by Anya Seton
It was hard to act confident when there was the continual mumbling behind them, and the spot between his shoulder blades tingled with awareness that a whistling spear might land there any minute.
“Don’t speak,” said Regan through the side of her mouth.
He nodded. All these Britons had ears keen as bats, and a knowledge of woodcraft like the wild things. Pendoc, don’t get lost! Quintus implored silently, for the Belgics just behind watched the potter’s every move as he led the two others. It was obvious that this was a test. No stranger could have found his way through the forest toward the great plain. If Pendoc hesitated, it seemed certain that Quintus would end up in this country in much the same way Gaius had. And that, thought Quintus grimly, was definitely not my plan.
At last, and suddenly, they emerged from the forest and looked down a slope toward a winding blue river. “Avon,” grunted Pendoc pointing. “The river.” His scarred lip lifted, and he turned squarely on his pony to face the Belgic leader. He pointed again across the river. “Beyond that hill is a ditch,” he said, “and a village called Og, and many long earth tombs made by the people of the past, and further toward the west there stands the Great Temple of the Stones.”
The Britons consulted sourly amongst themselves, then the leader spoke. “It is so. You at least are not a stranger.” He darted one more suspicious look at Quintus, ignored the girl, and signalling to his band, trotted down the slope toward the river.”That’s the last of them, I hope,” observed Quintus as Pendoc led them on upstream toward the ford.
“I think so,” Regan sighed, her tense fingers relaxing on the bridle. She glanced back across her shoulder at the sun which had climbed halfway up the eastern sky, “Hurry,” she said. “We must reach Conn Lear before the ceremony starts at midday.”
They had not many miles to cover, and it was easy riding over the rolling fertile chalk plains where tracks were plainly marked. They passed earthwork forts, villages, and dozens of turf-covered mounds, which contained ancient burials. Soon after they crossed the river, they entered an avenue of single stones mounted on high banks on either side of them. And now they were no longer alone. Increasing hordes of people were trudging or riding along this processional way that led to their temple. Each man, woman, and child held in his hand an offering of growing corn or wheat or flax. Their mood was quiet and reverential. There were a few curious glances, but nobody molested the three who rode on silently until they topped a hill and looked down to the plain below, then Quintus let out a cry of wonder. He had expected a few crude stones, dotted helter-skelter like some rings he had seen up north. He had expected to be much amused at the contrast between this savage temple and the magnificent buildings he had known in Rome.
But there was nothing amusing about Stonehenge. It was awe-inspiring in sheer monstrous bulk. Thirty stone megaliths stood in the outer circle, each one as high as three men, and each pair topped with great fiat boulders to make a continuous roof. Within the outer circle, Quintus could see other rows of stone, tons of them--a forest of stone--but more massive, and even in the full noon light, more sinister and brooding, than ever a tree forest grew.
“But how could those enormous things be upended and then made to support others?” Quintus cried. “And where could they have come from?” he added, staring around the barren grassy plain.
“Ah, I don’t know,” said Regan smiling, though her eyes were misty from the joy of seeing again the temple of her childhood memory. “This place has always been here--always. No doubt in the beginning of the world, Lugh built it for himself--with magic. That is what Conn Lear used to say. I only know that the ancient folk worshiped here as we do now.”
It must certainly be some sort of magic that set these great stones here, Quintus thought as they approached. He tried to count the silent looming megaliths--ninety, a hundred--two hundred? His eyes swam, and not entirely from the sun. There was a strange sensation that flowed out from the forest of stones.
“Yes,” said Regan watching him. “You feel the enchantment. It is always so here. We must walk now,” she added on a brisker note. They had reached a fence of wooden posts set across an opening north of the great ditch that surrounded Stonehenge. Regan and Quintus dismounted, tethering the ponies by a pen full of small, sacred white bulls. They returned to join the people who were, one by one, filing through a gate, and passing a flat stone within the posts, which they touched. They began to chant
“Lugh!” the people chanted on two notes, “Lugh--give blessing!” They raised their faces to the bright sky and walked thus with arms outstretched amongst the great stones.
A tall young man dressed in a leaf-green robe stood by the entrance, watching the crowds go in. He held a silvery birch wand in one hand, and a small harp was slung over his shoulder.
“Ah, that’s a Bard,” said Regan with glad recognition. “I must speak to him.”
The Bard, who belonged to a minor class of Druid, smiled and touched Regan’s hand in greeting, as she showed him her brooch. Timidly she asked for the Arch-Druid and the Bard frowned a little.
“Conn Lear,” answered the Bard, bowing at the name, “is in his secret retreat, preparing for the ceremony. You can not disturb him now, nor until sunset when the rites will be over.” He spoke a very pure and solemn Celtic, because like all Bards he had been trained for recitation.
Quintus followed the Bard’s words anxiously and was so dismayed that he cried without thinking, “But Regan, I can’t wait that long, you know I’ve got to get on my--”
He bit off the last word, while fiery heat rushed over him in a wave of shame. For he had spoken in Latin. And the young Bard had turned lithely like a cat and was surveying him with a detached chill gaze.
“This is a strange language to hear at our temple gate,” the Bard said quietly. We do not welcome Romans here--no matter how--artfully--disguised.”
You fool, you blasted impulsive fool! thought Quintus to himself. He knew there was no use pretending he was a Silure now. This Bard was obviously highly intelligent and in a subtle way more threatening than any band of savage Belgics. The Bard turned his cold considering eyes on Regan, who was also flushed and frightened. “You, maiden,” said the Bard, “I find it most peculiar that you should bring a disguised Roman here--that you should ask for Conn Lear--I’m not unmindful of what has been done to Druids throughout the land--by Romans--nor that there has been treachery and spying--” His suddenly menacing glance swung on Pendoc who was standing a little way off, then moved to a group of fully armed men who were clustered outside the gate. Quintus with a sinking heart saw that the Belgics had arrived and were amongst them.
“You are wrong, O Bard--in your suspicions!” Regan cried at last in a shaking voice. ‘Take me at once to Conn Lear, for I am his granddaughter.”
The young Bard’s lips thinned; he looked at Regan’s Icenian tartan. “I have never heard that the Arch-Druid had a granddaughter,” he said imperturbably. “Nobody can disturb Conn Lear now. I think it safer that you never see Conn Lear at all. I think--” He glanced again toward the party of warriors and raised his wand.
He’s going to put us under guard or worse! thought
Quintus, while Regan, realizing the same thing, suddenly grabbed his hand. “Run, Quintus!” she cried. “Run--INTO the temple!”
Before the startled Bard could stop them they darted past him, and Regan, dragging herself and Quintus to the ‘Heel’ stone that guarded the temple gate, cried “I claim protection! The protection of Lugh!”
The Bard ran up to them, and stopped.
“You can’t touch us!” cried Regan, panting.
“I see you know the ancient law,” answered the Bard, frowning. “Go then to the stone of safety and stay there without moving--or--you know the penalty?”
She bowed her head and silently walked forward a little way with Quintus, until they entered the edge of the great outer ring of megaliths. Here there was a boulder, different from the others in shape and colour. An
d a branch of mistletoe lay on it. “We must stay here,” she said to Quintus, sinking down on the stone. “We’re safe for as long as the ceremony lasts.”
“And then?” said Quintus.
“And then we MUST get to Conn Lear.”
Quintus tightened his lips and glanced back through the posts where he saw Pendoc’s sandy-red head towering amongst the horned helmets of the Belgics. They’ve got Pendoc under guard, he thought.
“Regan--there’s no use saying it--but when I think how I’ve run you into danger--why I didn’t keep my cursed mouth shut--how I could forget--I’m always acting first and thinking afterward--” He pounded his clenched fist on the stone.
“Never mind,” she whispered gently. “It’s done. It’ll be all right--as--as soon as we can get to Conn Lear.”
Quintus thought a moment. ‘The Arch-Druid must be going to officiate, isn’t he? When you see him in there”--he indicated the dim place of the altar through the concentric rows of megaliths--“can’t you run to him, tell him who you are?”
She shook her head and gave a quivering sigh. “Look over behind that stone, and that one.”
Then he saw that half hidden by the shadows stood two figures in white robes, silently watchful--and beside each figure there was the gleam of a golden spear. “They’d not let me run far,” said Regan grimly. “Those are Druids-of-Justice. This stone of safety where we are sitting used to be called the Slaughter Stone. It might become so again.”
The gods be merciful to us, Quintus thought. He did not invoke either Roman gods or Celtic gods; it was a general fervent prayer for help. The sun beat down on them. From inside the stone circle, where the people were all crowded, there came the rhythmic chant to Lugh. The Bard in green walked by without looking at them, while he strummed harsh monotonous notes on his little harp. He passed into the temple. The Belgic warriors filed in, all but those who had remained to guard Pendoc outside. Then Quintus and Regan were alone except for the white figures in the shadows. If it had not been for them, Quintus would have taken her hand and held it close in his. He could no longer deny tenderness for her, mingled as it was with shame that his own stupidity had brought them to this. She seemed very small and helpless as she sat there beside him on the stone, her head drooped, while the sunlight struck gleams in her soft curly hair. Despite all the dangers they had passed through, he had never seen her lose courage, but he could tell from the strained look around her lovely eyes and the tightness of her red mouth that she was trying to hide fear now.
“Cara--” He whispered the little Latin word for “darling,” but so low she did not hear. “You mustn’t be frightened,” he said more loudly. “We’ve both got out of far worse troubles than this.”
“I know,” she said, trying to smile, “but it’s so frightening not to be able to get to him--you see he is merciful, but the Druids-of-Justice are not. I think they won’t touch me, because of this brooch, unless I try to leave the stone, but you--the minute the ceremony is over--” She
twisted her hands together and was silent.
Yes, Quintus thought, they’ll finish me off. Roman eyes would certainly not be allowed to see the sacred rites and live. A fine secret agent you turned out to be! said Quintus to himself. The mission to Gloucester! He had been so confident of success when they left Chichester--when?--less than two days ago. It seemed like months. And he was only halfway now--if indeed there was ever to be any more journeying for him.
At a stir in the temple, he roused himself from his black thoughts. Wild and strident music burst out, the clamour of bagpipes, and harps, and voices.
“Look!” whispered Regan, straining forward. “There is Conn Lear!”
Quintus followed her gaze and saw between the stones, far on the other side of the temple, that a procession was filing in through the sacred Druid entrance. There were barefoot, white-robed priests waving branches of mistletoe and oak leaves. There was a white bull with a garland of wheat around its neck, its horns tipped with gold. And at the end there walked a strange impressive figure, also in white. On his head there was a golden crown set between grey feathers like wings.
The Arch-Druid’s arms were raised in invocation, his face was turned up to the sky while he marched steadily toward the centre of the temple and the altar stone.
The music grew louder, as the Arch-Druid passed amongst the stones. The people nearby fell to their knees crying, “Lugh--shine on us. Lugh! Lugh!” The sun beat down upon the altar where had been placed corn and wheat for blessing. The white bull was led beside the altar, and two of the Druids held it by the horns.
The ancient ceremony began, solemnly. And it went on a long time with complicated ritual, of which Regan and Quintus could see little from their stone. But there was one moment when Quintus saw the flash of a golden sickle in the Arch-Druid’s hand, and saw it descend swiftly toward the bull. The bull fell without a sound. The blood from its neck dripped on the altar, and the people cried out in ecstasy. This was not very different from the sacrifices to the gods in Rome, and Quintus recognized the rites of blood to purify the land and make it fertile for the coming year. But there were other parts of the ceremony he did not understand. Strange dances with mistletoe and with oak leaves, and hooded women in black who circled the altar and gave forth wailing cries.
The ceremonies went on until the sun had slanted toward the west and touched a stone which had been in shadow before. Then the Arch-Druid stepped up on this stone and began to speak to the hushed people. Quintus could hear his deep resonant voice, but not what he was saying, yet the voice seemed to exert a heavy thrall. Quintus grew drowsy, almost lulled. He ceased to fear the watching figures; he ceased to thrash and plan and worry over his chances of getting away. He glanced at Regan and saw that she too was calmed, the strain had left her listening face. It was exalted.
The hours passed until sunset, and Quintus, suddenly awakening from his dream, saw that the time of their safety was nearly over. The red light was dying and only a half circle of sun showed above the hill to the west.
The Arch-Druid ceased talking and pointed toward the sun. At once the thousand voices renewed their frenzied chant and fear came back to Quintus. He saw that the procession was beginning to form, and that it would take the Arch-Druid back the way he had come, far away from them. He saw the Bard in green suddenly appear between the nearest stones and look at them with steely eyes. He saw the white Druids-of-Justice move their golden spears from the left hand to the right.
Regan saw all these things too, and she saw Conn Lear turn his back to go, but the-fear and confusion which had paralyzed her, melted away. Just as the sun dipped out of sight, she seized the sprig of mistletoe from off their stone of safety and, standing on the stone, raised the mistletoe high above her head, so that the waxy white berries and pale green leaves caught the last sunray. And she cried out with all her might, “Conn Lear! Conn Lear! Come to me! It is Regan, daughter of your daughter, who calls!”
The Druids-of-Justice lifted their spears, while Quintus held his breath. It seemed the girl’s voice could not reach that distance through the chanting. For one moment the Arch-Druid did not move, then he turned slightly in their direction. Regan stood with her arms held out to him.
Quintus’ heart thundered in his chest, and he took a deep breath. For slowly, slowly, with ponderous steps, the Arch-Druid walked from the sanctuary and came toward them.
Conn Lear moved through the maze of megaliths toward the stone of safety, and the people made way for him on either side. At last he stood and looked at Regan, then he smiled a little. His piercing hypnotic eyes softened.
“You have been frightened, poor child,” he said in a deep tender voice. “You did not trust my powers? Yet you have been protected in all your journeying. I knew that you were here, and no harm could have come to you--or”--he turned his wise old face toward Quintus--“or the Roman you have brought--a young man I have met before.” Regan knelt down at the Arch-Druid’s feet and placed her cheek agains
t his hand. “I was frightened,” she whispered, “for we seemed surrounded by enemies, and I could not get to you.”
“It was written that way in the omens and in the stars,” said Conn Lear solemnly. ‘Through fears and evils you must win to safety. As,” he added, “much else is written for the future too, which will in time come to pass.”
The Bard had crept up behind, afraid to speak but listening intently. The two Druids-of-Justice also had come near them, and one now spoke, saying “Great Master of Wisdom, this Roman--he has watched the sacred rites, he must not be allowed to go from here--alive. Great Master, do you not remember the dream? That a traitor would come to us in disguise--a Roman soldier who is on his way to summon other Romans to be our enemies!”
The Arch-Druid held up his hand, while his face grew sad and his eyes looked toward the sunset as though seeing something in the sky. “I remember the dream, and the prophecies too, Druid-of-Justice. Nevertheless, I say this Roman shall live, and shall continue on his way untouched--Enough!” he cried in a voice of absolute command, as the Druid-of-Justice seemed about to protest “I have spoken.”
Under the impact of the fierce burning gaze, the man turned pale, and bowing, slunk away.
“Release my granddaughter’s man, Pendoc,” said Conn Lear to the Bard, then turning to Regan added, “Come, I will now talk to you--and the Roman.”
CHAPTER VI
The arch-druid lived in a circular stone house in a large grove of ancient oaks to the north of Stonehenge. There were other buildings in the sacred grove which contained a sort of college where Druid priests lived and instructed those who aspired to join the order. There was a school for the green-robed Bards, where they were taught the poetic branches of Druidic lore, while another school taught more practical learning to a different rank of Druids called Ovates.
While Quintus and Regan followed Conn Lear they saw various members of the priesthood walking back and forth conversing earnestly. There was a hushed feeling in the grove, where twilight made mysterious shadows amongst the darkening oak leaves. The dread of violence fell away from Quintus. When they actually entered the Arch-Druid’s strange home, all turbulence gave place to awed quietness.