The Hallowed Isle Book Three (9 page)

Around and around, with each circuit it grew, a vortex that spiraled above the hearth. Igierne kept it steady, resisting the temptation to release it all in one climactic explosion of energy. In her mind she held the image of Merlin, offering him the cone of power to support his own wizardry. As the link grew stronger, she sensed men and horses, confusion and blood-lust, exaltation and fear.

She held the circle even as she felt something flare towards him like a spear of light. But the shock as Merlin caught it shattered the link. For one terrified moment the spirits of the priestesses were tossed like leaves in a high wind. And then another power blossomed in the midst of them, rising from the hearth like a flame into which all other powers were subsumed.

Bright as fire, serene as pure water, strong as the earth below, Brigantia Herself arose from the midst of Her priestesses and directed their joined powers towards the goddess image on the boss of Artor's shield. Through Her eyes, Igierne saw the image blaze, saw an answering radiance in the faces of Britannia's warriors, and saw, as the Saxons felt the land itself turning against them, the enemy break and flee.

To Igierne, Aquae Sulis had always seemed an outpost of civility and culture in the midst of the wild hills. The warm stone of the temple of Sulis and the enclosure surrounding the baths in the center of the city glowed in the afternoon sunshine, and the tiled roofs of the Roman buildings around them had the mellow beauty of an earlier age. Even the Saxon war had not really touched it, though the land to the north had been trampled and torn by the two armies. Igierne had wept, passing the twin mounds where they had burned the bodies of the slain Britons and those of their foes. In life, she reflected, they had been enemies, but in death they all fed the same soil.

The Saxons had kicked down a few doors when they searched Aquae Sulis for foodstuffs, but by Artor's order, the town had been stripped of booty and abandoned before the armies arrived. If the place had not been full of wounded soldiers, she might never have guessed there had been a war.

Those fighters who were still fit to travel were already off to their homes, or harrying the retreating Saxons. Most of the warriors who had been badly wounded were dead. Those who remained in Aquae Sulis had wounds which were not severe enough to kill them outright but required a longer convalescence. The minerals in the water healed torn flesh as its warmth eased aching muscles, and each morning the altar of Sulis bore new offerings.

At dawn, before the day's complement of wounded came to seek the goddess, Igierne and her women visited the baths. Some of the hot and cold pools that had been added to the facilities in the previous century were no longer usable, but the rectangular great bath was still protected by its vaulted ceiling. Seen through the steam that rose from the surface, the marble gods stationed around the pool seemed to nod and sway. Cradled in the warmth of the water, Igierne saluted them: Venus and Mercurius, Jupiter and Juno and Minerva, Ceres and Bacchus, Apollo and his sister Diana with her leaping deer.

Only Mars was missing from this place of healing. But on Mons Badonicus the Britons had made offerings enough to the god of war. Not only Oesc, but Ceretic, the leader of the West Saxons, had fallen there. Aelle, who had led the rebellion, was an old man. It would be a generation or more before the Saxons could hope to field such an army again.

Afterwards, relaxed and glowing, she joined Artor for breakfast in the house of the chief magistrate.

“You look well,” he said as they sat down.

“I wish I could say the same for you,” she answered. In the pitiless illumination of morning the lines that pain had drawn around his mouth and responsibility had graven on his brow showed even more clearly than they had by torchlight the night before. “You look as if you had lost the war.”

“I lost a lot of good men,” he said tonelessly. He had filled his bowl with porridge, but he was not eating it. “I lost Oesc.”

“He was your enemy!”

Artor shook his head. “Never that. If I had not failed him, there would have been no war. I killed him,” he said flatly.

“Not in hatred or anger . . .” she objected softly.

Her son sighed. “I was spared that, at least. It was by his request. His back was broken in the battle, and he wished the mercy stroke to come from my hand.”

Igierne considered him, frowning.
You are wounded too, my son, as sorely as any of those men I saw outside the baths
.

“When Uthir died,” she said slowly, “I saw no reason to go on. Morgause did not need me, and I did not know where you were. I was no longer a queen. It took time for me to understand that there was still a role for me to play, and things I was needed to do.”

“Indeed . . .” Artor breathed, “I felt your presence on the battlefield. And then—” a memory of wonder flared briefly in his eyes “—the goddess came, Sulis Minerva, or Brigantia Herself, filling our hearts with fire. Britannia owes a great debt to the women of the Holy Isle.”

“And now you need me again—” she said, not quite questioning. He did not answer. His face was grim, and she realized that he was not seeing her at all. “Artor,” she said sharply, “why did you summon me here?”

“I do need you.” His face brightened with a rueful smile. “There remains one task that is too much for my courage. Only a woman—a priestess—can help me now.”

Igierne set down her tea and looked at him expectantly.

“I swore to Oesc that I would bury his ashes beside Hengest's mound . . . and I promised to see his wife and infant son back to Cantium.”

“Cataur will give her up to you?”

“Has already given—” Artor said grimly, “which is the only reason his head is still connected to his shoulders. Enough Saxon blood has been spilled to satisfy even the Dumnonians. Rigana and her child are safe now at Dun Tagell. I want you to go there and escort her home.”

Igierne sat back in her chair, staring, her mind awhirl with memory. “I have not seen Dun Tagell since your father took me away to be married, after Gorlosius died.. . .”

After a moment she realized how much of that ancient grief and anger must have shown in her face by its reflection in Artor's eyes.

“Does it get any easier, Mother? Do the rage and the sorrow fade in time?” he asked then.

“They do . . .” she said slowly, “if you seek healing; if from the destruction you build something new.”

He nodded, still holding her gaze. “Healing is what we all need now. After so many years of warfare, Britannia, bruised and battered as she is, knows peace at last. The Sword and the Spear must be put to rest. It is time to bring forth the Cauldron and use its power.”

“And for that you need the Lady of the Lake,” answered Igierne, “I understand. But you also need a queen.”

“Still trying to marry me off, Mother?” The pain lines vanished in a brief grin. “Well, perhaps you are right. I will arrange to visit Leodegranus—after I have confirmed Oesc's son as lord of Cantium.”

“So—did Artor send you because he was afraid to face me?” Rigana turned, skirts flaring as the sea breeze caught them, but then there was always wind at Dun Tagell.

“There are a great many demands on the High King's time,” Igierne answered neutrally.

“Oh, indeed!” Rigana took a quick step away from the cliff's edge, brown curls blowing across her face and head cocked like an angry bird. “Too many for him to pay attention when that bastard Cataur abducted me, and far too many for him to take the time to rescue me! I would still have a husband, and you would not have had this war, if there had not been so many demands on your son's time!”

Igierne took a firm hold on her own temper. “The women of Demetia whom he saved from slavery in Eriu might not agree with you, but hindsight is a wonderful counselor.” She had met Oesc a time or two when he was Artor's hostage, and thought him a pleasant, if rather dour, young man. How had he ended up married to this virago? “He sent me because I know what it is to lose a husband,” she continued. “Artor will be waiting for us in Cantium.”

“With Oesc's ashes.” Rigana's narrow shoulders slumped. “At night I lie awake, remembering all our bitter words. And yet I loved the man, even though he was Saxon and the heir of my family's ancient enemy.”

“Artor loved him too,” said Igierne quietly.

Together, the two women started along the path that wound about the edge of the rock. The stone wall was low here, a protection for those inside rather than a defense, for no boat could live among the rocks at the base of the sheer cliff that faced the dancing glitter of the sea. They picked their way thorugh the tumbled remains of beehive-shaped huts where monks had lived until Gorlosius turned Dun Tagell into a guardpost, following the curve of the rock back towards the hall.

“Oesc trusted him—” Rigana said bitterly. “He would not have turned against his own folk for my sake, but I think he might have done so, if Artor had called.”

“He went to war with Artor for your sake,” Igierne reminded her.

“Do you think I haven't blamed myself for that, too?”

“Blame Cataur—”

“Who goes unpunished!” Rigana exclaimed.

“Not entirely. I am told he will never sit a horse again.”

“Artor should have killed him! He taunted me—called me a whore who had sold out to my country's enemy for the sake of a warm bed and a crimson gown!”

They had stopped once more. Below them the sea shone luminous as emerald in the slack water by the shore.

“He wanted to,” answered Igierne, “but he needed Cataur's men. The greater good outweighed the desire for revenge—a lesson you will have to learn if you are to hold Cantium until your son is grown.”

“Is
that
what Artor intends?” Rigana's eyes widened.

“Cantium is the Eastern Gate of Britannia. Artor trusted Oesc to hold it for him, and promised it to Oesc's son. You are of the old blood of the land. Until Eormenric comes of age, you will be Cantium's queen. You will have to choose a good man to lead the house-guard—” She stopped, for Rigana was not listening.

Overhead gulls darted and soared, squabbling. Rigana had turned towards the hall, and Igierne heard a fainter cry above the mewing of the birds.

“Eormenric—” Rigana crossed her arms above her breasts, where a dark stain was already spreading as her milk let down in response to the baby's cry, and hurried down the path.

Igierne followed more slowly, bracing herself against memories that surged like the waves of the sea. In her mind's eye, the bright afternoon gave way to moonlight, and once more she saw Uthir coming towards her. When a cloaked figure rose up before her, she was not surprised, and reached out eagerly.

“Lady . . . I greet you.. . .”

A woman's voice—Igierne recoiled, blinded by the light of day. Someone seized her hand and pulled her back to the path, and she stood shaking with reaction.

The woman who was holding her was a little bent, with grey in her hair, wrapped in a grey shawl. It took a moment for Igierne to realize that the glimmer of light around the stranger was no failure of vision, but the aura of power. She took a deep breath, centered herself, and looked again.

“You are Hæthwæge, Oesc's wisewoman,” she said then. “Merlin has told me about you.”

Hæthwæge smiled, and suddenly she did not seem so old. “And all Britannia knows the Lady of the Lake.” Her nod was the salutation of one priestess to another. “I am glad that you have come.”

To Igierne's relief, she used the British speech, accented but clear. “Do
you
understand why Artor kept Rigana here?”

The wisewoman's gaze grew bleak. “To keep her safe until Oesc's Wyrd was accomplished. The runes told me what had to be. I loved him dearly, but I knew his life would not be long. Now he goes back to the land.”

Igierne looked at her with sudden calculation. That the Saxon woman had power was clear—but what, besides the runes, did she know?

“A time of peace is coming in which our peoples must learn to live together,” she said slowly. “And it seems to me that as the years pass, those of us who follow the old ways, both Saxon and Briton, will find we have more in common with each other than we do with the priests of the Christians. You would be welcome at the Lake, to teach our young priestesses, and learn our mysteries.”

Hæthwæge stopped short, her gaze gone inward as if she were listening. Then she laughed. “I would like that well, but you must know that where I go, there also goes the god I serve. He has always been very willing to learn from women, and I may teach what I have learned from him. But my duty lies now with Oesc's young son. Until Eormenric is taken from the care of women, I must stay by him. If you are still willing, when that day arrives I will come to you.”

“I understand,” said Igierne, “and Rigana is fortunate to have you at her side. But we have a journey to make. While we bear each other company, let us share what wisdom we may.. . .”

The harvest was in and the first storm of autumn had swept the west country, cleansing the land and setting the first touch of vivid color in the leaves. But when it was past, the gods seemed to have regretted their threat of winter, for the skies cleared and the air grew warm once more. The Vale of Afallon lay in dreaming peace, and the hills that sheltered it basked beneath the sun.

Even at the villa, where the family of Prince Leodagranus had gone to escape the heat of Lindinis, the air was hot and still. Guendivar, clad in the sheerest linen tunica her mother would permit her, untied the waist cord to let the garment flow freely from the brooches that held it at the shoulders and still felt rivulets of perspiration twining across her skin. Even the wool she was spinning felt slick beneath her fingers. She detached them distastefully and tossed the spindle onto the bench that ran along the covered porch.