The Hallowed Isle Book Two Page 7

  “Not for a long time, I hope,” he said, sitting down at the old man’s feet.

  “This is Oesc, Octha’s son,” said the king. But Merlin had already recognized the set of the shoulders and something of Hengest about the line of brow and jaw. “He is the one who will have to deal with Artor, not I.”

  “Yes . . .” Merlin shut his eyes, shaken by a sudden inrush of images—Artor and Oesc side by side on a hill where ravens flew, at feast and at hunt, and again, older, striving to meet amid the blood and terror of a battlefield. As foes or as allies? And if they fought, which one would have the victory? That knowledge was not given.

  Then the moment of vision faded. When he looked up again, Oesc and his grandfather were still talking, but the witch-woman, Hæthwæge, was watching him with troubled eyes.

  “If you wish to keep your anonymity,” she told him when the interview was over, “you had better come with me. I will tell the thralls to bring food for us both.”

  Merlin nodded. He would lose the chance to pick up whatever revealing gossip the men might share in the hall, but it seemed to him that he knew the answer to his question already. Cantium would stay quiet, but the council had better keep a sharp eye on the South Saxons and the Anglians from now on. This wisewoman, on the other hand, clearly had considerable influence with both the old man and the boy. He could not afford to leave her a mystery.

  He sensed a prickling beneath his skin as he entered Hæthwæge’s house and smiled a little, recognizing in its pure form the feel of the wardings he had noted in the hall. Flame leaped as she built up the fire, and he looked around him with a fellow-professional’s curiosity. Since his studies with the Vor-Tigernus’s wise men when he was young he had had little to do with other workers of magic.

  His nostrils flared at the mingled odors, spicy or musty or sour, that swirled around him, and with them the mingled currents of power. A witch he had called her, and the drying herbs that hung from the rafters, the sacks and baskets and packets ranked neatly on their shelves, confirmed it. What else she might be he could not yet tell.

  Hæthwæge poured mead from a Roman flask into a silver-mounted drinking horn. “Do not fear,” she said when for a moment he hesitated, “I know better than to set a spell upon it beyond a blessing on the yeast to make it brew, even if I thought such a thing would escape your notice.”

  “I did not doubt you,” he said stiffly. He drank, savoring the fiery sweetness, and handed the horn back to her, then seated himself on the bench beside the fire.

  The wisewoman drank in turn and took her place across from him. She was a woman who would look much the same from her middle years to extreme old age, deep-breasted and broad-hipped, with a lacing of silver in her hair—ordinary, in fact, with no claim to beauty, until you met her eyes.

  Those eyes held his now, with a silvery glow that hid the depths behind them like light on a pool.

  “You ask Hengest what he will do with his warriors, as if those were the only powers at war over this land. Of another messenger I would have expected that, but not of you. Have you come to spy out our defenses, as you did when you rode the body of the bird at Verulamium?”

  Merlin suppressed a shudder, remembering that day. Then the sense of what she had said reached him.

  “That was you, with the ravens, opposing me?”

  “For a little while—until it became a battle between your goddess and my god. You should know that Woden has long been a friend to the goddesses, and he will seek to learn her wisdom. Even then, it was not she who defeated him, but the god in the Sword. Will it kill its new master as it did your king?”

  “Artor is its destined master, the Defender of Britannia. When he draws it in a just cause, it will bring him the victory.” Remembering the particular pulsation of power the Sword carried, he became abruptly aware that he was sensing something similar here.

  He turned, attention fixing on a long shape in the corner, swathed in leather wrappings and spells. Now that it had attracted his attention, its power overwhelmed all the other magics in the room. Behind him, Hæthwæge had gone very still.

  “I should have realized that against you, the magics that hide it from other men would be useless . . .” She spoke slowly, as if listening to some voice within. “But perhaps . . . it was meant that you should see it.” She moved slowly to the corner and began to unfasten the wrappings, and he saw that it was a spear.

  For one moment only Merlin glimpsed the physical form—the wooden, rune-carved shaft and the blade of translucent stone. Then its power swirled through his senses in an explosion of meaning; its shaft a chain of incantations, its blade piercing the heart with pure song. Altered vision perceived it limned in light, as bright as the radiant being who was offering it to him.

  “Take it by the shaft. . . .” Through his confusion he realized that Hæthwæge was speaking.

  With an effort he managed to answer. “What will happen if I do?”

  “You will know the god . . .”

  “Woden? He is no god of mine!”

  “You may say so, but still you bear a part of his wisdom in this world. You do not know him, but he knows you, and he claims this holy ground. . . .”

  “Is it a weapon?” He mumbled, thinking it might be his duty to seize it. “Will your kings bear it against the Sword?”

  “It is a weapon, but not for war . . .”

  Sound came and went. He was not certain of her meaning, only of his own rejection of what she was telling him. And then the power was muted. Ordinary vision returned, and he saw that she had replaced the wrappings around the spear.

  “I have walked this land through the seasons, and Woden went with me,” said Hæthwæge. “He likes this country and will stay here. He says to me that you will serve him also, and it will be easier if it is with your will.”

  Merlin shook his head. “I serve the Lady of the Land.”

  “Of course,” said the wicce, “but in time to come, their purposes may prove to be the same. . . .”

  IV

  THE OSTARA OFFERING

  A.D. 477

  IN THE SECOND YEAR AFTER HIS ACCLAMATION, THE HIGH King of Britannia kept the feast of the Resurrection at Sorviodunum on the borders of the Dumnonian lands. The Roman town had been burned during the first Saxon rebellion and only partially rebuilt afterward. Merlin, riding in behind Artor’s houseguard, had thought the intervening years would have faded his memories, but instead, the ghosts of Ambrosius and Uthir now haunted it along with the shades of those who had been murdered by Hengest’s men.

  The little church, only lightly scorched, remained. While Artor heard the Pascal mass inside with Docomaglos of Dumnonia and his sons, the rest of the princes and notables waited with more or less patience in the open area around it, nourishing their spirits on the incense that drifted from within, and the earthier scents that drifted from the cauldrons where the feast was being prepared.

  Merlin sensed the strength of the mystery that was being celebrated within those whitewashed walls, but the power that he was feeling did not come from the church, but rather flowed through it, drawing him northward through the gate to stand staring across the plain. To the north lay the Giant’s Dance. He could not see it, but he could sense its presence. As the Christian ritual built to its climax the power moving along the line between them increased until he could see a pathway of light. Did Uthir’s spirit ride that road from his grave by the ring of stones to the church where his son knelt in prayer?

  The druid lifted his hands in salutation as the light flared and then began to fade. With its passing, he was aware of the fragile balance of light and darkness as the world stood poised for the explosion of growth that the approaching summer would bring. Always, in the old days, men had propitiated those forces at this time with an offering. The Christian priests said the death of their god was a sufficient sacrifice for all times to come, and from the point of view of the divine powers, that might be so. But it seemed to him that sometimes it was men, like Ab
raham in the Christians’ stories, who needed to make an offering.

  Light filtered coldly through the interwoven branches to illuminate the features of the British princes. Brush had been bound over a framework of beams to shelter the council, since there was no building in Sorviodunum that would hold them all. The fire that burned in the center seemed to produce more smoke than heat, which might also be said, thought Merlin, of the arguments.

  Artor had a place close to the fire, with Merlin behind him. From habit, the druid cloaked his aura. The British chieftains, at first inclined to be suspicious of his motives, had become accustomed to his silent presence. They did not accept his influence on the boy so much as ignore it.

  “Last year they came by the hundreds, and the year before!” exclaimed Catraut, who had fought his way through two ambushes on his way down from Verulamium. “As a dead horse breeds maggots, Germania breeds men. Who knows how many more will arrive when the sailing season begins? There are so many Anglians now they have brought over their King Icel to rule them, with his lady and his sons, while you—” he swept an accusatory finger towards the Dumnonian lords, “flit back and forth across the sea to Armorica like migrating birds, preparing cozy nests to which you can flee when by sheer pressure of numbers the Saxons have crowded us into the sea!”

  Docomaglos, who had inherited Dumnonia after his brother Gorlosius died, bristled indignantly, while his sons, Cataur and Gerontius, looked uncomfortable. “My home is in Isca of the Dumnonii, and I will defend it to my life’s end!”

  “That may be so,” Catraut continued implacably, “but can you deny there’s scarcely one of your lords who does not have a cousin or a brother waiting to welcome him across the narrow sea? You must forgive those of us who do not have such a refuge if we say that your risks and ours are not the same!”

  “My lords, my lords—” Eldaul of Glevum extended a placating hand. “We have been hearing these arguments since the days when the Vor-Tigernus strove with Aurelianus. The men of the east protest their sufferings, and those of the west, their loyalty. If we had all been willing to aid each other then, we might not face this threat today. . . .”

  There was an uncomfortable silence. Artor, whose eyes had begun to glaze, roused suddenly, looking around the circle. In the past year he had added several inches to his height, and he was beginning to learn how to manage his long limbs.

  “It seems to me, my lords, that Eldaul speaks truly, and since it is so, surely we ought to be taking council on how we may meet the threat instead of wasting our energy accusing each other!”

  For a moment they stared, as if one of the posts had grown a mouth to speak to them. Then Merlin saw their expressions change as they remembered that it had been their decision to make this boy their king. At this point, one might wonder if they had really meant it, or whether, to paraphrase that bishop Augustinus whose new ideas were upsetting everyone, they had prayed God to give them a king, “but not yet.”

  “My lord, it is clear that we must mount a campaign in the midlands,” answered Catraut finally, “to destroy this Anglian kinglet before he is firmly seated in his power.”

  “From where you sit, that may be clear,” said Matauc, who had ruled the Durotrige lands from Durnovernum on the coast for many years, “but when I look eastward, what I see is that Devil’s cub Ceretic in Venta Belgarum!” His tone remained mild, and Catraut, who had begun to frown, sat back again.

  “He has been bringing in more men from Germania as well,” said Cataur, “with their families, so it is clear that these wolves are after more than plunder—they mean to plant themselves on the land.”

  “Leonorus Maglos has been a traitor since the time of Ambrosius,” answered Eldaul, “but he is concerned only with the Belgic lands.”

  “He is an old man—” Docomaglos’s second son, Gerontius, spoke then. “Ceretic speaks for him now in Venta, and Ceretic thinks like a Saxon, for all he bears a British name.”

  Artor nodded. For the past year Gerontius had captained the men who guarded the king, ate at his table and slept by his door, hunted and played at tabula and taught him the art of the sword. It was inevitable that the boy would end by either loving or hating him, and Gerontius was as good-hearted and fair-spoken as he was tall and dark and strong. No wonder, then, if his young king listened with admiration in his eyes.

  Cataur, seizing the opening, leaned forward. “The word that we hear from Venta is that Ceretic means to expand northward. Do you want to fight the Anglians with his Jutes and Frisians snapping at your heels? Icel is not yet firmly seated in his power, and he must bring those chieftains who have grown accustomed to living without a lord into line before he can lead them against us.”

  One or two of those present looked embarrassed at that, for what he had said of the Anglians was surely true of the British as well. But Cataur was continuing—“Ceretic’s men are sworn only to him. Your argument for fighting Icel applies to Ceretic as well—let us cut out this canker on our flank before it grows!”

  There was a murmur of comment at that. Artor allowed it to continue for several minutes before lifting his hand for silence once more. In two years he had at least learned how to manage a council, even if he did not yet always have the confidence to impose his will. Silently, Merlin projected his aura towards the boy and allowed some of his own energy to flow into it. To the others, there seemed only an intensification of his presence, which focused their attention until everyone was still. At first, the fifteen-year-old king had needed such bolstering constantly, but along with his father’s armor, he was growing into his power.

  “I think we agree we’re going to have to fight somebody—” Artor’s grin was reflected in the faces of some of the younger men. “And the choice seems to be between Icel and Ceretic. They are both dangerous. Tell me what we have to fight them with, and maybe that will help us to decide.”

  If you want to know how the colt will run, look at his breeding, thought Merlin, hearing echoes of Uthir’s easy style. It sounded ingenuous, but clearly Gerontius had been talking, for it was obvious, when you looked at the problem, where the men and resources would have to come from if the British intended a spring campaign.

  “By the end of this month my people will be done with the spring planting,” said Docomaglos. “I can have three thousand men on Ceretic’s doorstep before he gets word we are moving. We can hit hard and fast and drive him into the sea by Pentecost.”

  “That reasoning seems good to me—” answered Artor. “Catraut is right—Icel is a problem, but I think we’ll tackle him with more confidence without Ceretic’s spears pricking between our shoulder blades.”

  Merlin suppressed a smile. Uthir would have said “. . . poking up our backsides.” But without the crudities, the boy certainly seemed to have inherited his father’s knack of putting men at ease. The northern princes not only dropped most of their objections, by the time the council ended, they had even promised to send men.

  It was the sound of swordplay that led Merlin to the king. After dinner, most of the princes had gone back to sit and talk and drink by their campfires, watching the daylight fade from the sky. When the druid went to look for Artor, he found that most of the younger men had disappeared.

  He hardly needed magic to find them. Just outside the town, where the river flowed quiet through grassy meadows, two figures strove, shadow against shadow, the last of the sunset flickering from their swinging swords. After the first shock Merlin realized that they were doing slow work, bodies moving with the graceful deliberation of dream. But it was still dangerous. He drew breath to stop them, then let it slowly out again. He could not keep the boy swaddled forever; Artor was almost a man.

  But it was a boy’s voice that protested, laughing—“But how can I touch you, Gerontius, when I can hardly see?” He danced back out of range and stood leaning on his sword, breathing hard.

  “If the enemy makes a night attack you won’t be able to see, or in the dust of the battlefield, or if you take a he
ad wound and blood blinds you.” Gerontius straightened, his voice cool and unstressed.

  A third figure, by his voice, Cai, spoke up—“At least in battle you don’t have to worry about hurting your enemy.”

  “If you can see which ones are the enemy,” said Artor. “Once battle is joined, Gerontius, how do you know?”

  “If his spear is pointed at your belly, he’s an enemy!” said one of the others.

  “If he shouts at you in Saxon—”

  “If he’s facing the opposite direction from your line—”

  “Artor is right—” Gerontius cut into the discussion. “In the confusion of battle it can be hard to tell friend from foe, especially now, when our warriors and the Saxons copy each other’s gear. What I am trying to do with this exercise is to teach you to perceive your opponent with senses other than sight or even sound.”

  “Ah . . . Merlin has showed me something of that . . .” said Artor. “He said you have to sense your enemy’s energy, to become one with him. But I’m not good enough to risk it with the blade, so—” He stooped suddenly, scooped up something from the grass and flung it.

  There was a blur of movement and then a thunk as Gerontius’s sword struck the incoming missile and smote it to bits.

  “Wretch!” he said, over his students’ laughter. “If that was a cow patty, I will make you clean this blade.”

  “No,” Artor caught his breath on a whoop, “only a piece of sod.”

  “Very well.” Gerontius tried to sound stern. “And now it truly is dark, so I suppose we must bring this practice to an end. There should be time for some more work tomorrow morning, however, before the consilium begins again.”

  “Not more meetings!” exclaimed Cai over the murmur of talk as they began to gather up their gear.