The Hallowed Isle Book Three Read online

  “Why did you bring me here?” muttered the boy. “Every time something good happens to me, you take the joy away.. . .”

  “You are a prince. You must learn to master your desires.”

  “As you did at the festival?” he snapped back, then flushed and looked away.

  Morgause took a deep breath, striving to control her temper. This was the child of her heart, and she must not drive him off. “I had a reason,” she said finally. “What is important is not what you do so much as why.”

  “And you won’t tell me.. . . Will you answer any of my questions? You have taught me things you never showed my brothers, and they are princes too!”

  Morgause took a deep breath. Was now the moment she had been awaiting? Now, when he was beginning to understand what it meant to be a man?

  “Your brothers are only princes of the Votadini. You are by birth the heir to all Britannia.”

  Medraut reined in sharply, all color draining from his face, staring at her.

  “Your father and I lay together unknowing, god with goddess, in the sacred rite of the feast of Lugus. But the seed that was planted in my belly was that of Artor,” Morgause said calmly. “In the old days, you would have been proclaimed before all the people, but Britannia is ruled now by Christians, who would count what we did a sin. Nonetheless, you are Artor’s only child.”

  From pale, Medraut’s face had flushed red. Slowly his complexion returned to normal, but his eyes were shining.

  Oh my brother, thought Morgause, you fathered this child, but I possess his soul.. . .

  IX

  A VESSEL OF LIGHT

  A.D. 502

  IN THE SECOND YEAR OF THE NEW CENTURY, SICKNESS STALKED the land. It came with vomiting and fever, and when it killed, took by preference the young and strong. The first cases appeared in Londinium, where a few trading vessels still put in at the wharves, and the illness spread along the roads to such other centers of population as remained. Then it began to strike in the countryside. If not so deadly as the great plague that had devastated the empire some forty years before, it was fearful enough to make people flee the towns that were beginning to rise from the ashes of the Saxon wars.

  That year, the rains of winter persisted into the summer months, blighting the grain. Those who were still healthy shivered along with the sick and cursed whichever gods commanded their loyalty. And some, especially those who held to the old ways, began to speak against the king.

  Artor had never entirely recovered from the wound he got in the Irish wars. He could walk and fight and ride, but not for long. He had moved to Deva to direct the conclusion of the campaigning, but he had delegated its execution to Agricola in Demetia, and Catwallaun Longhand in the north of Guenet. And the British efforts had been rewarded with victory. Even the holy isle of Mona was now free. The only Irishmen remaining in Britannia were those who had given oath to defend it for Artor—Brocagnus in Cicutio, and others farther inland. To Cunorix, who had once been his hostage, he gave the defense of Viroconium, and the Irish mercenary Ebicatos was installed in Calleva.

  But to the common folk of Britannia, coughing beneath their leaky thatching and watching the rain batter down the young grain, these great victories were distant and irrelevant. Any warrior could kill enemies, but the power that kept health in man and beast and brought good harvests came from the king.

  And the king, or so ran the rumor, was not a whole man. For six years he had been married, and yet his young queen bore no child. Merchants who braved the dangers of the road to come to Camalot bore tales as well as cloth and knife blades and spices. By his life or by his death, it was the duty of the High King to heal the land.

  Guendivar took a handful of coins from her pouch and pushed them past the packets of herbs and spices to the peddler. There were more than the pepper and nutmeg, the hyssop and saffron and sandalwood warranted, but she would not haggle. From the smile with which the old man took them, he understood that she was paying for the information as well.

  If only, she thought as she gathered up her purchases in the corner of her mantle and set off for the kitchen, she could have acquired so easily some specific for the problems he had described to her. She had gone to Cama’s sacred spring to pray, and learned only that she herself would be protected. And last Beltain, she had gone, veiled, to the sacred fires where the country folk still lit them in the hills, and allowed a fair young man to draw her into the woods during the dancing, but she had not kindled from his lovemaking. This year, it was likely to be too wet to even light the fire.

  There was some lack in her, she thought sadly, as well as in the king. For her to bear a child would have stilled wagging tongues, no matter who the father might be. But she was a barren field. Since Melguas had seduced her when she was his captive, Guendivar had lain with several men, but despite their caresses, she, whose body throbbed with pleasure at the warmth of the sun on her back or the feel of a cat’s soft fur, had responded to none of them. Only with the folk of faerie did she feel fully alive, and her responsibilities often prevented her from seeking them. If Merlin had been with them, she would have begged him to teach her the mysteries she had once refused. But his absences had grown longer in recent years.

  She regretted now that shame had kept her from touching the Cauldron. If she had had the courage, it might have healed her, and through her, the king. Artor had spoken sometimes of the Cauldron’s power to renew the land. But in the condition he was now he could never spare the time it would take to travel back to the Lake.

  She stopped short, still standing on the muddy path between the royal hall and the cookhouse, heedless of the fine rain that was scattering beads of crystal across her mantle and her hair. Artor could not go to the Cauldron, but could the Cauldron come here?

  She did not believe that the king could be brought to appeal to his mother, even—or perhaps especially—if it concerned his own safety. But perhaps the Lady of the Lake would respond to a message from the High Queen.

  A change in the wind brought her the scent of cooking, and Guendivar began to walk once more. If she wished to appeal to Igierne, she must find a messenger—not one of Artor’s warriors, who would insist on getting confirmation from his commander, but someone with the strength and wit to make the journey swiftly, who would carry the message simply because it was the queen’s desire.

  Folk looked up, smiling, as she pulled open the door. Guendivar had never thought to be glad of her mother’s training, but she did understand how to talk to the men and women who served her, and the cooks were always glad to see her, knowing she would make no demands without reason, and do her best to see that they had the resources they needed to do their job. As for the queen, she had noticed that males were more likely to be reasonable when they were well fed, and in this, Artor’s champions were no different from any other men.

  “A peddler has come, and I have bought out his store of spices—” She spilled the contents of her mantle out onto the scrubbed wooden table.

  The chief of the cooks, a big, red-faced man called Lollius, set down his cleaver to look at them. The others clustered around him, chattering as the packets were identified, except for one lad, a strongly built fellow who was so tall he had to stoop to get through the door. He had looked up briefly when she came in, coloring to the roots of his fair hair, and then returned his attention to the bulbs of spear-leek that he was peeling. The sharp scent hung in the air.

  That one—thought Guendivar. He is in love with me.

  That, of course, was not unusual—half of Artor’s men dreamed of her, or some fantasy that they gave her name. But this lad, who despite his northern burr spoke better than fit his station, seemed to look at her. She moved around the tables as the cook held forth upon the virtues and uses of the spices, examining a vegetable, or sniffing the contents of a bowl, until she stood beside him.

  “Will the spear-leek go into the stew?” she asked softly.

  “Lollius says it will fight sickness,” he answered
. “Surely it is strong enough!” He ventured a shy smile.

  “You are very deft. What do they call you?”

  “Manus—” He flushed again. “Manus Formosus,” he added, “because of my hands.”

  “Indeed, they are very well-shaped and beautiful,” Guendivar agreed. “But that is not the name your mother gave you, and you did not gain those shoulder muscles using a paring knife, but swinging a sword. Who are you, lad?”

  At that, his clever fingers, which had continued to strip the papery rind from the bulbs, fell still.

  “I have sworn not to say . . .” Manus answered finally, “until I have been in the king’s service for a year and a day.”

  “That time is almost over,” said the queen. She remembered his arrival now, though he had been much thinner then, as if he had been long on the road and lived hard. “When it is done, you will ask my lord for the boon he promised. But until then, your service belongs to me.”

  “Always . . .” he muttered, though he would not meet her eyes.

  “I wish you to carry a message to the Lady of the Lake. But none must know where you go or why. Will you do that for me?” There was a short silence. One of the other servants began to hack vigorously at a peeled turnip, and she drew Manus after her to the end of the table, wondering if the young man had heard.

  “My lady, I will go,” Manus answered at last.

  “I am too old to go racketing about the countryside this way . . .” said Igierne, twisting uncomfortably. The other priestesses she had brought with her from the Isle of Maidens moved around the room, unpacking clothing and hanging cloaks and mantles up to dry, for they had reached Camalot on the wings of an oncoming storm. But the chest at the foot of her bed they left strictly alone.

  “Is the bed too hard?” Guendivar patted the pillows into shape as Igierne lay back again. The queen’s bright hair was hidden by a veil, and there were smudges of fatigue beneath her eyes. What business did she have looking so tired, wondered Igierne? She had not travelled for two weeks in the rain.

  “The bed is well enough, but every heartbeat jolts me as if I were still in that damned horse-litter,” she snapped in reply. “I thought to find Artor on his deathbed at the very least, but aside from an indoor pallor and some weight around his middle that’s due to lack of exercise, he seems well enough. So why did you summon me?”

  “You know in what state he was when he left the Isle of Maidens.” Guendivar frowned. “He may be no worse, but he is certainly no better. But that is not why I wrote to you. It is the land that is sick, and the people who are dying, and if you do not understand that, then why did you come?”

  Igierne sighed, letting go of her anger. “Not entirely because of your message, so you need feel neither guilt nor pride. For the past moon I have had evil dreams.. . .”

  “Dreams of water rushing in a great wave, overwhelming the land?” asked Guendivar in a shaking voice.

  Igierne raised herself on one elbow, remembering the potential she had once seen in this child—but no, Guendivar was twenty-one, a woman now. Was she at last beginning to grow into her power?

  “Just so,” she said softly. “I think it is one of the gifts of the queens to have such dreams. But the last of those dreams was different. With the water came a great light, and a voice that sang.”

  “I heard it too,” whispered Guendivar, “though I could not understand the words. But the light came from the Cauldron.”

  Igierne nodded, her gaze moving involuntarily to the chest. In externals, it seemed no different than any of the others, though it was heavier because of the sheets of lead with which it was lined. Even so, she could feel the presence of the cauldron it held like a buzz along her nerves—perhaps it was that, and not the travel, that had made her so tired. Now she understood why it had always been kept within the shielding earth and stone of the shrine.

  “What will you do with it?” the queen asked then.

  “I do not know. The Goddess has not told me. We can only wait for her to show us Her will.. . .”

  Throughout that night it rained steadily, and yet this was only the harbinger of a storm such as the West Country had rarely known, driven straight from the Hibernian Sea. In the levels below the Isle of Glass the sea-swell would be backing up the rivers and making islands of the high ground. Guendivar could imagine how the marsh-folk must be taking refuge on the Tor while the monks and the nuns chanted desperate prayers to their god.

  In the sheltered lowlands, the waters were rising, but on the heights, one felt the full force of the wind. Artor’s walls were small protection. The storm swept over the ramparts of Camalot to pluck at the thatching of the buildings within. Of them all, only the great round henge hall that Merlin had designed was entirely undamaged, though drafts swept through its wicker partitions and it flexed and shuddered with each onslaught of the storm. Father Kebi, the Christian priest who had spoken darkly of sorcery when the hall was being built, came meekly enough to take refuge with the others, though he crossed himself when he passed through the door. It was not council season, and many of Artor’s chieftains were home on their own lands. With his Companions and his servants and the priestesses from the Isle of Maidens inside, there was just room for them all.

  All that afternoon, Guendivar worked with her maidservants to bring food and drink and bedding, and then there was nothing she could do but take her place beside Artor, and force herself to keep smiling as she watched the torch flames flicker in the draught, and wait for the dawn.

  Igierne shivered, wondering if the touch she had felt on her cheek had really been a drop of water. With her mind, she knew the hall would not fail them—she could sense Merlin’s magic, binding post to pillar and thatching to beam—but her gut was not so certain. Ceincair helped her to settle her mantle more securely around her shoulders, and she thanked her, searching the crowd for her other priestesses as she turned.

  “Where is Ninive?”

  “She went to the side door, to relieve herself, she said, though I think she really wanted to see the storm,” said Ceincair.

  Igierne shook her head with a sigh. Bringing the child here had been a risk—in three years Ninive had learned a great deal, but she was still a woodscolt at heart, and if at times she found the serene society of the Isle of Maidens too confining, she must be suffering in this crowded hall. She was young and would take no harm from a wetting, but her absence was not the true cause of the priestess’ unease.

  It was the Cauldron.

  Igierne had believed that the Goddess wanted her to bring it south, but what if her own concern for Artor had deceived her? In Eriu they had a tale of a woman who insulted a sacred spring and caused a flood that drowned the land. Was this a natural storm, or by taking the Cauldron from its spell-shielded sanctuary had she so unbalanced the elements that they would destroy Britannia? If it were required, she would take up the Cauldron with her own two hands and carry it to the sea, but she did not know what she ought to do. If the stakes had not been so high, Igierne would have accepted her panic as a necessary lesson in humility, but as it was, all she could do was close her eyes and pray.

  “Lord have mercy upon us, Christ have mercy upon us,” muttered the little priest as the storm raged. Betiver, who had hardly said a prayer since his childhood, found himself murmuring an echo, and so did many another of those who had been raised in Roman ways. A flare of lightning outlined the great door, and in another moment thunder clapped and rattled above them. Behind him, he heard men calling on Jupiter and Taranis and even Thunor of the Saxons.

  He stiffened, veins singing with the same mingled fear and fury he felt before battle, and instinctively his gaze sought the royal high seat and his king. Artor, every nerve strained at attention as he waited for the next bolt to fall, nonetheless looked far better than the lethargic figure of yesterday. This was the valiant commander Betiver remembered from a hundred campaigns. Guendivar said something, and Artor leaned close to answer her, smiling and reaching out to grasp her ha
nd.

  It was almost the first time Betiver could remember seeing the king touch her, but before he could wonder, the lightning and thunder crashed around them once again.

  Guendivar felt the warm strength of Artor’s grip and squeezed back convulsively as the thunder shook the hall.

  Lady, help us! For the sake of the king, for all this land! I will do whatever you ask, but I pray you, shelter us now!

  She had never been afraid of thunderstorms, but this one had an unexpected and elemental power. Each flare of lightning showed clearly the unimportance of her own fears and frustrations. There was a life in the storm that had nothing to do with the problems of the queen of Britannia. Oddly enough, that relieved her. She sat, a still point in the midst of fury, rooted to the earth by the steady grip of her husband’s hand, and waited for the next convulsion of the skies.

  This time, the lightning’s flare and the thunder were almost simultaneous. The hall trembled, the great doors sprang wide. Wind howled and every torch was extinguished, but in the same moment a blue iridescence burst through the opening and whirled about, edging post and beam and benches alike with livid light.

  “It is Pentecost!” cried Father Kebi, “and the Holy Spirit has come to us in wind and fire!”

  But the lightning passed, and the raging of the heavens was replaced by a sudden singing silence. They were in the eye of the storm. They sat, staring, while the blood beat in their ears, and the lightning focused to a single sphere of radiance that floated slowly around the interior of the hall. So bright it was that no man could say who bore it, or if indeed it moved by any human agency at all.

  Guendivar stared at that brightness and knew that she was weeping, though she made no sound. From one person to another it passed, pausing for a few moments and then moving on, awarding as much time to a chieftain as to a serving lad, and to the woman who fed the pigs as to the priestesses who had come with Igierne. She saw it surrounding Julia, who crossed herself and then reached out, her cheeks shining with tears.