The Hallowed Isle Book Two Page 13

  The god is here, thought Oesc. Maybe this is the name he bears in the British lands. After being for so long cut off from his own rites and his own people, he trembled, opened suddenly to awareness that the mummery before him was raising and focusing power. And even as this thought came to him he realized that the energy was shifting. The hides moved once more as a huge, dark figure shouldered between them, swathed in a cloak of some black stuff, helmed in leather that supported a pair of bull’s horns.

  “Lord of the Lightning, canst Thou deny me?” His voice was a deep rasp that raised the hackles. He lumbered back and forth, head lowered, while the bright god turned continually to face him. The druids moved back, and torchlight glittered from brooch and torque as the princes seated on the benches leaned forward to see. Artor’s eyes followed the mock-combat, bright with interest.

  “I am the Shadow at Thy shoulder,

  The darkness Thy light casts.

  I come from the depths of earth

  To devour the children of the day.

  All that the Mother bears is meat for me—

  The harvest and the cattle that eat it

  And the men whose life the cattle are.

  The Lady of Life I will hold prisoner—”

  He made a rush towards the platform, feinting with his club, and the veiled woman who sat there flinched. He stopped then, club upraised, and the valley rumbled with his deep laughter.

  “I am the Black Bull.

  I am the plague that kills your young men,

  the flood that drowns your fields,

  the fire that burns your homes.

  I am the Destroyer

  Who shall trample your lives to dust!”

  At the words, Lugus straightened, brandishing his spear.

  “And I am the Defender!

  I fight for all that the Mother has made!

  I will stop the floods and free the Lady,

  I will bring back the sunshine and win the harvest.”

  The veiled Goddess rose and came to watch from the front of the platform as weapon poised, he advanced upon his foe.

  Once, twice, thrice, they circled, feinting back and forth in mimetic combat. But though their movements were stylized, the energy they were raising was real. With the third exchange, the Black God struck, and a sudden billowing of dust obscured the scene. When it thinned, in place of the human opponent stood a black bull.

  It was, Oesc realized in astonishment, quite real. Like the men, it must have come from beneath the platform, but how they had kept it quiet there he could not imagine, for the beast was clearly in good health and full possession of its senses. Its dark gaze fixed on the glittering figure and it snorted, head lowering. A little shiver of tension ran through the crowd; there was hardly a man among them who had not at some point in his life been chased by a bull, and they recognized the warning signs.

  The priest of Lugus shook his spear and began to sidestep around the bull, getting into position for a fatal blow. But the bull, shaking its head, turned with him. The priest extended his shield arm, shaking it a little to get the beast’s attention. The massive head lowered, and suddenly the animal was in motion. If the priest had intended to strike as the bull went by, the beast was too fast for him. Even as his arm moved the bull was passing; the spearhead scored a long gouge in the animal’s flank just as it hooked one horn into the shield and jerked it away.

  The shield soared like a sunwheel, slapped against the fence and fell to the ground. The priest’s gaze followed it, but the bull, with a better sense of priorities, was already wheeling towards the brightness of his cape and helm. The man was brave enough. He stood his ground as the bull surged forward, leaping aside at the last moment to stab.

  But his courage was better than his timing. As he leaped, the bull swerved with a vicious sidewise swipe of the horns that hooked through straw and leather and grazed the priest’s side. As the impact knocked him backward, the spear flew from his hand and slid rattling across the ground.

  The torches flickered as a collective gasp of horror passed through the crowd. There was always this chance, that the Black Bull might win, and a murrain on the cattle and storms that spoiled the remainder of the harvest, would bring them a starving winter and death in the spring.

  The bull, turned, pawing, as the priest struggled to his feet, eyeing the distance between himself, the bull, and his spear. At almost the same moment it became clear to both the man and the beast that he could not reach it in time. With preternatural intelligence, the bull moved, tail twitching, not towards the man, but towards the weapon that lay on the ground.

  And then there was another movement, another figure that dropped, as if from the heavens, into the ring. For a moment Oesc thought it was one of the druids; then he recognized the barley-gold tunic and his blood chilled.

  “Sacrilege!” cried someone. “He must not interfere!”

  “Nay—he has the right,” said another, “he is the king!”

  A memory of his grandfather filled Oesc’s vision, the body swinging from the old oak tree. It is the right of the king to give his life for the people . . . he told himself. Without willing it he leaped to his feet; his muscles locked with the effort it took to keep from rushing to Artor’s aid. Betiver stood swaying beside him. Others had risen as well. But for each British warrior there were two Votadini, ready to seize him if he should try to intervene.

  The bull hesitated, for a moment uncertain as to what this new foe might be. It was long enough for Artor to pick up the spear. Muscles rippled along the dark flanks as the black bull charged. The king made no attempt to evade him. Still on one knee, he braced the spear and held it steady as the bull came on.

  “Sweet Jesus,” exclaimed Betiver, “does he think he’s facing a boar?”

  But a boar-spear had a cross piece to prevent the animal from running all the way up the shaft, and hunters could be killed trying that trick even so.

  Then the bull was upon him. Dust swirled madly as the bull’s own weight impaled him upon the spear. The wicked horns jerked savagely—was the man under them?

  The thrashing figure changed shape suddenly; somehow Artor had evaded horns and hoofs and got astride the bull’s massive shoulders. One hand gripped a horn; a dagger flashed in the other as Artor bent, reached, and ripped the sharp steel through the throat of the bull.

  One last time the mighty body convulsed, nearly unseating him. Then the black bull collapsed, blood pumping onto the ground.

  For a long moment nobody moved. Then Artor freed himself from the body and the druids, frantic lest the sacrifice be wasted, rushed forward with bronze basins in which to catch the blood.

  Oesc remembered how the life of the bull he offered before the battle of Portus Adurni had ebbed away beneath his hands. But it seemed to him that the energy that flowed out of this bull was pouring into Artor, who stood wide-eyed in the torchlight, with a crimson stain across his golden robe.

  Drums began to pound, a soft insistent rhythm that transformed shock and confusion into a mounting excitement. “Behold!” cried the chief of the druids, his voice steadying as he went on—

  “. . . the Goddess is freed and the monster is slain.

  Now shall the sun return to those lands that need it.

  To each power there is a proper season—

  A time for the light to shine and a time for darkness,

  A time for death and a time for life to flourish.

  But now it is the time for harvest!

  Therefore let there be no shadow on our celebration;

  The Bull’s blood buys your lives!”

  The druids moved among the people with their blessing bowls, and Oesc pressed forward with the others, and felt, for a little while, as if he were no longer a stranger.

  The priestess of the Goddess still stood on the platform, swaying to the drum beat. As she moved, her draperies swirled around her, and it became clear that, although she was masked, beneath the veils she wore nothing at all.

 
The druids finished cutting off the head of the bull and hoisted it onto a pole. On the platform before the Goddess they placed some of its flesh, along with bread baked from the first grain of the harvest. Some of the others pulled Artor back up onto the platform and set his hand in that of the priestess.

  Lifting their linked hands, she cried out in a great voice—

  “The grain feeds on the earth,

  The folk feed on the grain,

  Earth feeds on the folk;

  So it is, so it was, so it will be—

  Eater and eaten, feeder and fed,

  All that dwell on earth must become.

  Receive now the blessing of the harvest

  the grain that is cut down,

  the blood that is shed.

  From these things, my children, your life shall spring.”

  Men moved through the crowd carrying platters of meat and bread. Girls followed them with skins of mead and ale. The drums grew louder and the pipes began to skirl above their beat in ecstatic melody. The rhythm pulsed through Oesc’s veins like fire.

  On the platform, the priestess had begun to dance—if it was the priestess, for to Oesc’s altered vision she seemed suddenly taller. Beneath the half-revealing veils, her pale flesh glowed. Someone handed him a horn of mead and he swallowed. He heard laughter, saw a red-haired girl grab Betiver around the neck to kiss him. For a moment he resisted, then his arms went around her. After a moment she pulled back, laughing, took his hand and drew him after her. Vaguely he remembered Cunorix following another girl a little earlier; Gualchmai had disappeared as well.

  Oesc looked back at the platform. Some of the priestess’s veils had come off; he glimpsed bobbing breasts, a long, rounded thigh, and felt his flesh spring to agonized attention. Frige . . . he thought, Desired One . . . then he remembered that the Lady was called Brigantia here. But whoever She was, she had the kind of beauty a man sees in dreams. Artor still stood before her, swaying in a tranced echo of her movements, his eyes wide and dazed.

  A soft hand closed on his and Oesc looked down, glimpsed dark eyes and a merry grin and wildly springing black hair. But it hardly mattered what the girl looked like. He grabbed for her, groaning as soft breasts were crushed against him, a supple waist flexed beneath his hands. Over her head he saw the veiled Goddess take Artor’s hand and lead him towards the back of the platform. In another moment they had disappeared into the darkness.

  Then the girl’s arms locked around his neck. Groaning, he let her draw him down to the hide, and after a brief struggle with their clothing sank between her welcoming thighs and came home.

  VII

  THE HIGH SEAT OF HENGEST

  A.D. 488

  THE HIGH KING RETURNED SOUTH BY EASY STAGES. BY NOW only the core of his army remained with him, the others having gone home directly to help with the harvest. The feast of Lugus remained enshrined in their thoughts, but the men did not speak of it, neither to boast of their conquests, nor to wonder if some of the laughing girls with whom they had lain that night might come away from the festival with something more than a memory.

  That winter they stayed with Peretur in Eburacum. The Saxons of the north remained quiet, for which Oesc was grateful. He was finding it hard enough to remember the brief time he had spent in this country with his father, without having to face in battle men who had given him his first lessons with the sword.

  For he knew that if Artor asked, he would ride with him. The other men had accepted him as one of the high king’s chosen Companions. At night he dreamed in the British tongue and by day found his memories of Cantuware growing dim. Even if he returned there, would the people accept him? He had become some curious hybrid, neither fully British nor truly Saxon anymore.

  From Eburacum they moved south and west. For a time they stayed with Bishop Dubricius in Isca. There was some fighting as well, for Cunorix’s kin in Demetia had been reinforced from Eriu, and were seeking to extend their territory. They proved more troublesome than expected, and the campaign lasted through the summer. And so it was not until early in the following year that the high king returned to Londinium.

  Just after the feast of Candlemas, a rumor came to them that Hengest had died. Oesc knew of it first when men began to look at him oddly, whispering. An overheard remark revealed the cause, but he continued to behave as if he had not heard, grateful for time to try to understand his own feelings before he was forced to some public acknowledgment.

  Oesc had at that time been among the Britons for nearly nine years. If this had come in the first years of his captivity, he thought, his grief would have been overwhelming. But for too long his memories of Cantuware had brought only pain, and so he had walled them away where even he could not reach them anymore. And that, he told himself, was probably for the best. No doubt Hengest’s empty high seat would soon be filled by some ambitious Jute, or perhaps it would be seized by one of Aelle’s sons.

  By the time a month had passed, he had well-nigh persuaded himself that he believed this. And so when Artor summoned him it was, at least to his conscious mind, a surprise.

  “Let us walk along the river—it is too fine a day to stay indoors.” Artor reached for the crimson cloak that lay across the chair.

  Oesc raised one eyebrow, for the wind had been brisk as he crossed the courtyard, and Artor flushed.

  “Well, maybe it is a bit chilly, but I refuse to stay cooped up here. You can wear a cloak of mine—”

  And so they fared out, wrapped alike in royal crimson and very much of a height. From a distance, the only difference between them would be his fair hair against Artor’s brown. But Artor was lord of most of Britannia, and Oesc was, despite all the marks of consideration, his prisoner.

  A brisk wind was blowing up the Tamesis, ruffling the ripples into little wavelets as it scoured the smoke of Londinium’s hearthfires from the sky. They had both been right, thought Oesc, wrapping the crimson mantle more securely. It was cold, and it was a beautiful day. With the air so clear, he felt he ought to be able to see downriver all the way to the sea. A sudden memory came to him of sunlight on the water of the estuary below Durobrivae, and he turned swiftly away.

  “Was there no one else to keep you company, or did you have something to say to me?” He realized too late how ungracious that had sounded and tried to soften it with a smile.

  Artor, who had been gazing southward at the scattering of farms and fields and the distant blue line of the downs, turned back to him, frowning. Oesc felt himself being assessed and examined; it was a look he had learned to recognize when they were on campaign. Then the king released his gaze with a little smile. But there was still trouble in his eyes.

  “What is it, my lord?”

  “A messenger has come from Cantium. Your grandfather is dead.”

  Oesc felt a muscle jump in his cheek, but he kept his gaze steady. “He was very old. Many people think he died years ago.” When the Britons captured me. . . .

  Artor cleared his throat. “The message is from your witenagemot, a formal request from the elders of your people to send you back to them to be their king.”

  Oesc felt all the blood leave his face and then flood back again. For a moment, staying on his feet took all his strength of will. Then he felt Artor’s hand on his arm and his vision cleared.

  “And what . . .” he swallowed and tried again, “what was your reply?”

  “I have not yet given it. I have to ask you—do you want to go?”

  Oesc stared at him. “I have a choice?”

  “I cannot hold prisoner a man who has guarded my back and fought at my side,” said Artor impatiently. “I blame myself now for keeping you by me. It was selfishness on my part. I should have given you this choice a year ago. I suppose it’s time to let Cunorix go as well.”

  Thoughts and emotions suppressed so long Oesc had forgotten them battered against his awareness. Seeing his trouble, Artor went on—

  “Oesc, you have earned a place among my Companions. You would be acce
pted. My own grandfather was a German in the service of Rome. As a man I would ask you to stay—there are many who fight for me because it is their duty, but few who do so because, if I dare assume so much, they are my friends.”

  There was a short silence. Oesc watched a gull soar towards the sun, then swoop earthward once more. He cleared his throat.

  “And what do you ask . . . as a king?”

  “If you stay with me, someone else will seize power in Cantium. I cannot afford to have an active enemy on my doorstep. As a king, I want a man in Durovernum who will at worst be neutral, and at best, perhaps, a friend.” It was his turn, now to look away.

  Gazing at that bent head, Oesc understood two things. The first was that what he felt for Artor was a love which he could never give to any other overlord, and the second was that he had to go home.

  “Your grandfather was a Germanic Roman officer. Mine was the man who killed him, as your father killed mine,” he said painfully. “If I were not who I am, I would serve you my life long. But if I were not Hengest’s grandchild I would not be here at all. And there is another thing. Before ever I saw you I had made my dedication to the goddess who rules the land of Cantuware. I must go back to be her king.”

  “The Lady . . .” Artor turned back to him, his eyes clouded by memory. “I understand. I will miss you—” He reached out to grip Oesc’s hand. “Because of you, even those Saxons whom I must fight will never be a faceless enemy, and to those who live in the lands I hold I will be a fair and honest lord.”

  Oesc nodded. Surely it was the wind that was making his eyes sting with tears.

  “And one more thing, in thanks for the service you have done me. I will have a treaty drawn up between us, confirming you in the rights granted to Hengest by the Vor-Tigernus. It has been three generations since Cantium became Cantuware—even if we were to take it back tomorrow, the Britons who used to live there are scattered and gone. To you and your heirs I grant it, Oesc; it is Saxon soil.”

  The night of Oesc’s farewell feast Artor got drunk for the first time since the rite to Lugus at Dun Eidyn. At least Betiver believed that the king had been drunk that night, certainly everyone else had been, and he did remember that Artor had been as red-eyed and dazed the next morning as the rest of them.