She slapped his chest playfully. “If I’d known you had so much staying power, I’d have insisted we practice several nights before this.”
Gilead laughed. “’Tis exactly why I wanted to wait. I wanted to claim yer body, yer heart, and yer soul, just like the Oath says.” Gently, he pulled his arm from under her and sat up. “And if we’re going to be there for the Samhain dawn, we’d best get going.”
He walked in all his glorious nakedness to the bureau and Deidre smiled at the way his tight buttocks contracted with each step. Fifty years from now, she would still not get tired of looking at him.
He reached into the drawer that held his second-best plaid and then stopped, a mildly surprised look on his face. “By the Dagda! I had forgotten this.”
Deidre watched as he held up a cup made of an odd cast of green stone, the bronze rim reflecting the firelight from the softly glowing braziers. As he brought it closer, Deidre could see that it was actually marble.
“This is for you,” Gilead said as he handed it to her. “I found it in my grandfather’s treasures. It was the only piece like it.”
She was surprised that the marble had none of the cool feel that the stone usually did. In fact, a faint, warm vibration hummed between her hands. Deidre ran a fingertip over the rim and withdrew it quickly. The metal was almost hot, as though it had been placed over flames. She squinted and held the cup up to the firelight to look at the rim. One row of runes was etched above a fine engraved line. Another identical set of runes ran below the line. Two circles, cut through with a square, the square divided into triangles, the theme repeating itself around the rim. No beginning and no end.
The handles were a labyrinth of entwining vines embedded with roses. Deidre paused. Vines and roses, in much the same pattern she had seen on the tablecloth at Eire. The vine representing the Bloodline of Jesus and the rose that of the Magdalen, uniting the old religion with the new. Deidre’s fingers began to tingle and she looked closer. Tiny rosebuds inter-played with large, open flowers. Innocence and childhood combined with maturity and knowledge.
Knowledge. Wisdom. Deidre felt the familiar light-headedness begin to settle and she struggled to see through the misting haze in front of her eyes. The runes... each shape was a symbol of sacred geometry, repetition of the life force, divided by a line. “As above, so below.” The sum of all knowledge for those who had eyes to see.
The image of the red-haired woman from her vision floated in front of her, the cup that the maiden held out transposing itself over the cup Deidre held in her hands.
She stared down at it, trying to shut away the grey shadows. Slowly, the cup began to glow, growing warm in her hands again. She leaned against a bedpost.
“Are ye all right?” Gilead had hold of her arm, a look of concern on his face.
She looked up at him. “More than all right. You’ve found it.”
“What?” he asked in a puzzled voice.
“The cup,” she said and held it up. “This is the gar-al... the cup of stone. Or more precisely,” she added, as she looked at it in awe, “the Philosopher’s Stone.”
◊♦◊
They neared the circle of stones just before dawn. The night had been mild and a fine mist lay on the grass, tendrils gently rising here and there. Deidre had the cup carefully wrapped in a saddlebag. What was supposed to be a wondrous finish to their wedding nuptials had now turned bittersweet.
“I will have to sail to the Languedoc as soon as a ship is available,” Deidre said as Gilead helped her dismount and they unwrapped the cup. “It must be returned.”
“I know,” he said, “and ye’ve told me ye must travel alone so ye wilna be spotted by Childebert’s troops, but I doona like it. Yer cousin’s reply to Da’s letter was not over-happy. If ye get caught, ye will be held hostage. At least let me and our men sail with ye as far as Béziers.”
“We’ve been over this,” Deidre said in a patient voice. For the long ride, they had discussed little else. “If—and they will—Childebert’s men see a Scotti armed galley come sailing in, they’ll think you’re coming to take back the lands that I gave up as part of the settlement. And you’d have war. No,” she continued, without letting Gilead respond, “it’s better if I sail on a cargo ship. Shhh,” she said as he tried to speak again. “Let’s not mar our happiness with argument. I would have the Oath sacred.”
Gilead put an arm around her waist, his warm, strong fingers comforting. Deidre held the cup in front of her. Rays of bright orange and red slanted through the spaces between the stones as the sun’s rim peeped over the horizon, casting the circle in eerie light. Deidre smiled at him as they stepped through the stones.
“So you’ve come at last.”
Startled, they looked around. The circle was empty, but the voice had been full, luminous with melody. Slowly, fog rose from the ground, enfolding them in gracefully twisting spirals of vapor becoming dense enough to obscure the stones from their view, leaving them in a soft cloud of grey mist. The ethereal music that Deidre had heard before emanated from the stones again, oft and more melodious than even Drustan’s harp.
The maiden took form, her red-gold hair floating out from her head, her gossamer gown of white flowing gentry around her. She smiled at them and held out her hands. “I will take the cup.”
Deidre handed it to her. “I thought I was supposed to return it to the grotto in the Languedoc so women will once again come to power.”
“The time is not yet,” the maiden replied and the music suddenly stopped, leaving them in total stillness. “Great Darkness is coming. In the wrong hands, the power and knowledge of this cup would bring utter destruction. Better that it remain safely hidden until mankind once more emerges into the Light.” The vision smiled and the music began again. “Then, women will be treated with utmost courtesy and respect. The wisdom of the Goddess will be allowed to shine. And I think,” she said rather mischievously as her form began to fade, “you have come here for something else. I’ll not keep you from it.”
The fog dissipated as quickly as it had appeared, leaving them standing in the midst of a sun-drenched circle, a brilliant blue sky overhead.
Gilead wrapped his arms around Deidre’s waist and drew her close. “The Oath has two parts,” he said. “When we made love earlier, the first time, we joined our bodies, the second time, we connected our hearts. The third time, our minds opened to each other. And now, this,” he said as he slipped his dirk from its sheath and pulled a fresh strip of linen from his pocket, “will entwine our souls.”
Carefully, he nicked Deidre’s wrist and then his own. He pressed the small wounds together and wrapped the bandage around them. “As this strip of cloth binds us physically, the exchange of my blood for yours binds our souls. Blood unto blood, soul unto soul, ye are mine, and I am yours, for eternity.”
He bent to kiss her, and time, stretching endlessly forward, really did stand still.
Epilogue
BELTANE
Deidre surveyed the preparations in the Great Hall for the feast that would be held that evening, the bulk of her rounded belly not yet encumbering as she moved to supervise the pewter settings on the tables just below the dais. Elen’s lace table runner graced the high table. Mac Erca had sent it for, he said, he knew this love was true. Deidre smiled as she laid a hand on her stomach and felt the baby move.
“My lady,” Una said as she approached, a little breathless from trying to be in three places at once. “There is a Druid at the gate who requests an audience.”
“A Druid?” Deidre asked. There were few of them left since Christianity had taken over and the ones who remained usually stayed on the holy isle of Mona far to the south. But this was Beltane, after all, and news of this celebration had spread far.
“Show him into the family solar,” Deidre said and tried to smooth her skirt and tuck stray curls away as she hurried to the kitchen to request that wine be brought.
It took a bit of time to capture Meara’s attention with
all the bustle going on. Even though Deidre was now the lady of the holding—there had been peace in the land since the cup was returned, and Angus spent more and more of his time in Luguvalium with Formorian—it was still wise not to rile Meara.
So the Druid was already standing near the hearth, his back to her, when she entered with the warmed wineskin and two silver goblets. His long, white hair blended into the white robe he wore, banded with a rope of gold, designating his status as High Druid from wherever he came.
He turned around, his uncanny golden eyes piercing through her and rooting her to the spot. “You!” she said and almost dropped the tray.
He moved with surprising agility for an old man and steadied the tray. “I did not mean to startle you, child. I’ve come for The Book.”
Deidre tried to steady her hands as she poured his wine. This was the man who had pilfered the Stone from its hiding place deep within the sacred grotto, leaving in its place Locus Vocare Camulodunum. A magician, most had called him, for though his person and belongings were searched, not a trace of the Stone could be found, and they had to let him leave. And his robes had been blue, then.
She wasn’t sure she could trust him. “What makes you think I have The Book?”
He raised one shaggy white eyebrow, but his eagle-like gaze didn’t waver. “I only come to claim what is mine. The Stone has been returned to the Goddess, hasn’t it?”
“How did you know about that?” she asked in surprise.
He looked mildly amused. “It is my way to know of... things.”
Something in his gaze held her almost spellbound. Without her willing it, she found herself unlocking the small cabinet where she kept the book and handing it over.
He caressed the smooth leather as a lover would. “In another eight hundred years a young man named Thomas Mallory will have need of this.”
Deidre eyed him suspiciously, the fine hair on her arms beginning to stand on end. “How do you know this? Are you a sorcerer too?”
He shrugged. “Some have called me that.”
“And is that when...” In spite of the glowing coals in the brazier, a chill crept through her. “Is that when all this is supposed to happen?”
“Oh, no, dear. It’s already happened. Mallory will just write of it.”
“Nothing in that Book was true,” she said. “None of it. There is no King Arthur or Camelot for that matter. The behavior of the men I’ve witnessed is far from noble.”
The mage smiled. “Except for Gilead, I assume.” He appeared deep in thought and then he nodded, more to himself than to her. “Mallory will embellish the story, to be sure, but it is a woman, several hundred years past him, who will make the connection.”
Deidre was beginning to wonder if the old man was truly mad. He had already behaved strangely when he took residence at the shrine so many years ago. This talk of the future was something he couldn’t possibly know. Yet, her curiosity got the better of her. A woman...could she be the bearer of the wisdom the maiden had spoken of?
This time the Druid did laugh. “Nae, the woman is not the Goddess that you think,” he said, although she hadn’t spoken, “but a learned woman, nonetheless.”
In spite of the light-headed haze that was beginning to form around her head, Deidre pressed on. “You wanted me to read The Book. Why? Tell me what you know.”
He set his wine down and began to pace, his stride sturdy and his back straight for one apparently so advanced in age. “As I said,” he began, “the stories in the book are true, but mayhap not where history has placed them. A twentieth century woman named Norma Goodrich will decipher that Lancelot was actually an inaccurate translation from the Latin language into Old French. It should have been spelled “I ‘Ancelot.” An infamous mistake, as it turns out.”
Deidre furrowed her brow. “So his name is misspelled. There is no Lancelot—or l’Ancelot—here.”
“Are you sure?” The old man paused. “The Latin name was Anguselus.”
“Anguselus?” Deidre asked and then gasped. “Angus? Angus is Lancelot?” When he nodded, she frowned again. “But what of Gwenhwyfar? No one by that name—”
“Ah. ‘Gwenhwyfar’ means ‘white shadow’ in the western part of this isle,” the Druid said as he folded his hands behind him. “Here in the North, she would be called ‘Findabair,’ or ‘white phantom.’” He eyed Deidre. “You know her as ‘Formorian.’”
Deidre felt her knees go weak and she sank down into a chair. That would explain the compelling and overpowering attraction they had to each other. “And Arthur? Was he Turius?” she asked weakly.
The mage nodded, a look of sadness in his eyes. “Arturius left much to be done,” he said softly. “If only he had listened to me...” His head snapped up, his eyes suspiciously bright. “But pay no mind to me, child. I am but an old man. I will take my leave of you now.” He picked up the Book and moved toward the door.
“Wait!” Deidre called as he reached the doorway. “You’re Merlin, aren’t you?”
For a moment his eyes glowed yellow as a hawk’s and then he smiled. “It is one of the names I go by.” Before she could ask anything more, he was gone.
She sat very still, her hands trembling as she tried not to shiver. So it was all true, even if the story didn’t turn out the way she thought it would.
But then, perhaps it had. In The Book, Lancelot had been forced to marry Elaine, the daughter of the wounded Fisher King. Gilead’s grandfather had received a sword thrust to his leg that wouldn’t heal. Even though the legend clearly showed that Lancelot did not love Elaine, she had borne him a son named Galahad. Elaine. Elen. The woman whose rose on the table runner indicated she was a descendant of the Holy Bloodline.
Galahad. Gilead. Deidre had found her noble knight at last. The one man pure enough of heart to have helped her find the Philosopher’s Stone.
But maybe Galahad had found the real Holy Grail, after all.
Author’s Note
The origin of Lancelot’s identity has always lured me. Was he the mythic French knight, descended from the holy bloodline of Vivian II, Lady of the Lake; or was he, in actuality, an Irish king equal to Arthur in stature?
Dr. Norma Lorre Goodrich (King Arthur, Harper & Row, 1989) claims the latter. History shows that there was an Irish Angus ruling in the sixth century. Dr. Goodrich explains that Geoffrey of Monmouth’s (History of the Kings of Britain, Penguin Classics, 1977) Latin name for Angus would have been “Anguselus.” When Chretien de Troys translated the text into Old French, the middle syllable would have been dropped, leaving the name as An+sel+o or Anselot. De Troys referred to him as “l’Ancelot” (“the” Angus), indicating that he would have been a clan chieftain in Scotland. She believes that in a clerical error in transcription, the definite article “the” got attached to the proper noun “Ancelot” and became “Lancelot.”
Gwenhwyfar’s origins are also a mystery. Some historians claim she was Welsh, others that she was of Roman descent, and still others that she, too, was Irish-Scotch. In P.F.J. Turner’s The Real King Arthur (Quality Books, Inc., 1993) he states that the name “Guinevere” was Celtic in origin, derived from the Irish “Findabair” meaning “white phantom,” possibly because she was pale-skinned and blonde. In Celtic Myth & Magick (Llewellyn Publications, 1995) Edain McCoy argues that “Findabar” comes from the same roots in the Giodelic language as Guinevere does in the Brythonic. Findabar was the daughter of the powerful Queen Maeve and helped to slay a water demon, a symbol of the battle with the Formorians.
About the Author
An avid reader of anything medieval, Cynthia Breeding has taught the traditional Arthurian legends in high school for fifteen years and owns more than three hundred books on the subject.
She lives on the bay in Corpus Christi, Texas, with her bichon frise, Nicki, and enjoys sailing and horseback riding on the beach.
Readers can reach her through snail mail at: 3636 S. Alameda, B116, Corpus Christi, Texas 78411, or visit her Web site: www.
cynthiabreeding.com.
CAMELOT’S DESTINY
Britain, 6th century AD…a place of Pagan magic and Christian piety, a place of mystery, treachery, and dark enchantment. Here the legend of Camelot is born and, with it, bold passions and forbidden desire.
Young, lovely, and willful, fiery-tempered Gwenhwyfar is chosen by Arthur to be his wife and queen…an honor she reluctantly accepts. Soon, however, she cannot ignore the awakening passion Britain’s new king ignites. He is a lover who delights her with his touch, yet whose desires are not shared with her alone.
Seared by the forbidden kiss of Arthur’s most-trusted warrior, Lancelot, Gwenhwyfar is swept into a world of passion, torn by loyalty and love to a husband who betrays her and a man she cannot have.
But in a time where good and evil clash, where magic and chivalry reign, love will prove a weapon as powerful as any sword.
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