by Alys Clare
For the people who still followed the old ways, this was the problem. To them, it did not matter in which guise the Great Mother was revered and they would have been perfectly happy to share their sacred place with the newcomers. To them, as the old teacher put it, all gods were one god and behind them was the truth. It was evident, as in the beginning they tried to explain to the new priests, that the power coming from the figure who now had to be called the Virgin Mary was the same dynamism that the people of the old religion had sensed so forcefully emanating from the Mother Goddess. As the decades and the centuries slowly passed, however, it became clear that the priests did not feel the same tolerance towards them.
The beginning of the end had come, the old teacher sadly told Joanna, when three hundred years ago Charles the Bald, grandson of Charlemagne, presented the cathedral with its most precious relic. Legend had it that this relic had been given to Charlemagne by the patriarch of Jerusalem while the great emperor was on a pilgrimage to the Holy City. It was, or so they said, the tunic worn by the Virgin Mary when she gave birth to her holy son.
‘And is it?’ Joanna had demanded.
The old man had sighed. ‘Child, it makes no difference whether it is or it isn’t. The pilgrims who come to the cathedral believe that it is and so to them that has become a truth. The garment itself has responded to the faith of the worshippers and, even were it not sacred to begin with, it has acquired sanctity now.’
Joanna had puzzled over this. ‘But if it isn’t the Virgin’s tunic –’ and she could not find it in her to believe that it was, thinking it far more likely that a clever Jerusalem merchant had got hold of some old cloth and made several such garments to sell at great cost to gullible Crusaders – ‘how can it acquire sanctity?’
The old man took her hand and held it in a hard grip. ‘Because worship imbues a place, or indeed an object, with special powers,’ he said. His grip tightened. ‘That is why we are here, child! That is why we cannot give up our most sacred place without a struggle! It was holy from the start of time, which is why our forebears were first attracted to it. Over the centuries, our people have gone there to praise the Great Mother and take offerings to her, and they have poured out their love, their prayers, their hopes, joys, aspirations and sorrows into her receptive ears. She is there, she always was, and she always will be. But also we are there; she holds our past as a people.’ He paused, then added softly, ‘She holds our heart.’
Joanna understood as well as she believed she was going to. She understood quite enough, anyway, to pour her whole being into her people’s final battle to protect what was theirs. They had taught her well, those revered men and women, and in the course of her earlier visits she had absorbed everything that they had tried to explain to her. It had been tough; the elders were not known for being gentle or patient teachers. The first time, Joanna had been at the secret encampment outside the city for the entire summer and she had been made to study for long periods every single day. Her second visit, the previous autumn, had been shorter and its purpose had been to assemble as many of the people as possible to attend the great Samhain celebration at the end of October. That night was burned into Joanna’s heart, soul and mind; she knew she would never forget the moment when the elders had called to the people to add their power to the circle and the vast cone of power had risen up like a vortex from the depths of the ancient sanctuary to blast its light into the night sky. The good folk of Chartres had cowered in their beds and nervously reassured each other in the morning that it must have been a peculiar sort of lightning.
For Joanna, there was another difficult aspect besides the tough teaching programme and the perils of travelling to and fro across the water. Joanna had not been permitted to take Meggie with her to Chartres and the child had been left with her father. Not that Joanna objected to that, for Josse was a dedicated, responsible and very loving parent, and Joanna trusted him totally. No, what she found so hard to bear was that Meggie, too young to dissemble, had made it perfectly clear that she loved being with her father as much (‘More?’ whispered the voice of doubt in Joanna’s mind) as being with her mother. Each time that Joanna had returned to her little hut in the Great Forest and Josse had brought Meggie back to her, the child had seemed a little more Josse’s and a little less Joanna’s.
It hurt.
Joanna had been told about the fire that had destroyed the old cathedral on the night of 10 June five years ago. Lightning had struck the roof, they said, and the fire that had immediately blazed up had been ferocious, consuming everything except the south tower, the west front and the crypt. The crypt, Joanna had mused privately. The crypt, which is how they now refer to the sanctuary and the well; strange, how that should be quite undamaged. Nobody even hinted that the fire had been started by the people in their despair, but Joanna knew that some of the elders could summon the vast, dark clouds and bring down lightning out of them; she had seen it done. If the fire had been the work of her people, then the act had been misjudged, for the Christians had been greatly impressed at the miraculous survival of their holy relic and were moved to start pouring money, skill and labour into rebuilding the cathedral in what looked as if it would be record time.
Joanna’s people were reconciled now to the fact that nothing they could do would stop the rebuilding. Their purpose had accordingly changed; now their sole aim was to ensure that something of their beliefs, their ancient faith and their precious deity of the female principle should be incorporated into the stones and the very fabric of the rich merchants’ great new cathedral rising up on the hill.
Now, in the early summer of 1199, the workmen were about to begin laying the labyrinth that would stretch across the nave of the cathedral. It seemed strange to the people that the priests should have chosen to use this ancient symbol, since it was not of their own new religion but had come down out of the secretive, dark past. The people understood its power and its potential, although the elders doubted that the priests did. That was to their advantage, though; the labyrinth being one of their own symbols, it would be relatively easy to put their power into it. It was as if the priests had unwittingly given them a little door through which to pass, and the people fully intended to use it.
Joanna had no idea yet what role she would play in the ceremony. Whatever it was, she vowed she would ignore her fatigue and a persistent, nagging backache and throw her whole self into it. Since she had arrived in the secret encampment at the beginning of May she had done everything demanded of her, from taking her turn at the domestic chores, such as food preparation and clearing-up, to sitting in the meditative state for hours on end as she strove to join her consciousness and her power with that of her companions. Uniquely for Joanna among the specially selected of her people, there were extra complications. She had Meggie with her, and the demands of a six-year-old child did not always blend harmoniously with the sacred duty of a power figure of the people.
When Joanna received notification in the middle of April that she was to return to Chartres, she did what she had done twice before and sent word to Josse, asking him to come to the forest to collect Meggie and care for her while she was away. On the previous two occasions, Josse had arrived swiftly, willing and eager to accept his charge. This time, Joanna had sent her message via Thomas the tinker; two days later, it had not been Josse but Thomas who had turned up at the meeting place on the edge of the forest. Sir Josse was not at home, he told Joanna; what was more, the young couple who now lived with him at New Winnowlands said he had gone to France and they did not know when he would be back.
Joanna had managed to hide her reaction while Thomas was with her but, as soon as he and his squeaky handcart had trundled off down the track, she had collapsed on the fresh green grass and wondered what on earth she was going to do. Initially she had been furious with Josse – How dare he go off like that without telling me! I need him and he’s not here! – but she had come to her senses and realized that since she frequently went away without informing Jos
se, it was not unreasonable for him to do the same. Besides, he’d have come to tell me if he’d had time, she thought, I know he would.
She realized that she had not seen him since the previous autumn equinox, when he had joined in with her people’s great ceremony and afterwards stayed for several days with her and Meggie in the forest hut. The fact that she had not found the time for him since then made her feel guilty.
However, the fact remained that he had gone to France for some unknown purpose – perhaps to do with the old king’s death or the new king’s succession? – and he was not there to take care of Meggie. Over the next couple of days, Joanna thought up various alternatives. Ask the nuns at Hawkenlye to look after Meggie? Ask some of the many forest people who would not be making the journey to Chartres? Ask the pair at New Winnowlands – unlike Thomas the tinker, Joanna knew them to be the Abbess Helewise’s son and his wife – if they will care for her? But there seemed to be a good reason why she could not adopt any of these ideas. In the end, she dismissed all the possibilities and went for the obvious solution: she would take Meggie with her. Here they were, then, she and her lively, laughing daughter, in their own neat and tidy quarters within the hidden encampment.
Tonight, Joanna would have to ask one of the other women to watch over Meggie, for she had been commanded to attend a meeting of the elders. They were going to explain to her about the labyrinth and how they intended to use it. Joanna was excited, resolved to do her very best and, she had to admit, decidedly nervous. The afternoon and evening crawled by and her agitation increased; she seemed to feel watchful eyes on her and sometimes they had an intensity that made her skin crawl.
At last night came. The sounds of the day gradually faded, and in the distance the lights of the town went out. In the encampment, those not attending the meeting settled in their beds. The woman who was looking after Meggie brought her bedroll and made herself comfortable in Joanna’s usual place. Meggie, already fast asleep, did not stir.
The woman must have noticed Joanna staring down at her daughter. ‘Don’t worry,’ she whispered, briefly touching Joanna’s hand. ‘No harm will come to her. Not here.’
Joanna nodded, forced a smile and then slipped out of the shelter and into the darkness. Someone was waiting for her; a cloaked figure moved out of the deeper shadows and said softly, ‘You are Beith?’
It was the name that her people had bestowed on her. ‘Yes.’
‘I am called Ruis. Come with me.’
She fell into step beside him and they set off at a swift pace out of the encampment. To Joanna’s surprise, they did not go away from the city, as she had expected, but towards it. It seemed illogical to hold a secret meeting within the town but, as Ruis led her up a track that widened into a street and emerged between houses on Chartres’s central square, she realized that this was what they were doing.
With a quick look to right and left, Ruis took her hand and they ran quickly from the shadow of the houses across to the walls of the new cathedral, already soaring high above their heads. This meeting of the elders of her people to which she had been summoned was to be held within the cathedral.
Ruis picked up her astonishment. He smiled, leaned down and said softly in her ear, ‘They may possess it in the day but this place is ours too and by night we reclaim it.’
Yes, she thought as they slipped through a gap in the wall between the huge foundations of two buttresses. Yes, that is, after all, our right.
She and Ruis had to hide in the shadows while a pair of night watchmen paused on their rounds for a leisurely gossip. Then, when the men had gone, Ruis grabbed her wrist and raced across the bare floor, ducked through a doorway and led the way down a low, narrow spiral staircase whose treads were slippery with moisture. He was careful with her, making sure she did not miss her footing. They emerged into a dimly lit open space and, gazing around, Joanna saw that it was a vast crypt. She sensed rather than saw how far it stretched, for the single lantern only lit its immediate vicinity. It had been placed on the floor in front of a massive wall and it illuminated what appeared to be a well.
Ruis led her forward and said, ‘This is our sacred place. The water wells up from deep in the earth, where the wouivre glides through the ground and brings the power and the blessing of the Great Mother up to her children.’
Wouivre. Joanna knew she had heard the word before . . . Yes. Her venerable teacher in Brittany had explained about the strange currents that snaked and wove their way deep within the earth, some of them harmful, some beneficial. Some, such as those that came to the surface at the holy places, were so strong and brought such open-handed munificence that even the uninitiated could sense them. She had been to many of her people’s sanctuaries and she thought she had experienced the full range of the Mother’s powers; standing there in the dark crypt, she realized how complacent she had been. She had never felt anything like this.
She closed her eyes, surrendered herself and let the force surround her. After a time – she had no idea how long – she became aware of quiet humming. Was it chanting? Were her people responding to the power, honouring it by singing its praises? Or did the unearthly sound emanate from the earth itself? She did not know. It did not really matter.
Presently she felt a touch on her arm. Opening her eyes, she saw that a slim, grey-clad figure stood beside her. Bowing low, not in the least surprised to see the Domina here so far from home – if, indeed, the Great Wealden Forest was her home – she greeted the revered elder.
The Domina, now holding Joanna’s arm, led her away from the well. Instantly she sensed a diminution in the power that had thrummed around her; it was a relief and yet, oddly, as soon as it faded she missed it. The Domina was walking purposefully down the crypt into a far, dark corner. There, as Joanna’s eyes adjusted, she made out a group of figures standing in a circle. Two of them parted to make room, and the Domina and Joanna took their places.
The man who then began to speak was tall and broad-shouldered. Joanna had the impression that he was quite young for a Great One of the people, but his face was shadowed by his deep hood and she could not see whether her impression was accurate. His voice was low-pitched and he spoke softly; sometimes it sounded more like the wind in the trees than a human voice. Perhaps he wasn’t human. Joanna arrested the fanciful thought. Of course he was human!
She made herself concentrate on what the man was saying. He was describing the labyrinth and, although some of what he said was familiar, he also spoke of matters so far beyond her knowledge or experience that she could only gape. He spoke of an island deep down in the purple southern sea where, hidden in a maze, a king imprisoned a creature that was half man and half bull; of how every nine years seven youths and seven maidens were sacrificed to this creature until at last one came with the courage to kill it; how this man, helped by a priestess of the Great Mother, made his way to the heart of the labyrinth, unravelling the priestess’s ball of thread as he went; how he slew the monster and made his escape. The labyrinth was the priestess’s dancing floor; there she danced along its winding path, ever circling and doubling back, until at last she reached the still centre and the great vortex of power that she raised was freed and blasted out into the upper air.
‘The mystic dance brings on the trance state,’ the soft, compelling voice continued, ‘in which power is raised and manipulated.’ The hooded face turned slowly and Joanna caught the sudden glint of bright eyes. ‘Power from the earth, power from the Great Goddess, power that we shall raise here as we dance the labyrinth that the priests have commanded to be laid down. With this power we shall imbue this place with the very essence of the spirit that we revere and it shall be marked so that it never fades.’ He held up a circular object that, from the soft orange glow, Joanna thought must be copper. On it were two figures, one a man, one a strange hybrid with the massive head and shoulders of a bull and the lower body of a human male. ‘This shall be placed at the heart of the labyrinth.’ The voice waxed stronger now. ‘This is o
ur sign.’
But they’ll see it and they’ll take it away, Joanna thought, unable to suppress her doubt. They won’t allow us to—
Another thought broke across hers; another’s mind gently but firmly reassured her. They will accept this rich gift and they will not think to question its origins, he said, right into her mind. Have faith, Beith, for it will be so.
She looked straight at the hooded man. Now by some trick of the light she could make out his face. Not that she needed to see him, for she already knew him; his mind speaking to hers was unmistakeable. It was the Bear Man.
As the silent group of elders and their companions slipped like shadows away up the steps to disperse into the night, Joanna obeyed the unspoken summons and went to stand in the black shadow of one of the massive pillars supporting the crypt’s roof. When everyone else had gone, he came to claim her. He took her hand, led her up the steps and out across the vast floor of the skeletal cathedral – they passed quite close to one of the watchmen, but the Bear Man must have cast some sort of a glamour about them, for the man did not appear to see them – and then like shadows they passed out into the darkness.
He took her to a place apart from the secret encampment. She lay in his arms until she fell asleep, and in the morning he was gone.
Six
It had taken Helewise’s party a week to travel from the Île d’Oléron to Chartres. They arrived late one sunny afternoon and Helewise was instantly struck by the sense of almost frantic activity. Rumour had spread of the townspeople’s great efforts, which had begun almost immediately after the fire had destroyed their precious cathedral. The cardinal had told them that the miraculous preservation of the Sancta Camisia was a sign from the Virgin Mary that she wanted a new and more magnificent cathedral built in her honour, so the Chartres people had hastened to start hauling stone from their local quarries. Now, five years on, the massive buttressed walls of the nave rose high up into the blue summer sky. The air was hazed with stone dust and sawdust; all around the cathedral site stonemasons and carpenters worked as if possessed by a spirit of irresistible urgency. Huge carts arrived in a constant stream from roads leading down from the site, each laden with another load of building materials. The noise was deafening: mallets hit chisels into stone; saws bit into timber; horses snorted and struck sparks from the cobbles with their great hoofs; men shouted instructions and exchanged ribald comments.
