietly.
Except that I would have a child to raise. I could not force a young person into that kind of solitude. Myself, yes.
And so, I went along, my basket growing heavier. But my steps were slow. I did not relish facing up to what I must when I returned.
One night, I had a dream.
I felt someone close to me, touching me in intimate places. I heard the Avalonian priestesses chanting. Smelled the incense in its salver.
“What have you done, you little bitch?” hissed Morgaine’s voice over my face.
I could not open my eyes. I was locked in darkness.
I felt strong hands gripping my shoulders.
“Answer me!”
I did not know what she wanted me to say. What was it she wanted? I felt her breathing on me. Her anger was immense.
“What have you done?” she demanded.
“N-n-nothing!” I managed.
She … sniffed me. I could feel her shifting about, thinking.
Finally, she said in a too-calm voice, “Anya. I will let you return to Avalon.”
“I—I can return?” I knew this for a trap.
“Yes. Return to me, just as we were—together. You can be our healer. Take back your place. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, Lady. You know it is all I desire.” But I knew that life was closed to me. “What must I do?”
There were gentle fingers stroking my face. “Come to Avalon. Bear your child here.”
That almost seemed reasonable. “And?”
There was a long pause. Finally, she said, “And when the babe is born, go with me to the night altar and sacrifice the child to the Dark One.”
“No!” I exploded my power outward as hard as I was able. Lightning shot from my body in all directions. “No no no no no no no no no!”
I awoke, alone, under the shelter of a rowan tree I had chosen to spend the night under.
The forest noises were stilled. The hush was like an intake of breath by many, many people. Yes, I had shouted out loud.
I tasted the air. It smelled like it did after a thunderstorm, but it was a clear night. I might also have used my magick in reality.
“You cannot have me or this child, Morgaine!” I shouted to the heavens.
Days later, I came upon the old Roman-made road that led to Camelot. I followed it for a time, more for the ease of passage than anything else.
Just after noon, I came to a split: one way was paved with rock, the other was just a trail through the forest. In one of my rare instances of Sight, I knew the dirt path led to a castle that was far away from Camelot and the men I wish to avoid. Perhaps the people there need a healer … even a pregnant one?
I was just beginning to think this was a fine plan when I heard the drum of horse hooves coming up behind me.
Could it be Morgaine’s courier searching for me?
Terrified, I ran behind a stand of chestnut trees.
The rider thundered by—a white dappled stallion and a tall man upon it. Whoever it was, I could tell it was not Morgaine’s minion.
The horse was abruptly brought up short. The rider turned and walked his mount toward the copse of trees where I hid. He drew his sword. “Come out of there! Who are you?” he demanded.
There was nothing for it. I took a deep breath and went out on the road. “You have sharp eyes, Sir Lancelot.”
“Lady Anya, is it?” Lancelot asked, putting his blade away. “Well, this is fine! The king was looking for you when last I was at Camelot.”
“Ah?” I pretended interest. “Is he ill?” I noticed Lancelot’s lifeglow was a fiery red with hints of blue and wondered why I had not noticed it before. The red denoted his courage, of course, but the blue indicated a creativity and intelligence I had not credited him with.
“No, indeed. He was quite well when I left and healing fast. We took a short ride just before I went. But he was concerned about you. No one knew where you’d got to.”
I held up my heavily laden basket. “Just picking more plants to replenish after the winter sickness.”
“Shall I take you to Camelot?” Lancelot asked.
“I would not hinder you, sir. I can walk the rest of the way. It is not far,” I said.
He dismounted and came over, gently removing the basket from my hands. “It would be my honor to bring you back to Castle Camelot.”
Curse the man! “Thank you, good sir,” was all I could say to his forced chivalry as he helped me up on his huge horse.
He clambered up and sat in front of me. “I’m glad for the company. It’s dull riding alone.”
“What do you out in the wild by yourself?” I asked, hoping to divert him from inquiring about me.
“Oh, this and that. I was home at my castle, Joyous Gard. Elaine and I have a new baby girl!” he said. He prattled on about home life.
I realized he was “making conversation,” as they called it at the castle. I knew he kept his Elaine far from him for a reason.
“I saw the most curious sight a fortnight ago!” he said.
“What might that be?”
“I was riding back to my father-in-law’s castle when I heard screaming,” he said.
“Oh dear!” I feigned interest.
“As I neared a stream, you’ll never guess who I saw!”
I played along. “Who?”
“Merlin!” he said. “And mother-naked, half-covered in some sort of enchantment.”
“Really?” We were spied upon! “How strange!”
“There was a many-colored river nymph there with him, and he was humping her for all he was worth!” Lancelot’s eyes sparkled merrily.
“No!” His story was too comical.
“I never thought the old boy had it in him!” he said with a laugh.
“Well, he is a wizard,” I reminded him.
“Too true! I hope I am up to the task when I reach his years!” Lancelot replied.
“Is that all you saw?”
“No,” he was much caught up with his tale, so he did not notice me trying hard not to laugh. “When she was through, she pulled him into the w
ater! I saw her drag him under a waterfall, and then he was gone!”
“Goodness!” Who knew I was a river nymph? “I do hope he was not drowned!”
Lancelot said, “I’m sure that old wizard will be fine. I doubt there’s anything magickal that could defeat him!”
“True enough.”
No doubt Lancelot would tell his silly story about Merlin and the “river nymph” once we were back at Camelot. I could see no harm in it. Most would not believe it. For those who did, it would only add to Merlin’s mystery. And surely, Lavena would get another story out of it to tell around the kitchen hearth.
To keep him from asking about my travels, I said, “You mentioned your castle, Joyous Gard. I have heard there is a tale about it, and that it once was named Dolorous Gard.”
“That is so,” he said and nothing more.
That was interesting. I had assumed he was a preening braggart and would be anxious to tell the tale. Instead, he had closed up like a box. Perhaps I misjudged him. “I would be interested in hearing the tale, if you don’t mind,”
“If you wish,” he said with a sigh. “It was just after my introduction to court.” His manner of speaking belied how disinterested he was in telling the tale. Lancelot was no story-weaver, but I urged him on.
“My foster mother, Viviene, known as the Lady of the Lake, had never told me my name nor my parentage. She brought me to King Arthur’s court with a white shield, for she told me I would write my own destiny upon it. I defeated all those at the tournament that was held in her honor, including the king.” He paused and chuckled. “In fact, I quite unseated the king and broke his lance. But he didn’t hold it against me and said I could be a Companion if I discovered my name.
“Viviene said that I must travel for adventure and learn who I was, so, off I went. After a time, I came upon a place where the people were subjugated by a fierce warrior they called the Copper Knight—for his armor was all of copper. He was a ruthless tyrant, taking what he wanted: crops, goods, and even their women. Well, of course, this couldn’t stand. So, I rode to his keep, called Dolorous Gard.
The Priestess of Camelot Page 19
