by Anya Seton
Quintus found himself in a large round room hung with woven cloth on which were painted trees and symbols. There were five-pointed stars, the sun, the crescent moon, a cup that glowed red as rubies, and balls of mistletoe. These symbols and many others were so artfully painted that the great room really seemed to be in the open amongst the trees; while the stars, the mistletoe, and all the other objects on the branches seemed as real as the bright fire that sparkled on a little hearth near the door. And the room smelled of incense, a pungent woodsy perfume that drifted in blue smoke from a bronze brazier. There were a few wooden benches and a table and couch, dimly visible by the light of flickering lamps, but it certainly was not these, nor even the tapestries, that gave the room such an odd feeling. It was the huge column in the centre, and it took Quintus several moments to realize that the column was a living tree. An enormous oak that grew through the Arch-Druid’s house and spread its leaves high above the thatched roof.
“O Conn Lear” cried Regan, clasping her hands. “I remember this room of the sacred tree and this lovely smell, though it was so long ago--and the painted forest too!” She walked to the tapestries and touched them softly with childlike pleasure.
The Arch-Druid’s austere face relaxed as he looked at her. “Aye, little one,” he said, “you have been a long time in the fierce land of the Icenians--it was necessary--it was your destiny. But now you shall stay with me awhile.”
Quintus felt an unjustified pang as he saw the leap of delight in the girl’s eyes. What better provision than this could there be for Regan? And what right had he to feel bleak disappointment that he must leave her now and go on with a Roman soldier’s mission, alone.
“Sit down, Quintus Tullius,” said Conn Lear suddenly, in Latin. “Indeed,” he smiled, seeing Quintus’ surprise, “I can speak your language when I wish to and I remember your name from our meeting last autumn upon the Kentish road.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” said Quintus uncomfortably, as he thought of his futile attempt to capture this same priest then. “I was but following orders.”
“Even so,” agreed Conn Lear calmly.
The Arch-Druid had removed his gold and feathered crown to reveal his head half shaven in the Druid’s tonsure. Beneath his grey beard, Quintus could see hanging the mottled stone like a serpent skin, suspended on gold wire--but Quintus felt no impulse toward ridicule as he had on their first meeting.
Conn Lear--even seated on a simple wooden bench, in this queer stone house in the wilds of Britain--was the most majestic figure that Quintus had ever seen. Far more so than Governor Suetonius--or, thought Quintus, startled, than the Emperor, than the great Augustus Nero, whose plump dissipated young face rose in his mind. At once Quintus checked this treasonable thought. He rose and, slightly ashamed of having been led into such an unpatriotic comparison, cried sharply, “I can’t stay here, Conn Lear. I must be on my way. Your granddaughter has promised.”
He stopped as Regan gave a little moan and running to the Arch-Druid, knelt at his feet. “Yes, it’s true,” she cried, “my worshipful grandfather. And forgive me that I brought the Roman here. But you will know how to persuade him and turn him from his purpose! You have arts, Conn Lear, that will make him see that what he’s going to do is terribly wrong.”
Quintus gasped. And then he frowned. “Regan! You promised me! I trusted you. Because you speak so fast in Celtic, do you think I don’t understand what you’re saying? You promised that you’d set me on the way to Gloucester!”
She raised her head and stared at him. Her face had gone white as the Arch-Druid’s robe, her lips trembled as she answered fiercely, “Yes, I promised--IF you wished to go on.”
“But you thought I wouldn’t wish to? You meant all along to get Conn Lear to--to hypnotize me--I suppose, as he did on the Kent road--to change my mind! Regan, now I see that, coming of different races, you and I, we think differently. I’ve been a fool to trust you.” He gulped and turned his angry gaze from Regan to the Arch-Druid, whose mouth curved and who stood up, separating the two excited young people, and said, “Peace!--Quintus Tullius, you shall go to Gloucester, as my daughter’s daughter has promised!”
“But Conn Lear--” cried Regan desperately, turning on him. “You don’t know--Quintus goes to summon a legion, he goes to add to this killing--this torrent of violence and blood. Conn Lear, make him see that Romans have no right in our land. Make him see they must go back to their own place. Don’t let him add yet more to the misery that’s come to us--and that has turned--my foster mother, Boadicea--into a--devil!”
She crumpled suddenly and, hiding her face in her grandfather’s robe, burst into tears.
Conn Lear bent down. His long wrinkled hand stroked her head gently. “Poor child,” he said. His old face became very sad, the piercing eyes were veiled, as though they looked inward and had forgotten Quintus, who stood by uncomfortably while his anger ebbed. Yet Quintus refused to let himself feel pity for Regan, as he held sharp and firm to his purpose. He watched the Arch-Druid warily, guarding against any magical spell.
After a moment Conn Lear sighed and straightened up; sternness tinged the sadness of his features and he spoke in the chanting voice he had used in the stone temple--the voice of prophecy.
“It will be as it will be, Regan,” he said solemnly. “I have consulted all the sacred oracles. They have spoken. There will be blood and yet more blood--there will be anguish--for our people--and in the end . . .” He shut his eyes, and when he opened them, looking directly at Quintus, he did not finish in the same voice, but in a lower more normal tone. “And you--young Roman soldier--you will go to summon the Second Legion from Gloucester, as it is your destiny to do, but--” He shook his head, a peculiar smile flitted across his eyes. “No matter,” he said, “you will find out for yourself.”
Quintus’ relief almost made him dizzy. “Then I’d like to leave at once--Conn Lear,” he' cried. He heard Regan give a stifled gasp and he kept himself from looking at her.
“You shall leave when you have eaten,” said the Arch-Druid. “My own servant will guide you. There is but one stipulation. Your way for some miles west will pass through a land of holy wells and groves where the sacred plant is. There are things there you may not see, nor do I wish you to remember what you have already seen this day. I am going to give you the herb of forgetfulness.”
“No!” cried Quintus, starting back, all his fears aroused again. “So after all, you’d trick me into forgetting my mission!”
Conn Lear’s mouth tightened. “You are stupid, Quintus Tullius! Do you think I could not make you forget your mission without warning you? Do you dare think I lie when I say you will get to Gloucester? This drug will dim your memory of only this one day. No more.”
“And if I refuse to take the drug?”
“Then you will remain here until you do.”
Quintus set his teeth. He had no alternative except to trust the old Druid, and indeed he instinctively did so. But Jupiter Maximus, Quintus thought, the weird and unpredictable things that kept happening to him in this country! And with the thought came remembrance of the quest that had first brought him to this land.
“Conn Lear,” said Quintus suddenly, “perhaps I’ve taken the drug of forgetfulness already, for all this day I’ve not thought of the reason I so wished to see your Great Temple of the Stones.”
“And what is that reason?” asked the Arch-Druid rather absently, leaning his head on his hand.
“A hundred years ago, my great-grandfather, one Gaius Tullius, a Roman who came with Julius Caesar, was killed near here by--”
“Stop!” thundered Conn Lear. He rose and drew himself to his full great height. His eyes flashed blue fire at the astounded Quintus. “Say no more, or I shall forget my mercy and my kindness! So it was YOUR ancestor who first invaded our peaceful plain here, whose filthy bones did desecrate our holiest place! By Lugh himself, had I known this--” His hand moved to the magic stone on his breast, a dreadful stillness flowed over
his tall white figure.
“Conn Lear!” cried Regan in fear, as she watched the change in her grandfather. “It’s not Quintus’ fault! He only seeks the bones of his ancestor to give them proper burial.”
“And shall never find them!” The fierce voice resounded through the room. “That Roman brought a curse upon us. A curse--” he repeated. His long old body shuddered as though he suppressed the violence of his thoughts. But his hand slowly dropped from the serpent stone. Then he clapped his palms sharply together. At once a lad in a red tunic ran in carrying dishes of smoking meat and a jug of mead.
“Eat,” said Conn Lear coldly to Quintus. “And drink!” As he said this he pulled from under his robe a little bag made from the grey furry skin of the sacred hare. He opened the pouch and took out a pinch of greenish powdered herb which he dropped in Quintus’ cup. Then he poured the mead in. “Drink!” He held the cup to Quintus’ lips.
Quintus drew back. “A moment ago you had hatred in your eyes, Conn Lear. Can I believe this is some simple herb of forgetfulness!”
“Grandfather--” whispered Regan, putting her hand on his arm. “I too am afraid--don’t harm him for I--I--“
What was it she whispered lower yet so that Quintus could not hear? Anger gradually left the Arch-Druid’s face and was replaced by the sadness. “Sorrow, sorrow,” he murmured as though to himself. “Always He lurks in waiting, the dark god of the shadows--whose name must not be uttered.”
He roused himself and turned impatiently to Quintus. “Drink the mead in safety--O Unbelieving Roman--the dark god will not come for you through me--and you know in your heart that the Arch-Druid of all the Britons does not speak with double tongue.”
Quintus looked at Regan suddenly and caught on her unguarded face a look of yearning directed at him. Her lips formed the word “Please....”
Quintus bowed his head and quietly began to drink. The mead was sweet and cool, faintly aromatic. He finished the cup and waited for some strange sensation. But there was none. He heard Regan give a little sigh of relief. She walked over and smiled down at him. “Now eat,” she said matter-of-factly, “and I will too. We’ve had no food since dawn.” She took her dish of meat, and sat down by Quintus on a bench.
The Arch-Druid glanced once toward them, then moved abstractedly to the other side of the great round room to a window cut between the tapestries. For some moments he sat at a table and seemed to be writing. Then he went to the window. He opened it and stood gazing out toward the stars, murmuring some brooding incantation. The huge oak trunk in the centre nearly hid his white figure from Quintus and Regan, and while they ate, a new intimacy came to them. They sat very close together on the bench. Quintus was intensely conscious of the warmth of her slender body, and of the silken feel of her long hair as it brushed his arm. He wanted to put his arm around her. He felt a tightness in his throat as she looked up at him sideways through her lashes. A dimple he had never noticed appeared near her mouth, and she said, “But Quintus, you’re not eating! Don’t you like the flavouring of this roast lamb? Conn Lear’s cooks are supposed to be so good!”
“I think you know very well why I’ve stopped eating, Regan,” said Quintus, looking steadily into her face. She coloured and dropped her eyes, but the dimple was still there as she said, “Oh, I do hope it isn’t the herb of forgetfulness that’s spoiled your appetite! But truly if Conn Lear says it’s not harmful it isn’t.”
“No,” he answered, very low, on a harsh breath, “it’s not the herb--Cara.”
She had put her dish down and now her hands clenched on a fold of her robe. The dimple vanished. “Why do you call me that?” she whispered, and he felt her shoulder tremble.
“Because it means ‘beloved.’ I love you, Regan.”
Her own breathing quickened. She held herself still and tight, but he could see the shaking of her heart beneath the thin wool bodice.
“You must not,” she whispered at last. “It is forbidden. . . Her shadowed eyes moved to the distant figure of the Arch-Druid. “There can never be love between us, never--”
“But there is!”
She made a sharp sound in her throat, and slowly as though against her will she raised her face.
He kissed her, not in the quick and grateful way he had done when she rescued him from Boadicea’s camp, but warmly, passionately. The hard kiss of a man, and she responded as a woman. To them their kiss lasted an eternity or a second, it had no dimension--except beauty; then realization crept in, and pain.
His arms fell from her, she turned away her face, which was wet with sudden tears. The Arch-Druid had not moved, he still gazed out toward the stars.
“Cara--my Regan--I’ll come back to you. Wait for me here--I’ll come back. I don’t know how or where--but after--”
“ ‘After . .’ “ she repeated in a despairing lifeless voice. “After you’ve done your duty as a Roman soldier--after your people and mine have slaughtered each other. It’s no use, Quintus. Yes, I love you, but there can never be a future for us.”
“How CAN you say that!” he cried. “When now we both admit the love that’s between us, when we both knew as we kissed that we belong to each other! That’s changed everything.”
She shook her head, tears slipped down her cheeks, but she gave a weary little smile. “You won’t remember what we’ve said, Quintus. Nor our kiss. Otherwise, I couldn’t have let it happen.”
“Not remember! You mean the drug? Why, that’s impossible!”
“Conn Lear is never wrong,” she whispered, “and yet--oh, may all our gods forgive me--I want you to remember someday. Remember a little.” Her hand went to the brooch that clasped her mantle; the bronze brooch decorated with Celtic scrolls and the ruby enamel Druidic emblem of a tiny snake. “Quick, take it--and keep it hidden.” She fastened it inside his woollen tunic next to his heart, while she glanced quickly toward Conn Lear’s back. “At least it will help to keep you safe. And I’ll pray--pray to Lugh for you.”
“Regan--!” He seized her hands, so overcome with emotion that he could not command his voice. Nor did he ever say the things to her he wished to, because the Arch-Druid turned from the window and walked toward them around the great tree trunk. Quintus dropped Regan’s hands and was silent.
“The Star of the North has mounted high in the sky above the Sign of the Warrior, Quintus Tullius,” said Conn Lear, looking sombrely down at the young people. “It is time for you to go.” He raised his voice and called “Bran!”
A strange creature shambled into the room and, kneeling at the Arch-Druid’s feet, made gobbling noises. In Rome Quintus had seen big apes that had come in the galleys from Africa. This creature was like an ape with its short body clothed in otter skins, long powerful arms and a round head covered with matted rusty-black hair. But between the flattened nose and the low jutting forehead the eyes were bright and intelligent. Conn Lear drew the creature to one side, handed him a large deerskin bag, and seemed to be giving instructions, though he spoke in a swift dialect Quintus could not follow, and was answered by inhuman gobbling noises.
“This is Bran,” said the Arch-Druid, walking back to Quintus. “My servant He belongs to the little people of the west who were here in the old, old days, even before my own race, the Celts, came to this land. He will guide you to Gloucester.”
Quintus bowed. “Thank you, Conn Lear.” Through the desolation in his heart and his consciousness of Regan beside him still, he tried to examine his peculiar guide. “Doesn’t he speak?”
The Arch-Druid frowned. “He does not speak--because he has no tongue.” He gestured, and Bran came to Quintus and opened his mouth to disclose a scarred and pulpy stump where the tongue had been.
Quintus drew in his breath, and the Arch-Druid went on coldly. “It was necessary, for once Bran talked too much. Those who know some of our secrets cannot be allowed to tell of them.”
Quintus swallowed. Would this have been his fate too, if it had not been for Regan?
“Now
GO!” said the Arch-Druid. He raised his arm and pointed toward the door, and as Quintus turned instinctively toward the girl, Conn Lear stepped between them, blotting her from Quintus’ sight. “There is nothing for you to say to her, Roman!” added the grim voice. “GO!” The piercing blue gaze fastened itself with power on Quintus as it had on the Kentish road. But Quintus did not this time yield to the Arch-Druid, he yielded to reason. He dared not risk subjecting Regan to her grandfather’s anger.
“Vale,” he said in a dragging voice, “farewell,” and turned quickly.
But I will come back to her someday, somehow, he vowed, as he preceded Bran from the round stone room of the living tree.
Quintus slept a short time that night beneath a hazel bush and opened his eyes into a fine mist, through which the new-risen sun could not penetrate. An extraordinary looking man, like an ape, was squatting beside him, gnawing at a chicken drumstick.
“What in Hades are you?” cried Quintus, reaching for his spear, which lay beside him. The man put down the drumstick and made a chuckling noise. His hairy hand pawed around in a deerskin bag, and bringing out a large oakleaf he handed it to Quintus. There was some Latin writing crudely scratched on the leaf. Quintus scowled at it until he made it out. The writing said, “This is Bran who will guide you to Gloucester. Trust him.”
“Bran?” said Quintus, frowning harder for he was exceedingly puzzled. The man nodded, pounded his chest, grinned amiably, and began to gnaw the drumstick.
“Where did you come from? Where are we?” said Quintus in painstaking Celtic.
Bran shrugged, opened his mouth to show Quintus he had no tongue and could not answer.
This happened before in a dream, Quintus thought; where did I dream it? He rubbed his eyes and stared again at Bran. But where is Pendoc, he thought, and the campfire we were sitting by in the forest last night when we broiled the fish? WHERE IS REGAN?