The Hallowed Isle Book One Read online

  “They were still busy fighting. I got away.”

  And indeed, the evidence of Maderun’s maidservant, who had rolled under a pile of luggage and watched till the fight was over, did seem to confirm that when Maderun ran, the men who followed returned quickly, complaining that she had gotten away.

  “Escaped slaves and outlawed men take refuge in the wilderness. If it was one of these who abused you, tell me, and we will hunt him down!” said her father.

  “I ate at no hearth and met no human soul from the time I fled to the day that I was found,” answered Maderun, and it was true, said some, that even outlaws would not have allowed the girl to live in such a condition as she had been found.

  “Why will you not believe me?” she cried. “Put me to the ordeal, let me swear on holy relics that I have not lied to you!”

  And she swore, and was not blasted, and so her accusers were no closer to the truth than before. In the convent they whispered that if she had lain with no man in the wilderness perhaps something worse had come to her then, or even—and here the voices of the novices grew faint with excitement—within the convent walls.

  “We will wait until the child is born,” they said then. “Whether its father be man or devil, the babe itself will proclaim its paternity.”

  And so Maderun’s pregnancy continued through the winter. Her belly grew ever larger, and the older women counted the months, nodding wisely. But the ninth month since Maderun’s rescue passed, and there was no child. The whispers changed then, to talk of the incubus who lies with women in their sleep, or the Devil himself, seeking to beget an Anti-Christ into the world.

  “Perhaps it is so,” said Maderun wearily above the great round of her belly, “for indeed I sometimes have strange dreams. . . .” But the next day she was talking of a prince of the faerie folk whom she had met in the forest, who had fed her on cakes made from sunbeams and moonlight wine. And that might be so as well, the gossip ran, for the girl had been starving when they found her and surely faerie food, like faerie gold, would vanish in the ordinary light of day.

  The bishop heard of the case and sent one of his priests, a Father Blaise, to question her, but if Maderun told the truth to him, the seal of the confessional protected it.

  Maderun’s child was born at Beltain, when the folk of faerie come forth from their mounds and move from winter quarters to their summer homes. But it was no faerie child she gave birth to, for when he arrived, after a nightlong labor in which the midwives almost despaired of saving either mother or child, he was large, lusty, and covered with a fine pelt of dark down.

  “The Devil’s child,” said one of the midwives, listening to him squall.

  “My child—” whispered Maderun. “Give him to me!”

  They exchanged worried glances, for they had meant to carry the babe away to the forest and leave it there. Exposure of unwanted children was forbidden to Christians, but this, surely, was no Christian babe.

  But Maderun was a king’s daughter, and though she had babbled strangely during the labor, she spoke with authority now, and so they shrugged and gave her the child. But the rumors did not cease from flying, and when storms ruined the harvest that summer, and gave way to a freezing winter, and the next two years were seasons of little rain, folk began to murmur that it was because the King of Demetia was harboring a witch-daughter and her demon child.

  Maderun sat in the convent garden watching her boy playing in the sun. From the little church came the sound of chanting; Maderun leaned back against the cool stone and let the sound carry her spirit upward. After Ambros’s birth she had asked to be admitted as a novice, but although she was still welcome to dwell among the nuns, the bishop had forbidden formal vows to the mother of such a dubious child. Perhaps it was for the best, she thought dreamily. She had recovered her health, but she found it hard to concentrate, and could never seem to remember the prayers.

  Ambros was squatting on the path, making patterns with the pebbles he found there, his dark hair, coarse as a horse’s mane, hanging over his eyes. After his birth most of the fuzz that covered his body had fallen out, except for a line of black down that followed his spine. Carefully he made a circle, and then a square, and other figures, over and over again.

  Sometimes he raged, and raced in circles until he was exhausted, but on other days he could play such games for hours. Though he was nearly three, he had never yet spoken a word, but as he worked he hummed softly. The sound made her feel soft and sleepy, and she found it familiar, but could never think where she had heard such humming before.

  A winged shadow flickered across the path. The child looked up at the wren that had made it and laughed. Maderun watched in astonishment as the bird fluttered down to alight on his outstretched hand. The wren chirped, and Ambros chirped back at it. Then it took fright suddenly and flew away.

  Ambros sat up, dark eyes fixed on the path. Only then did Maderun hear the footsteps and see Father Blaise approaching them. His hair, as always, stood half on end, so that he reminded one of a startled bird, and his step hesitated as he peered nearsightedly around him. But his face was uncharacteristically grim.

  “What has happened?” She rose to meet him.

  “Three landowners whose hayfields were washed out last summer have brought suit to try you for a witch and sorceress because of the child!”

  Maderun made a hushing motion. Because Ambros did not speak, people often did not realize how much he could understand. Then the sense of what the priest had said sank in and she sat down.

  “Why?” she whispered. “What harm have I done to them? Surely I am as good a Christian as any woman in this land.”

  “You will not name the father of your child.”

  “I cannot—” Sometimes Maderun remembered him as a shining youth and sometimes as a comforting presence in the dark, but she knew that he had no human name.

  “God send they will believe it. They have brought the case before their kindred court and the caput gentis has chosen Uethen son of Maclovius to judge it, so your father has no power to gainsay them. You must think of something to tell them, Maderun. They have the power to drown you, do you understand?”

  She looked at Ambros, and for a moment saw in her mind’s eye moonlight sparkling on a forest stream. Then the picture darkened. “I don’t remember. . . .”

  Ambros, who was having one of his quiet days, sat on his mother’s lap, surveying the scene with eyes as bright and dark as a young bird’s. Even though the sky was cloudy, the court had been convened in the meadow beyond the king’s hall, the only place large enough to hold so many. The people made a circle, chattering. On the isle of Mona, they whispered, a cow had dropped a two-headed calf. In Londinium, Vitalinus, despairing of building a fighting force from the men of the South and East of Britannia, had followed the ancient tradition of Rome and hired Saxon mercenaries from across the sea.

  A damp wind fluttered veils and mantles. Maderun shivered. Once, she thought, there had been someone who would have protected her—a mighty presence who had kept her safe and warm.

  Uethen son of Maclovius settled himself on a bench on the hill. His robes were white, but his cloak was woven in many colors, his right as a man who knew the law. He draped the folds more majestically and cleared his throat.

  “I call Maderun daughter of Carmelidus into this court—” His voice, trained and resonant, carried clearly, and Maderun felt a changing tension in Ambros’s body as he stilled, listening.

  She tried to speak, and could not. She knew this feeling of being helpless—the other time, it had been no use to struggle. She shook her head, feeling awareness begin to slip away like an unmoored boat that the current will carry downstream.

  Father Blaise, beside her, responded, “She is here.”

  Uethen nodded. “Who brings suit against her?”

  One of the farmers stepped forward. “I bring suit against the daughter of Carmelidus on the charge of maleficium, in that she willingly gave herself to the Devil in order
to bring his child into the world, who has tampered with the order of nature and brought us nothing but disaster since that day!”

  A murmur of interest swept the crowd and all eyes turned toward Maderun.

  “That is two accusations!” exclaimed Father Blaise. “I can bring witnesses to testify that the child was born in a normal manner, and duly baptised when he was three days old. The good nuns of Saint Peter’s have watched him grow, and seen him do no magic. If the weather has been bad, it is not his doing. Have you known no other seasons of disaster, when there was no babe to blame? It is for your sins that God has brought this upon you, not his!”

  The babble this time was louder, and once or twice she heard laughter.

  “It may be so,” said the second farmer. “But it does not absolve Maderun of her crime. Whether the father be demon or mortal, she has brought dishonor on her kindred by having a nameless child.”

  “He has the name with which he was baptised,” said Father Blaise, “which is Ambrosius, after the emperor.”

  “And where is the rest of it? Of whom is he the son?”

  “He is the child of the nun. And that would be enough among the northern folk from whom this girl’s mother came.”

  “But this is Demetia, and we hold by our own law,” said the judge. “If the whoredom of a girl of the kindred dishonors her people, then that of the daughter of a king brings shame upon the whole kingdom, and she must pay the penalty.”

  “Will you kill your mother?”

  The question was voiced in a clear and piping tone that carried to the edge of the crowd. Only slowly did men realize that its source was the child who sat in his mother’s arms.

  “What did you say?” Uethen was staring as if he thought Maderun had played some trick, but in truth she was as surprised as anyone. Could Ambros know what he was saying? Certainly the case had been discussed in his hearing, but how could he understand?

  “Your mother doesn’t say who your father was,” Ambros repeated with patient clarity. “Do you drown her too?”

  “My father was my mother’s husband!” the judge exclaimed.

  “How do you know? Do you ask her?”

  The first shocked astonishment was giving way to laughter. Somehow, Ambros’s question had turned the temper of the crowd toward sympathy.

  “That’s so, Uethen—it’s not fair to condemn the boy’s mother until you know about your own! Send for her, man, and let us all hear.”

  Uethen was flushing angrily, but he could interpret the murmurs around him. People respected his learning, but he was not a popular man. Someone had already gone to fetch his mother. Glowering, he agreed to wait until she should come.

  When the woman arrived, escorted by a grinning warrior, Ambros straightened.

  “I do not know my father. I know my mother, and they want to kill her. Does your son know his father?” The tone was clear, wistful. The old woman looked at the child and all saw her eyes fill with tears.

  “Ah, little one, there’s no man born that can be certain of more.” She sighed, and looked up at her son. “It is glad I am that my husband is not here this day, for I came to love him. But he was not the father of my child.”

  The face of the judge set like stone, and the people whispered, divided between shock and glee. His mother looked at him once, and then away.

  “It is our law that a stranger who lies with a girl of the kindred must stay and marry her. But my lover was thirsty for learning, and when he had learned all there was to know of Maridunum, he went away. When I knew that he had left me with child I gave myself to Maclovius, who had long courted me, and so I got a husband.” She sighed. “If I may speak in your Assembly I counsel mercy, for Maderun at least has practiced no deception.”

  There was a long silence, while all eyes turned back to the judge, who had drawn his mantle over his head in mourning.

  “I cannot judge this case,” he said harshly. “The king is your father, woman. Let him deal with your shame!”

  King Carmelidus pushed through the crowd, followed by his house-guard, the high color returning to his face as the tension left it.

  “My daughter shall have a husband, and her child a father, as good as yours! Matauc Morobrin has consented to wed her.” One of the warriors came forward to stand beside him.

  Maderun looked at him, ordinary as bread and solid as stone, and felt the last of her bright dreams mist away. But her child had been saved, for whatever future God, or the old gods, had in mind. Ambros tugged at her gown. With a sigh, she put him to the breast. Upon her head, like a blessing, she felt the first drops of rain.

  III

  THE RED DRAGON AND THE WHITE

  A.D. 433

  THE BALL, MADE FROM A CALF STOMACH STUFFED WITH HAY, HURTLED through the air. Ambros, who was faster than the others though he was only seven, darted beneath Dinabu’s arm and whacked it with his hurley stick as it fell. He straightened to watch as it arced over the other boy’s head toward the goal.

  “Curse you, that was my ball!” cried Dinabu.

  “But it is a point for our team—” answered Ambros, watching the other boy warily. He had attempted to play with the boys before. It usually ended in a quarrel, but he knew how much it mattered to his mother that he be accepted, and so he continued to try.

  The others began to yell as the ball smacked into the bush that was serving as goal, and the horsemen who had paused to watch them play set up a cheer.

  Ambros hung back as the ball was put in play once more, aware with all his senses of the pattern that was emerging, the energy of the other players, even the life in the grass. He had learned, painfully, that other people did not sense these things, and so he tried to hide his knowledge. Sometimes he thought his mother felt things also, but she did not seem to be aware of what she knew.

  The ball spun toward him. He could see Dinabu running, and knew in the same moment that the older boy would not get there in time. The others were shrieking encouragement. Dinabu would be angry if Ambros hit the ball, but they would be pleased. Before he had completed the thought he was moving, placing himself in the correct relationship to ball and goal. Muscles flexed as the stick swung; he felt the vibration all the way up his arm as it struck the ball, the sweet “rightness” as he continued to turn, and the ball soared straight for the goal.

  Dinabu turned on him, features contorting. Ambros saw the hurley stick whip toward his head and ducked. Fury reddened his own vision; like a thing foreordained, he could sense how his own blow would strike the other boy’s head. With a final effort at control he let go of the stick and saw it whirl away. Dinabu struck again; Ambros plucked the wooden shaft from his grasp and sent it after his own. Dinabu grabbed for his arm, and Ambros danced away, knowing that if they came to grips his own anger would overwhelm him.

  “Bastard . . .” panted the older boy, stumbling after him. “No-fathered, demon begotten—”

  Ambros avoided his attacks and shut out his words. He had heard it all before. But the other boys, with the pack-mentality of their kind, were taking up the chant, even those on his own team.

  “Go away,” they cried. “We’ll have no devil-child on our side!” Someone picked up a clod of earth and threw.

  Ambros knew it would hit him, but held his ground. The tears that smarted in his eyes were of rage.

  “You’ll ask me—you’ll beg me for my help one day!” he growled.

  Then, ignoring the insults and the clods that followed him, Ambros stalked away. At the edge of the field a stand of hazels marked the beginning of the woodlands. There was no one in Maridunum who could follow him once he was among the trees.

  His rage carried him farther than he had intended. He came to rest at last where water from an unfailing spring trickled down over rock to form a small pool. He bent over it to drink and remained, watching his image take shape as the ripples stilled. Eyes as dark and watchful as a beast’s gazed back at him beneath the fall of coarse hair. His brows were heavy, his forehead low. He trie
d to smile, and large teeth snarled back at him from a heavy jaw. Only in his high arched nose did he resemble his mother’s kin.

  But I am no child of the Devil, for the priests say that when he comes to tempt humankind his face is fair, and I am as ugly as a hobgoblin. But the hobgoblin was a little fellow, and it was clear already that Ambros was going to be a very big man. Whatever I am, it is nothing human, he thought unhappily. Perhaps I should run away and live in the forest. I am happy here.

  He had considered this before, many times, and always it was the thought of his mother’s pain that prevented him from running away. Morobrin was not unkind, but there was no love between them. Maderun and little Ganeda, the girl-child she had borne her new husband, were the only human creatures Ambros loved.

  He gazed around him, looking for the other being that cared for him. He used to think she was the spirit of the waterfall, for he had first seen her here. But he had found that if he unfocused his eyes in a certain way he could see her elsewhere, just as he saw the beings that lived in rock and bush and tree. And sometimes, just lately, he would hear her talking to him even when he could not see.

  “Girl . . .” he whispered, “will I ever find friends?”

  And in the silence of his spirit he heard, faint but clear, “I am your friend, and I am always here. . . .”

  He lay back upon the bracken and then for a little while he must have slept, lulled by the sweet singing of the waterfall, for when he sat up again, the sky was growing gold.

  When he set out for home it was already dark beneath the trees. But Ambros seemed to have eyes in his feet, so swiftly did he go. He was never clumsy in the forest, only in the hall.

  Ambros came over the hill to Lys Morobrin as the first stars were kindling in a purple sky. His nostrils flared at the scents of woodsmoke and roasting meat. He began to run, slowing only when he noticed the three strange horses in the pen. They were fine beasts; he frowned, memory supplying an image of them saddled and mounted. They belonged to the men who had been watching the hurley game. What were they doing here?