Guinevere
Page 15
“You look beautiful, little one,” he whispered. “Matthew must be very proud of you. I’m sure he knows all about this and rejoices that he has left something of himself behind on earth.”
“Do you really know that, Geraldus? Did your voices speak of him?” She was so innocent and trusting that he could only mumble something reassuring and excuse himself.
“Of course, I’ll have someone bring you fresh towels,” Guenlian said. “Guinevere can show you to the bath house. I know you know where it is, but we must follow the proprieties. We’ll all see you at dinner. We have been too long without your music.”
She kissed him again and sent him off. He found Guinevere and she got the linens. The air around him seemed strangely quiet, and automatically he glanced around.
“If you are looking for your singers,” Guinevere told him, “they didn’t follow us in. I think they went straight to the baths. After all, they have been here before, too. Do they know that father doesn’t allow men and women to bathe together?”
“I really don’t know if they do.”
“You should tell them, in case someone should happen by.”
“But Guinevere, you are the only one who can see them and I am the only one who can hear them!”
“Oh yes, well then. I’ll stay away. But only until you are dry and dressed again, so don’t stay there all afternoon. I have missed you so!”
Geraldus smiled and mused as he watched her skipping back to the house. “There is one person who hasn’t altered in the least, in spite of everything. Imagine, mousy little Rhianna and Matthew! And yet, there is something unusual about Guinevere. I can’t quite think what.”
From inside he heard the sound of splashing and some male voices trying to harmonize on a rather vulgar drinking song. He cringed. Where had they learned that? Now the sopranos were joining in. They would never get it right, if they practiced a milennium. He opened the door.
“No, no, NO!” he shouted. “Can’t I leave you alone for a minute? You’re flat on half the notes and sharp on the other half. Now, from the beginning—”
Chapter Ten
The room in which Flora lay was white and the ceiling low. From her bed, she could only turn her eyes from one empty surface to another. She heard her faithful attendants enter and leave, knew they were feeding and cleaning her and raged at the shame of it. Except when a face bent over hers, she might already have been in her sarcophagus, reclining peacefully in her tomb. More than anything she wished for the dignity and release of death, but she knew it would not be given her until she redeemed herself.
“It is the cardinal sin,” her mind repeated. “You withheld the sacrifice. You must pay, you must pay. The punishment will not fall upon the victim. Mother! Most high! Give me strength and I will fulfill the prophecy; only let me move and I will do so in your service!”
They all came to see her every day. Guenlian patted her hand and spoke as if she had lost her reason instead of her body’s strength.
“Here’s some lovely soup for you. Isn’t it just lovely? And here’s a warm comforter. Let me wrap it around you.”
Leodegrance would come and yell as if she’d gone deaf, “HOW ARE YOU TODAY?”
Caet sneaked in once with a gift of flowers. He laid them on her pillow like an offering at a tomb. But his eyes were sad as he kissed her cheek, and of all of them she felt he best knew the degradation she suffered.
Guinevere came, too, and for an hour every day sat next to the bed and prattled as always. The only difference was that now Flora could not interrupt. Guinevere never looked at her. Flora wished she would. Even without words she knew she could have made the child be still.
Constantly her spirit railed at her body, admonishing it to obey, and all the while she repeated her prayer: “Give me strength long enough to do my duty, only that long and no more. I must be allowed to atone!”
But the weeks passed and her muscles remained unresponsive. Her terror grew until she barely heard the platitudes of her visitors. Only her own pleading echoed in her ears.
Outside the white room, life was becoming joyous again. Geraldus cheered everyone. He made them smile without feeling guilty. He sang. Although the winter solstice approached, the villa was warm and merry. It wasn’t hard to remember the rebirth of nature with the new life growing before them.
Only in Flora’s room was it winter. Pincerna and Tenuantius discussed it.
“She won’t let go,” the butler worried. “Her body is gone, useless to her, and I believe her mind is going too. She doesn’t seem to recognize us anymore. Yet she refuses to face her own end. Why won’t she accept it? She has had a longer life than most.”
“She’s not one of us,” Tenuantius said, as if that explained the matter. “Tacitus and Sidulus have some very interesting comments on people of her race. You must come by my room some evening and I will read them to you. I have an anonymous commentary which is also very enlightening.”
Pincerna shrugged and muttered something about usually being on duty in the evening.
Everyone knew there was no hope and pitied the fierce determination that kept the old woman clinging to life. But she cared nothing for them. She continued her efforts until, late one night, her arm moved. No one saw, no one knew, except Flora. But she knew it was a sign that she would be allowed to atone for her weakness. Every day thereafter she felt the muscles tighten and strengthen and every night she practiced until she knew she was ready. Now she need only await the winter solstice. At the proper time, in the proper place, the demands of the goddess would be granted.
In the fields, the people were making huge piles of firewood and bones. They would be lit at sundown and would burn all through the longest night. Leodegrance knew the bonfires that would ring his home were not for the birth of Christ but for Donn, the god of the dead, and Beltenus, the sun god, who would not return to his strength until his own feast day, Beltane, in the spring. But Leodegrance didn’t mind. He had always felt that as long as there was light to burn away the fear of winter darkness and death, the name of the god didn’t matter. At least not to him. He had been born on this island, and his father and his father, reaching back almost three hundred years, to the first Roman settlers. He was more than half of British blood, himself, and his ancestors had worshipped a whole pantheon. He understood the old religion even if he didn’t believe in it. Therefore he took the precaution of having a bull slaughtered before the solstice and dividing the meat among the tenants. Better that than finding three or four missing, taken for the rites. And each night Flora grew stronger.
On the eve of the longest night, the inhabitants of the villa held a solemn service to commemorate the birth of Christ. Then they had a simple supper of bread and broth and retired early. Sometime later it seemed to a confused Guinevere that she woke to find Flora standing over her in her silken robes, holding a cup of spiced wine. Each year on that night, Flora had done the same thing and later, Guinevere had assumed vaguely that her memory of this must have been a dream. She finished the wine as she had always done, and after that her sleep was dreamless.
She didn’t awake even when the strong, bony arms lifted her from her covers and carried her out into the freezing night, nor when she was undressed and placed on the icy altar. Flora worked alone that night, with no other worshippers or acolytes. This was for the goddess alone. She lit the candles and unwrapped her cloak to reveal the red and gold robes, stained with dark, brown blood from a hundred animal deaths. Carefully she sharpened the bronze knife. Serenely she intoned the sanctifying prayers. She was calm. Soon the old sin would be absolved . . . Guinevere would return to the goddess from whom she came and the cycle would be completed. The island would once more be protected. Flora’s body should have been feeble from her long months in bed, but her movements in the candlelight were deft. She had no doubt that Epona herself was guiding her hand. Flora was filled with contentment. With gentle love she unbound Guinevere’s hair and arranged it around her body. It was time.
“I must still be asleep,” she thought. “I must wake up. If only I could open my eyes!”
She tried, but it was no use. In her effort she managed to make a tiny squeak, which sounded to her a frantic scream. “Someone will surely come and wake me now! Why can’t I do it myself?” She squeaked again.
Flora didn’t hear her. She was deep in her own ritual, hypnotizing herself. This was her supreme night. She was no longer a serving woman or a nursemaid, and she never would be again. The force of Epona was in her now. She belonged to the immortals and knew she would not return. She ran her finger down the blade of the knife. A thin line of blood followed the mark.
With the greatest effort, Guinevere at last managed to push her eyes open a slit. She saw the candles through the curtain of her eyelashes. Nothing else was clear. It suddenly occurred to her that she was naked and uncovered, but all she felt was the cold. Then she heard the footsteps approaching and saw the glint of the knife above her. But still it made no sense. She only longed for someone to put back the blanket.
Then a thought roared through her mind like a storm. “Open your eyes, Guinevere! For your life, look at her! Don’t let her move! I’m coming to you!”
With one desperate effort, Guinevere opened her eyes as wide as they would go, and found herself staring into Flora’s face. It was white and smooth with madness. She gasped.
Flora started. Her hand trembled. “Epona!” she howled, “help me! Take your own!”
Then Guinevere heard the hooves pounding, hammering, breaking down the wooden door. Its crash was covered by the high pitched, horrible scream of a horse in terror. Flora shrank back as the unicorn bowed its head over the altar and pointed the deadly sharp horn at her heart.
“Renegade!” she accused. “You know she is destined for your Mistress! Epona will not be thwarted. Even her servants cannot prevent the sacrifice!”
She raised the knife again. The unicorn stepped forward. Guinevere now found that she couldn’t shut her eyes, and she watched in terror as the knife descended. The bronze blade seemed to move so slowly, inch by inch, closer to her unprotected body. She saw the unicorn rear as if he were swimming through a powerful surf. His forehooves pawed the air above the altar, ready to fall upon Flora, standing on the other side. Flora shook her head, awestruck but determined. And then, too quickly to see, the direction of the knife changed as the old woman plunged it into her own body.
There was blood everywhere. It spurted across Guinevere, burning hot on the icy stone and her cold body. It flooded along her chest and cascaded down her hair, pooling on the floor. And still she could do nothing, not even weep. The unicorn was gone. Had he also been a dream? The candles one by one were snuffed out by the wind blowing in through the open door. The only sounds were the slow drip of blood to the floor and a steady hiss as life streamed from Flora. Guinevere was alone.
The crash of the door and the horrid screech of the unicorn had roused the household. At first Leodegrance thought it came from the fields, where the bonfires were at their height. But then he realized that it was too close. He rushed out into the night. First, he looked to the stables. Was someone stealing the horses? But they were dark and quiet. Guenlian pulled a blanket around herself and followed him to the patio.
“What was it?” she asked. “I thought it came from the chapel. Surely the revelers wouldn’t dare to desecrate it.”
“I’m going to see.” Leodegrance grabbed his cloak and picked up a stout walking staff. The voices of others wakened by the noise were filtering through the halls now, sleepy, curious, worried, annoyed. Pincerna appeared looking like an old senator in his long robes. He strode through the buildings, trying to quiet people and to find the cause of the disturbance. He met Rhianna in the courtyard.
“You shouldn’t be out on a night like this, so near your time,” he chided her. “Go back to bed.”
“I was awake anyway. I don’t sleep very well. I thought I should go see how Flora is. All this commotion must be bothering her, as she can’t get up to see what it is.”
“Very well, that is thoughtful of you. But just look in on her and have one of the maids tend to her if anything is needed. Then hurry back to your room. You must think of yourself now.”
Rhianna disappeared into the house and Pincerna was on his way again, when he heard her calling frantically.
“She’s gone!” Rhianna yelled. “Someone has kidnapped her!”
Leodegrance was heading for the chapel but turned back at the call. He found Flora’s cell filled with people, all talking at once with Rhianna, looking aggravated, standing in the middle trying to explain something to the person next to her, who was busy exclaiming about the whole thing to no one at all.
“What is the matter with you?” Leodegrance roared. “All of you, back to your beds. We’ll tell you what happened in the morning. Someone see to my daughter-in-law, she looks ready to collapse. Geraldus?”
“Here, sir.”
“Get your boots on and come with me. Certainly whoever made all that racket has long since left, but we should check and see what the damage was.”
They left then, but everyone else continued to mill around, unwilling to miss out if something interesting happened. By common consent, they removed themselves to the dining hall and tried to convince the cooks to check the larder while they waited.
Caet, however, was not among them. The moment he heard the scream of the unicorn he knew where it was coming from and guessed what was happening. He didn’t stop to reason how Flora had moved herself. He knew she could do anything if her desire was strong enough. He only ran, barefoot and half clad, straight to the chapel, praying that he might not be too late.
The distant bonfires gave the only light as he stepped carefully through the broken doorway. At first he could see nothing, and then he made out a glitter and slowly, in growing terror, he walked toward the altar.
Guinevere, eyes wide open, covered in blood.
“Oh no,” he pleaded. And then louder, sobbing, begging, “No!”
He knelt on the stones, afraid to touch her. “Grandmother, why did you do this?” he yelled, “Why didn’t you take me!”
He heard their voices and the sound of their boots and other footsteps nearing the chapel. He struggled to his feet and groped his way to the door, leaning on the lintel post. His cries had brought not only Leodegrance and Geraldus, but the rest of the house, including Guenlian, who had found time to dress properly and even, oddly, put on her earrings. Caet saw her and panicked.
“Don’t let her in!” He called, “Geraldus, keep them out! Wait!”
They pushed past him. Someone had remembered to bring a torch. The fire made wild shadows and at first Geraldus couldn’t recognize the thing on the altar before him. A mass of filmy gold with patches of red and white showing here and there was all he could make out. Then he shuddered. He realized that one of the white patches hanging down the side of the altar was a human arm and suddenly the mass of abstract shapes came into focus.
“Oh, my God,” he murmured. He pulled off his cloak and went to wrap it about her, more to keep her parents from seeing than to preserve her modesty, for he was sure she was long past caring. As he did so, he noticed a faint movement of her lips. She was breathing!
“Someone, help me. She’s still alive. Quick!”
Guenlian rushed past everyone as they stood rigid with shock and confusion. She pushed the cloak off and brushed back the cascades of hair from Guinevere’s body, hunting for the wound, to staunch it. But she found nothing. She lifted her daughter and ran her hands over her limp back. There was not even a scratch. Finally, she showed Leodegrance.
“This is not her blood. I can find no mark upon her. Where did it come from? How did she get here? Is there a curse upon our house?”
Leodegrance examined her carefully, noting her still open, glazed eyes.
“She has been drugged by someone. She may not have any idea of where she is or what has happened. Quickly, someone, wrap her up and take her to the baths. Put her in a clean night dress and return her to her own room. She may awake never knowing of this night.”
“No, I will take her,” Guenlian insisted. “My last baby, my strange girlchild. No one shall touch you but me. Where is Flora?”
“What do you mean?” Leodegrance wondered if she had gone mad also. “Flora is bedridden.”
Pincerna then remembered the commotion in Flora’s room.
“She is missing. Rhianna found her bed empty. Do you think someone has captured her, too?”
Guenlian was busy covering Guinevere and pulling the strands of sticky hair from her face. She didn’t look up to speak, but her voice was low, clear and awful.
“Flora has done this thing. She always wanted Guinevere for her pagan sacrilege. I want her found and punished for this.”
She then lifted Guinevere alone, although the child was almost as tall as she. No one dared offer her help as she made her slow way to the baths.
Leodegrance stared about him, at the rippling fires in the fields and the carnage glowing in the torchlight. He had reached his limit of understanding. There was no more order in the world. Children died while their father yet lived and children were born when their father had died. A sacrifice of blood with no wound. And it was Midwinter night. The bonfires assaulted the sky as though they would be the sun and light the darkness of the heavens. It was a night for men to go mad. He noticed the thick oaken door, torn from its hinges and splintered on the tiles.
“Am I perhaps mad myself?” he wondered.