Lady of Avalon

by Marion Zimmer Bradley

  Watching them, Caillean thought that it had been years since she had seen such joy at the Beltane reveling. Perhaps never, for the rites at Vernemeton had been inhibited by the fear of Roman disapproval, and they were still learning the ways of the land at Avalon. But that had been remedied by the joining of a son of the Druid line with a daughter of the Folk of Faerie. They could all, she thought as she surveyed the leaping dancers, take satisfaction from this night’s ceremonies.

  But no night, however joyous, could last forever. Two by two, men and women moved off to celebrate their own rites on the hillside. Others wrapped themselves in their mantles and lay down to sleep off the heather beer beside the fire. The torches of those who guarded the circle had long ago burned out, but the stones themselves cast a barrier of shadow which assured the privacy of those who lay within.

  A little before dawn, some of the younger folk went off to cut the Beltane tree and gather greenery with which to deck the buildings at the foot of the Tor. The dancing that honored the tree during the daylight, though just as joyous, was more decorous than the nighttime celebrations at the fires, and would give the uninitiated maidens and younger children who had stayed below a chance to share in the festival.

  Caillean, who had danced less and drunk less than the others, and who was accustomed to keeping vigil, watched out the night, still sitting in her great chair by the fire. But even she fell into an exhausted sleep once the shadows of night had been banished by the dawn.

  It was a beautiful day. Through the screen of leafy branches with which they had built a bothy to provide some privacy, Gawen gazed out from the top of the Tor across the patchwork of water and wood and field that basked in the sunlight of Beltane morning. He was sure he would have thought so even if he had not been so happy. True, he ached in odd places, and the lines of his new tattoos had scabbed over and pulled when the muscles flexed beneath them, but those were only surface pains, scarcely to be noted when compared with the marvelous feeling of well-being that sang through every vein.

  “Turn,” said Ambios, “and I’ll scrub your back.” He poured water over the cloth. From the other side of the partition, where Sianna was being bathed, came the sweet sound of girlish laughter.

  “Thank you,” said Gawen. Any new initiate might expect to be coddled, but there was a deference to Ambios’ service that surprised him. Was it going to be this way always? It was all very well to feel himself a king in the ecstasy of ritual, but he wondered how well it would wear from day to day.

  A twinge from his forearms brought his gaze back to the dragons. Some things, at least, had forever changed. Those tattoos were not going to go away. And Sianna was his forever.

  He finished bathing and pulled on the sleeveless tunic they had brought him, of linen dyed a living green and embroidered in gold. He had not imagined the Druids had such a splendid thing in their stores. He tied the cincture and then belted on the sword. Though the blade showed no sign of age, the leather of the sheath that had come with it was powdery, and some of the stitching had begun to give way. He would have to see, he thought as he came out from the leaf shelter, about having a new one made.

  All thoughts of the sword were driven from his mind when he saw Sianna. She was robed, like himself, in spring-green, and was just settling a fresh crown of hawthorn upon her brow. In the sunlight her hair shone like red gold.

  “Lady…” He took the hand she held out to him and kissed it. Are you as happy as I am? asked his touch.

  “My love…” Happier, her eyes replied. Suddenly he longed for the night, when they could be alone once more. She was only a human woman now, but to him the Goddess who had come to him the night before had been no more beautiful.

  “Gawen—my lord—” stammered Lysanda. “We have food for you.”

  “We had better eat,” murmured Sianna. “The feast they are preparing down below won’t be ready until after they dance around the tree at noon.”

  “I have fed,” said Gawen, squeezing her hand, “but I will be hungry again soon….”

  Sianna blushed, then laughed and pulled him toward the table where they were setting out cold meats and bread and ale.

  They were about to sit down when they heard shouting from below.

  “Do they want us to come down already?” Sianna began, but there was an urgency in those cries which did not sound right for a festival.

  “Run!” The words came clearly now. “They are coming—you must get away!”

  “It’s Tuarim!” exclaimed Lysanda, looking down the hill. “Whatever can be wrong?”

  The training that Gawen thought he had left behind him brought him to his feet, hand moving toward the hilt of his sword. Sianna started to speak, then, as she met his eyes, bit off the words and rose to stand at his side.

  “Tell me.” He strode forward as the young Druid staggered the last few steps to the flat top of the hill.

  “Father Paulus and his monks,” gasped Tuarim. “They have ropes and hammers. He says they’re going to throw down the sacred stones on the Tor!”

  “They’re old men,” said Gawen soothingly. “We’ll stand between them and the circle. They won’t be able to budge us, much less the stones, even if they have gone mad.” He found it hard to believe that the gentle monks with whom he had made music could have become such fanatics, even after a year of listening to Father Paulus’ fulminations.

  “It’s not that—” Tuarim gulped. “It’s the soldiers. Gawen, we must get you away. Father Paulus has sent to Deva and called the Romans in!”

  Gawen took a deep breath, his heart pounding in a way he hoped they could not see. He knew what the Romans did to deserters. For a moment then, he almost considered trying to flee. But he had done that once already, and if the shame of abandoning a war which was not his own and an army to which he was not sworn still burned in his belly, how could he live with himself if he deserted the folk who had hailed him as Pendragon on the Holy Tor?

  “Good!” He forced himself to grin. “The Romans are reasonable men, and their orders are to protect all religions. I’ll explain matters to them, and they will keep the Nazarenes from harming the stones.”

  Tuarim’s expression began to clear and Gawen let his breath out, hoping that what he had said was true. And then it was too late to change his mind, for Father Paulus himself, his face crimson with exertion and fury, was clambering over the edge of the hill.

  “Gawen! My son, my son, what have they done to you?” The priest took a step forward, wringing his hands, and three of his brethren appeared behind him. “Have they forced you to bow down to their idols? Has this whore seduced you into shame and sin?”

  Gawen’s amusement changed abruptly to anger, and he stepped between Sianna and the old man.

  “I have been ‘forced’ to do nothing, nor will I be! And this woman is my bride, so keep your foul tongue between your teeth regarding her!” Now the rest of the Nazarenes had reached the top of the Tor, and they did indeed have mallets and rawhide ropes. He gestured to Tuarim to get Sianna out of the way.

  “She is a demon, a snare of that great Seducer who through the temptress Eve betrayed all mankind to sin!” Father Paulus replied. “But it is not too late, boy. Even the blessed Augustine was able to repent, and he had spent all his youth in sin. If you do penance, this single failure will not be counted against you. Come away from her, Gawen.” He held out his hand. “Come with me now!”

  Gawen gazed at him in astonishment. “Father Joseph was a holy man, a blessed spirit who preached a gospel of love. To him I might have listened, but he would never have spoken such words. You, old man, have gone entirely mad!” He glared at the others, and there was something in his expression that made them step back.

  “Now it is my turn to give orders!” he said, and felt the astral presence of a royal mantle enfolding him. “You came to us as supplicants and we gave you sanctuary, and let you build your church beside our holy hill. But this Tor belongs to the old gods that protect this land. You have no r
ight to be here; your feet profane this holy ground. And so I say to you, begone, lest the mighty powers you have called demons strike you where you stand!”

  He raised his hand, and though it was empty, the monks recoiled as if he had brandished the sword. Gawen smiled grimly. In another moment they would take to their heels. Then he heard the clatter of hobnailed sandals against stone. The Romans had arrived.

  There were ten of them, under the command of a sweating decurion, the short thrusting spear they called the pilum in each hand. Barely winded, they surveyed the angry Nazarenes and the outraged Druids with an equally jaundiced eye.

  The decurion considered Gawen’s gold embroidery, apparently decided it was a mark of rank, and addressed him. “I’m looking for Gaius Macellius Severus. These monks sent word that you might be holding him.”

  Someone behind Gawen gasped, then stilled. He shook his head, hoping the man had not been in Britannia long enough to realize how clearly his own features bore the stamp of Rome.

  “We are celebrating a ritual of our religion,” he said quietly. “We constrain no one.”

  “And who are you to say so?” The decurion frowned from under his helm.

  “My name is Gawen, son of Eilan—”

  “Fool!” cried Father Paulus. “That’s Gaius himself who is talking to you!”

  The Roman’s eyes widened. “Sir,” he began, “your grandfather sent us—”

  “Seize him!” Paulus interrupted once more. “He’s a deserter from your Army!”

  A convulsive movement rippled through the file of soldiers, and while the Druids watched them, Father Paulus shoved one of his brethren toward the circle of stones.

  “Are you young Macellius?” The decurion eyed him uncertainly.

  Gawen let out his breath. If his grandfather in Deva were willing to speak for him, he might get out of this after all.

  “That’s my Roman name, but—”

  “Were you in the Army?” snapped the Roman.

  Gawen jerked around as he heard the sound of a hammer striking stone. Two of the monks had ropes around one of the pillar stones and were tugging at it, while a third was swinging at the other one.

  “Straighten up, soldier, and answer me!”

  For three long months Gawen had been conditioned to respond to that tone. Before he could think, his body had snapped to that pose of rigid attention that only legionary training could produce. In the next moment he tried to relax, but the damage had been done.

  “I never swore the oath!” he cried.

  “Others will be the judge of that,” said the decurion. “You’ll have to come with us now.”

  From the circle came a crack and the tortured shriek of rending rock as the mallet struck a fault in the stone. One of the women screamed, and Gawen turned to see the pillar stone falling in two pieces to the ground.

  “Sir, stop them!” he cried. “It’s forbidden to desecrate a temple, and this is sacred ground!”

  “These are Druids, soldier!” spat the Nazarene. “Did you think that Paulinus and Agricola had got them all? Rome does not tolerate those who use magic against her. The Druids and their rites are forbidden—your duty is to destroy any who remain!” He darted toward the second pillar, which was beginning to rock alarmingly, and started to shove. The monks with the hammers, emboldened by success, had begun to batter at another stone.

  Gawen stared at him, all memories of Rome and his own danger whirled away by a tide of royal rage. Ignoring the decurion’s commands, he strode toward the circle.

  “Paulus, this place belongs to my gods, not yours. Get away from that stone!” The voice was not his; it vibrated in the stones. The other monks blanched and stepped back, but Paulus began to laugh.

  “Demons, I deny you! Satanas, retro me!” He heaved at the stone.

  Gawen’s hands closed on the bony shoulders; he wrenched the man away and sent him sprawling to the ground. As he straightened, he heard the unmistakable scrape of a gladius being drawn from its sheath and turned, his hand going to the hilt of his own blade.

  The legionaries had their spears poised, but Gawen forced his fingers to unclose. Thoughts whirled madly. I will not shed blood on this holy ground! They did not consecrate me as a war-leader, but as a sacred king.

  “Gaius Macellius Severus, in the name of the Emperor I arrest you. Lay down your arms!” The voice of the decurion boomed across the space between them as he gestured with his sword.

  “Only if you will also arrest them.” He motioned toward the monks.

  “Your religion is outlawed, and you are a renegade,” snarled the officer. “Take off that sword or I will order my men to spear you where you stand.”

  It is my fault, thought Gawen numbly. If I had not sought out Rome, they would never have known that Avalon was here!

  But they know now, some rebellious part of his own soul answered him. Why waste your life for the sake of a few stones?

  Gawen looked at the boulders. Where was the magic that had flared from stone to stone when the Merlin appeared? They were only rocks, looking oddly naked in the full light of day, and he had been a fool to fancy himself a king. But, whatever else might be true, on that stone altar Sianna had given him her love, and he could not allow it to be soiled by Father Paulus’ unconsecrated hands. Beyond the line of soldiers he saw Sianna and tried to smile, then, lest her despair should unman him, looked quickly away.

  “I never took oath to the Emperor, but I am sworn to protect this holy hill!” he said quietly, and the ancient sword that the marsh men had given him—only last night—came sweetly into his hand.

  The decurion gestured. The wicked sharp point of a lifting pilum caught the sun. Then, suddenly, a thrown stone clanged against an iron helmet, and the pilum, released too soon, went wide.

  The other Druids were unarmed, but on the top of the Tor there were plenty of stones. A hail of missiles bombarded the legionaries. They responded. Gawen saw Tuarim pierced by a thrown pilum and go down. The other priestesses, thank the gods, were pulling Sianna away.

  Three of the soldiers trotted toward him, shields up and swords poised. Gawen dropped into a defensive crouch, batting aside the first thrust with the neat parry Rufinus had drilled into him, and continuing with a stroke that sliced through the straps holding the front and back of the body armor together and into the man’s side. The soldier yelled and fell back, and Gawen whirled to thrust at the next man, the superb steel of his sword piercing through the breastplate. The look of surprise on his face would been comical if Gawen had had time to appreciate it, but the third man was bearing down on him. He leaped inside the fellow’s guard, and as the enemy blade, descending, scraped along his back, jabbed his own up beneath the armor all the way to the heart.

  The falling body almost took the sword with it, but Gawen managed to wrench the weapon free. Four of the young Druids lay on the ground. Some of the marsh men had come up to help, but their darts and arrows were little use against Roman armor.

  “Run—” He waved at them. Why would the fools not flee while there was time? But the remaining Druids were trying to reach his side, yelling his name.

  Gawen’s charge took the Romans by surprise. One went down to his first stroke; the second got his shield up in time and slashed back at him. The blow sliced across Gawen’s upper arm, but he felt no pain. A stroke to his back made him stumble, but in the next moment he recovered, and his return blow took off the fellow’s hand. Five of them remained, plus the decurion, and they were beginning to learn caution. He might do it after all. Grinning savagely, he drove the next man who came at him back with swift strokes that whittled pieces from his shield.

  The blue dragons on Gawen’s arms were crimson now, and though he still felt nothing, much of the blood was his own. He blinked as a wave of shadow passed over him, then danced aside, a little more slowly, from another blow. It was not blood loss, he decided, risking a glance upward, where a dark mist was spreading rapidly across what had been a clear sky.

 
Caillean and Sianna, he thought grimly. They’ll rout them. I have only to hang on.

  But he still had five enemies. His sword flared as he swung it around. The legionary he was facing jumped backward, and Gawen laughed. Then, like a bolt from the heavens, something struck him between the shoulder blades. Gawen lurched forward and fell to his knees, wondering what was dragging him down, why it was suddenly so hard to breathe.

  Then he looked down and saw the evil head of the pilum protruding from his chest. He shook his head, still not believing it. It was growing dark quickly now, but not quickly enough to stop the Roman swords from stabbing into back and legs and shoulders.

  And now Gawen could see nothing. The star sword slipped from a nerveless hand. “Sianna—” he whispered, and sank down upon the holy soil of Avalon, sighing as he had the night before, when he had poured out his life in her arms.

  Chapter Eight

  “Is he dead?”

  Very gently, Caillean laid Gawen’s hand back down. Her inner senses, seeking the life force, could find only a flicker. She had had to search for a pulse to be sure.

  “He lives”—her voice cracked—“though only the gods know why.” There was so much blood! The holy earth of the Tor was soaked with it. How many years of rain, she wondered, would be needed to wash it away?

  “It is the power of the King that is keeping him alive,” said Riannon.

  “Even the courage of a king could not overcome such odds as these,” answered Ambios. He was wounded too, but not badly. Several of his fellows had died. But the Romans had died too, when the sorcerous darkness came and only those with spirit sight could tell friend from foe.

  “I should have been here,” whispered Caillean.

  “You saved us. You called the shadow…” said Riannon.

  “Too late…” Her breath caught. The darkness was gone now. If she could not see it, it was because her eyes were dimmed by tears. “Too late to save him…” She had been in her own home when the Romans came, resting to be ready for the celebrations later in the day. There was no guilt in that, they all said so. How could she have known?