The Hallowed Isle Book Three Read online

  Slowly the murmur of conversation resumed, but the mood had changed. It reminded Betiver of something—abruptly he remembered rapt faces in the church of his boyhood when the icon of the Virgin had been carried around. His breath caught—was the thought sacrilege? A churchman might say so, but his heart told him that a power that was in its way as holy as anything blessed by the church had rested upon the queen as she moved through the hall.

  But Artor was speaking—

  “In my own name, also, I bid you welcome. We have much to discuss, and more to think on. The Saxons are beaten and for a time their oaths will hold them. We must plan how to use that time to keep them divided in heart and in territory, so that they do not combine against us again. We must plan also a new campaign against the men of Eriu who have seized land in Demetia, and bring it once more under British rule. But these tasks, however pressing, are only a beginning. For too long, force has been our only governor—if we wish to restore the security we knew under the Romans, we must return to the rule of law.”

  Betiver shifted his weight as Artor’s opening speech continued. If he had stayed at home in Gallia, he thought, he might have been addressing such a meeting in his own father’s hall. But like Gualchmai, he had chosen to remain in Britannia and serve Artor.

  In the afternoon Artor released the members of the council to rest, to think on the matters he had set before them, and to seek exercise. Betiver offered to guide some of the younger men around the countryside, and when he met them at the horse pens, he found that Guendivar, dressed for riding, was waiting too. Her presence might inhibit some of their speech, but she would not impede their exercise. He knew already that she could ride as well as any man. And if the princes were dubious—he smiled quietly—they were in for a surprise.

  Certainly the girl who leaped unassisted to the back of the white mare Artor had given her was a very different creature from the image of sovereignty who had brought them wine in the hall. For riding, Guendivar wore breeches and a short tunic. Only the linen cloth that bound her hair showed her to be a woman, and the embroidered blue mantle pinned at the shoulder, a queen.

  When they were mounted, it was she who led the way. Indeed, thought Betiver as he brought up the rear, she could have guided the visitors with no help from him. But as he watched her laugh at some word of Peretur’s, or smile at young Vortipor, he realized that it was not her safety, but her reputation, he would be guarding today.

  At the bottom of the steep hill, Guendivar reined in. They had departed through the gate on the northeast side of the hill, past the well. From its base, the road ran straight towards the little village that had grown up in the days when the only structure on the hill was the shrine. The queen’s mare snorted and shook its head and she laughed.

  “Swanwhite wants to stretch her legs!” She gestured towards the village. “Do you think you can catch her if we run?”

  By the time they arrived at the village, both horses and riders were quite willing to keep to a more leisurely pace. Guendivar’s head wrap had come off and her hair tumbled down her back in a tangle of spilled gold. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright. She looked, thought Betiver, twice as alive as the woman who had stood beside Artor in the council hall, and he felt an odd pang in the region of his heart.

  They ambled through the spring green of the countryside, talking. In the warmth of her presence, Vortipor and the other princes lost all their shyness. The air rumbled with their deep laughter. She is charming them, thought Betiver. Artor should be pleased.

  Vortipor told them a long story about hunting stag in the mountains of Demetia, and Peretur countered with a tale of a bear hunt in the dales west of Eboracum. Everyone, it seemed, had some tale of manly prowess—vying with words, the young men strutted and pranced like stallions before a mare. It was Ebicatos, the Irishman who commanded the garrison at Calleva, who protested that the queen must be becoming bored by all these stories of blood and battle, though Betiver had seen no sign of it in her face. But when the Irishman praised her white mare for winning the race to the village, and began the tale of the Children of Lir, who had been transformed by a jealous stepmother into swans, Guendivar listened with parted lips and shining eyes.

  Their ride brought them around in a wide half-circle to the southwest. When the hill loomed before them once more, they slowed. The young men gazed at it in amazement. It did not seem possible they had come all this way so quickly, but the sun, which had reached its zenith when they set out, was well along in its downward slide.

  The evening session of the council would be beginning. Merlin had returned from his most recent wanderings, and tonight he would report on what he had seen. That should be more interesting than the endless debates they had been listening to, though it would no doubt lead to more.

  “Ah, lady,” cried Vortipor, “I wish we did not have to return. I wish we could ride westward without stopping until we reached the sea, and then our horses would all become swans, to carry us to the Isles of the Hesperides!”

  “The Isles of the Blessed, the Isle of Fair Women, and the Isle of Birds—” murmured Ebicatos.

  “There is no need, surely, when the fairest of all women is here with us on this hallowed isle,” said Peretur. He caught her outstretched hand and kissed it fervently.

  Betiver’s breath caught as Guendivar’s beauty took on an intensity that was almost painful. Then she shook her head and bitterness muted her radiance like a cloud hiding the sun.

  “And here I must stay—” A sudden dig of the heels sent her mare curvetting forward. Startled to silence, the others followed.

  What is this that I am feeling? Betiver asked himself as they began to climb the hill. My sweet Roud is a good woman, and I love her and my son . . .

  The red-headed Alban girl whom he had tumbled in the inebriation of the Feast of Lugus eleven years before had been an unexpected mate, but a good one. It was a soldier’s marriage, unblessed by the Church, but recorded by the clerks of Artor’s army. But the contentment Roud brought him had nothing in common with the painful way his heart leaped when he looked at Guendivar. A glance at the other men told him that they felt the same. They would serve her—they would die for her—with no hope of any reward beyond a word or a smile.

  She is Venus—the remants of a Classical education prompted him, and we are her worshippers. And that is only fitting, for she is the queen. But as they clattered beneath the gatehouse he wondered why, with such a woman in his bed, did the king seem to have so little joy?

  * * *

  Artor is not happy.. . . Merlin glanced at the king from beneath his bushy brows and frowned. Seated on the king’s right hand, he could not look at him directly, but the evidence of his eyes only confirmed what other senses had been telling him. Artor was paler than he had been, and thickening around the middle—those changes were a natural result of sitting so much in council chambers and eating well. But there was something haunted about his eyes.

  It was not the council, which was going as well as such things ever did. It had become clear that Roman order would never return to Britannia until Roman law ruled once more. The princes must learn to think of themselves as rectors, and their war-leaders as duces, the generals of the country. Those who had ruled as chieftains had to become judges and magistrates, deriving their power from rector and emperor once more. Thus, and in this way only, could they separate their civilization from the ways of the barbarians.

  To Merlin, longing for his northern wilderness, they were both equally constricting, but he had been born to serve the Defender of Britannia, and with him, its Law. Artor’s attempts to restore the old ways even looked as if they might be successful. He should have been, if not triumphant, at least well pleased. Something was wrong, and Merlin supposed it was his duty to try and set it right. The thought made him tired, and he yearned to be back in the forest and the undemanding society of the wild folk who lived there. One day, he thought then, he would seek those green mysteries and not return.

/>   The tone of the voices around him changed and he brought his awareness back to the present. The discussion of titles and duties was coming to a close.

  “That is well, then, and we can move to the next topic,” said Artor. “The Saxons. Merlin has been going among them—they seem to respect him as a holy man—and I believe we can benefit from his observations.”

  Merlin’s lips twitched. He had wandered through the territory of the enemy in times past in safety, protected by their respect for those they thought old or mad. Their response to him now was different, and he knew why.

  As if the thought had awakened it, he felt a throb of force from the rune-carved Spear that leaned against his chair, and the familiar pressure in his mind, as if Someone were listening. The head of the Spear was shrouded in silk, and a wrapping of leather thongs hid the runes carved into the shaft, but it still carried the power of the god Woden, and when Merlin came to a Saxon farmstead, holding that staff and with his long beard flying and an old hat drawn down over his eyes, he knew whom they believed him to be.

  Merlin got to his feet and moved to the central hearth, leaning on the Spear. Artor straightened, eyes narrowing, as if something within him scented its power. Or perhaps it was the Sword at his side that had recognized another Hallow. Once, the god of the Spear had fought the one that lived in the Sword, but now they seemed to be in alliance. He must explain to Artor what had happened, one day.

  But for now, he had to tell these British leaders what he had seen in the Saxon lands.

  “In Cantium, the lady Rigana has gathered a council of thanes to advise her. The child, Oesc’s son, is healthy, and the men seem very willing to support an extended regency. Many of their young warriors died at Mons Badonicus. They have sufficient men to defend the coasts against small groups of raiders, but I do not believe they will be a danger to us until at least another generation is grown.”

  “That is all very well,” said Catraut, “but what about the Saxons of the south and west?”

  “Aelle is an old man—” said Merlin. My age, but Mons Badonicus broke him.. . . “He will not ride to war again. And Ceretic’s son is little more than a boy. Even if he should seek vengeance, it is clear that his father’s thanes will not support him.”

  “And the Anglians?” asked Peretur.

  “There also, for different reasons, I see no danger,” said Merlin, and began to lay out his analysis of Icel’s position as sacred king, and the reasons why the oath he had given Artor would continue to bind him.

  “Separate, these tribes do not present a danger. It is my counsel that you choose brave men to settle the lands that lie between their holdings. So long as the Saxons perceive their portions as tribal territories, they will find it hard to combine. They may hold half Britannia, but they will not see it that way, and so long as you, my lords, remain united, you will be the stronger.”

  Even Cataur of Dumnonia could see that this was good counsel. Merlin resumed his seat as the princes of Britannia began to debate which borderlands should be resettled, and where they would find the men.

  That night, after everyone had eaten, Merlin walked along the sentryway built into the wall, troubled in his mind. While they feasted, he had watched Artor, seated at the central table with his lady beside him. The king should have been smiling, for the council had gone well that day. With a wife like Guendivar, he should have been eager to retire. But though Artor’s body showed his awareness of her every movement, they did not touch, and his smiles did not reach his eyes. And when the queen made her farewells and departed into the royal chamber that was partitioned off from the main part of the hall, the king remained talking with Eldaul and Agricola by the fire.

  A full moon was rising, its cool light glittering from the open water of pond and stream, and glowing softly in the mist that rose off the fields. The distant hills seemed ghostly; in that glimmering illumination, he could not tell if it was with the eyes of the flesh or of the spirit that he saw, away to the northwest, the pointed shape of the Tor.

  Merlin had been standing there for some time, drinking in peace as a thirsty man gulps water, when he sensed that he was no longer alone. A pale shape moved along the walkway, too graceful to be any of the men. The White Phantom that was one meaning of her name . . . Guendivar.. . .

  He drew his spirit entirely into his body once more and took a step towards her. She whirled, the indrawn gasp of her breath loud in the stillness, and pressed her back against the wall.

  “It is true, you can make yourself invisible!”

  “Not invisible, only very still.. . . I came to enjoy the peace of the night,” he answered, extending his awareness to encompass her, smiling a little as the tension left her body and she took a step towards him.

  “So did I . . .” she said in a low voice.

  “I thought you would have been in bed by now, with your husband—”

  She jerked, staring. “What do you mean? What do you know?”

  “I know that all is not well between you. I know that you have no child . . .” he said softly.

  She straightened, drawing dignity around her, and he felt her barriers strengthening.

  “You have no right—” Her voice shook.

  “I am one of the guardians of Britannia, and you are the High Queen. What is wrong, Guendivar?”

  “Why do you assume the fault is mine? Ask Artor!”

  He shook his head. “The power passes from male to female, and from female to male. You are the Lady of Britannia. If the difficulty is his, still, the healing must come from you.”

  “And I suppose the knowledge of how to do that will come from you? You flatter yourself, old man!” She turned, watching him over her shoulder.

  Her hair was silver-gilt in the light of the moon. Even he, who had admitted desire for only one mortal woman in his lifetime, felt a stirring of the senses. But he shook his head.

  “The body serves the spirit,” he said steadily. “It is in the spirit that I would teach you.”

  “Tell the woman who wounded Artor to help him! Let him seek healing from the mother of his son! Then, perhaps, he can come to me!”

  In the instant that shock held him still she flowed into motion. For a few moments he heard the patter of her retreating footsteps, and then she was gone. Even then, a word of power could have held her, but to such work as he would bid her, the spirit could not be constrained.

  Igierne had foreseen this. But she had not seen the mother, only the child. The child would bring war to Britannia, but its mother had already struck a heavy blow. Who was she? In one thing, Guendivar had the right of it, he thought then. He must speak to Artor.

  The fortress had been closed up for the night, but the guard on duty at the north gate was a very young man, and half in love with his queen, so he let her through. They are all in love with me! Guendivar thought bitterly. All except the only one I am allowed to love.

  Stumbling in her haste, she made her way down the trail to the well. A pale shape swooped across the path and she started and nearly fell. For a moment she stared, heart pounding, then relaxed as she saw that it was only a white owl. On such a night, when the sky was clear and the full moon sailed in triumph through the skies, she felt stifled indoors. Even Julia’s warm arms were a prison, where she stifled beneath the weight of the other woman’s need.

  Guendivar had thought a walk on the walls would allow her spirit to soar as freely as the bird, but Merlin was before her. What had she said to him? Surely he, who knew everything, must have known about Artor. The old sorcerer had offered her help—for a moment she wondered if she had been a fool to flee.

  But how could a change in her do any good? The sin was Artor’s, if sin it was—certainly he seemed to think so. He had. attempted to be a husband to her two times after that first disastrous encounter, with even less success than on their wedding night. After that, they had not tried again. He was kind to her, and in public gave her all honor, but in the bed that should have been the heart and wellspring
of their marriage, they slept without touching, proximity only making them more alone.

  Guendivar knew this path well, but she had never been here in the night. In the uncertain light, the familiar shapes of the lower ramparts swelled like serpent coils. Beneath the melancholy calling of the owl she could hear the sweet music of running water. Everywhere else, the trees had been cut to clear a field of fire from the the walls of the fortress, but halfway down the hill, birch trees still clustered protectively around the spring.

  Guendivar had never visited the hill until Artor began to build his fortress there, but the people of her father’s lands had many tales of the days when it had been a place of pilgrimage. When the lords of Lindinis became Christian they had ceased to support the shrine, and after its last priestess died, the square building with its deep porch had fallen into decay. Now its tumbled stones were part of Artor’s walls.

  But the sacred spring from which the priestesses had drawn water to use in their spells of healing remained, bubbling up from the depths beneath the hill to form a quiet pool. The stone coping that edged it was worn, but the spout that channeled the overflow had remained clear. From there, it fell in a musical trickle down the hillside in a little stream. Moonlight, filtering through the birch trees, shrouded pool and stone alike in dappled shade.

  Guendivar blinked, uncertain, in that glamoured illumination, of her way. The old powers had been banished from the hilltop, but here she could still feel them. She stretched out her arms, calling as she had called when she ranged the hills at home. Gown and mantle weighted her limbs; she stripped them off and unpinned the heavy coils of her hair. She stretched, exulting in the free play of muscle and limb. A little breeze lifted the fine strands and caressed her naked body, set the birch leaves shivering until the shifting dappling of moonlight glittered on the troubled waters of the pool.

  Light swirled above it like a mist off the waters, shaping the form of a woman, clad, like Guendivar, only in her shining hair.