The Hallowed Isle Book Four

by Diana L. Paxson

  MAP

  DEDICATION

  In Memoriam

  Paul Edwin Zimmer

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To do justice to my sources for Hallowed Isle would require a bibliography the size of a chapter. These are only some of the materials which have been most useful.

  First and foremost, The Age of Arthur by John Morris, recently reprinted by Barnes and Noble. This is the best historical overview of the Arthurian period, and with a few exceptions, I have adopted his dates for events.

  For names and places, Roman Britain, by Plantagenet Somerset Fry, also published by Barnes and Noble; and the British Ordnance Survey maps of Roman Britain and Britain in the Dark Ages.

  For fauna and flora, the Country Life book of The Natural History of the British Isles.

  The History of the Kings of Britain, by Geoffrey of Monmouth, with an occasional glance at Malory’s Morte D’Arthur.

  For the history of the North, Scotland Before History, by Stuart Piggott, and W. A. Cummings’ The Age of the Picts.

  For the Anglo-Saxons, the fine series of booklets published by Anglo-Saxon Books, 25 Malpas Dr., Pinner, Middlesex, England.

  For insight and inspiration, Ladies of the Lake, by John and Caitlin Matthews, and Merlin through the Ages, edited by R. J. Stewart and John Matthews.

  And a great many maps, local guidebooks, and booklets on regional folklore.

  My special thanks to Heather Rose Jones, for her Welsh name lists and instruction on the mysteries of fifth-century. British spelling, and to Winifred Hodge for checking my Old English.

  Through the fields of European literature, the Matter of Britain flows as a broad and noble stream. I offer this tributary with thanks and recognition to all those who have gone before.

  Feast of Brigid, 1999

  CONTENTS

  MAP

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  I • THE SEED ONCE SOWN

  II • A CIRCLE OF KINGS

  III • IN THE PLACE OF STONES

  IV • THE ORCHARD

  V • THE HIGH QUEEN

  VI • A WIND FROM THE NORTH

  VII • BITTER HARVEST

  VIII • BELTAIN FIRES

  IX • THE TURNING

  X • RAVEN OF THE SUN

  EPILOGUE: REX AETERNUS

  PEOPLE AND PLACES

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO BY DIANA L. PAXSON

  COPYRIGHT

  ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

  PROLOGUE

  EARTH IS THE MOTHER OF US ALL, AND THE BONES OF OF THE earth are made of stone. Stone is the foundation of the world.

  Born from fire, stone heaves skyward, taking a thousand forms. Cooling and coalescing, it endures the wearing of water, the rasp of the wind, becomes soil from which living things can grow. The earth convulses, burying the soil, and pressure compresses it into rock once more. As age follows age, the cycle repeats, preserving the bones of plant and animal in eternal stone. The lives of her creatures are but instants in the ages of the earth, but the stone preserves their memories.

  Stone is the historian of humanity. The first primates to know themselves as men make from stone the tools that carry their identity. Time passes and the ice comes and goes again. Humans cut wood with tools of stone and build houses, till the soil and form communities. Laboring together, they drag great stones across the land, raise menhirs and barrows, great henges to chart the movements of the stars, and grave them with the spiral patterns of power.

  With boundary stones the tribes mark off their territories, but in the center of each land lies the omphalos, the navel stone, the sacred center of their world. When the destined king sets foot upon it, the stone sings in triumphant vindication for those who have ears to hear.

  But kings die, and one tribe gives way to another on the land. The makers of the henges pass away, and only their stones remember them. Wise Druids incorporate them into their own mysteries. The men of the Eagles net the land with straight tracks of stone, and around the king stones the grass grows high. But the earth turns, and in time the Romans, too, are gone.

  But stone endures.

  The bones of the earth uphold the world. In the stones of the earth, all that has been lives still in memory.

  I

  THE SEED ONCE SOWN

  A.D. 502

  THE BONES OF THE EARTH WERE CLOSE TO THE SURFACE HERE.

  Artor let the horse he was leading halt and gazed around him at grey stone scoured bare by the storms, furred here and there by a thin pelt of grass where seeds had rooted themselves in pockets of soil. Harsh though they were, the mountains where once the Silure tribesmen had roamed had their own uncompromising beauty, but they had little mercy for those footed creatures that dared to search out their mysteries. Sheepherds followed their sheep across these hills, but even they rarely climbed so high.

  The black horse, finding the grass too short and thin to be worth grazing, butted Artor gently and the high king took a step forward. In the clear light Raven’s coat gleamed like the wing of the bird that had given him his name. The stallion had gone lame a little past mid-morning. The stag they were trailing was long gone, and the rest of the hunters after it. The track that Artor was following now, though it crested the ridge before descending into the valley, was the shortest way home.

  A stone turned beneath his foot and he tensed against remembered pain. But his muscles, warmed by the exercise, flexed and held without a twinge. Indeed, at forty-two, he was as hale and strong as he had ever been. And Britannia was at peace after untold years of war.

  It still seemed strange to him to contemplate a year without a campaign. He would have to think of something—public works, perhaps—on which his schieftains could spend their energy so they did not begin fighting one another. He had even begun to hope that he might find it in him to be a true husband to Guendivar.

  Artor was still not quite accustomed to being able to move freely—for three years the wound that Melwas’ spear had torn through his groin had pained him. The night when the Cauldron, borne through the hall of Camalot by invisible hands, had healed them all was scarcely three months ago.

  And a good thing, too—half lamed, he could never have made this climb under his own power. But, now, gazing out across a landscape of blue distances ribbed by ridge and valley, the king blessed the mischance that had brought him here. On the Sunday past, Father Paternus had preached about the temptation of Christ, whom the Devil had carried off to a high place to show him all the kingdoms of the world and their glory. Looking around him, Artor thought that the writer of the gospel must have gotten it wrong somehow, for he himself was high king of all he could see, and the sight of it did not fill him with pride and power, but with wonder.

  And, he thought as the next moment brought new awareness, with humility. How could any man look upon this mighty expanse of plain and mountain and say he ruled it all?

  Below him the land fell away in long green slopes towards the estuary of the Sabrina, touched here and there with the gold of turning leaves. A smudge of smoke dimmed the tiled roofs of Castra Legionis; beyond them he could just make out the blue gleam of the Sabrina itself. Closer still he glimpsed the villa from which the hunting party had set out that morning. To the south across the water stretched the dim blur of the Dumnonian lands. Eastward lay the midlands, and beyond them Londinium and the Saxon territories. Looking north he could imagine the whole length of the island, all the way to the Alban tribes beyond the Wall. The sky to the north was curdled with clouds. A storm was coming, but he had a little time before it was here.

  From this mountaintop, the works of humankind were no more than smudges upon the hallowed i
sle of Britannia, set like a jewel in the shining silver of the sea.

  But it does not belong to me— Artor thought then. Better to say that I belong to the land.

  A nudge from Raven brought him back from his reverie and he grinned, turning to rub the horse behind his swiveling ears, where the black hide sweated beneath the bridle. Men were not made to live on such heights, and at this time of year darkness would be gathering before he reached shelter. He patted the black’s neck, took up the reins, and started down the hill.

  For years, thought Medraut, these hills had haunted his dreams. But he had not visited the Isle of Maidens since his childhood, and he had convinced himself that the dark and looming shapes he remembered were no more than a child’s imaginings. He was accustomed to mountains—the high, wild hills of the Pictish country, and the tangled hills of the Votadini lands. Why should these be so different? But with every hour he rode, the humped shapes grew closer, and more terrible.

  They are my mother’s hills . . . he thought grimly. They are like her. As he dreaded these hills, he dreaded the thought of confronting her. But he was fifteen, and a man. Neither fear could stop him now.

  At Voreda he found a shepherd who agreed to guide him in exchange for a few pieces of gold. For three days they followed the narrow trail that led through the high meadows and down among the trees. Like many men who have lived much alone, the shepherd was inclined to chatter when in company, and gabbled cheerfully until a glare from Medraut stopped him. After that, they rode in a gloomy silence that preyed upon the young man’s nerves until he was almost ready to order the shepherd to start talking again.

  But by then they had reached the pass below the circle of stones, and Medraut could see the Lake, and the round island, and the thatched roofs of buildings gleaming through its trees. He paid the shepherd then and sent him away, saying that from here he could follow the trail to the coast without a guide. He did not particularly care if the old man believed him, as long as he went away. The remainder of this journey must be accomplished alone.

  To be alone was frightening, but it carried with it the heady taste of freedom. Throughout the years of his growing, his mother had always been present even when she was not physically there, as if the belly cord still connected them. And then, three months ago, when the full moon hung in the sky, the link had disappeared.

  For weeks he had been half paralyzed with terror, expecting every messenger to tell them that Morgause was dead. It was Cunobelinus, riding through the great gates with his men behind him, who informed Medraut that his mother was at the Lake with the priestesses of the Isle of Maidens, and that from now on Cunobelinus himself would serve as regent as well as warleader for the northern Votadini, and rule from Dun Eidyn.

  The new regent was civil, and his people treated Medraut as a royal prince when they had time to notice him at all. It was not loss of status that had sent him southward. It was the thing he had learned while he still feared Morgause dead that burned in his belly and had driven him here to confront her. It was hard to admit anger when one was torn by the grief of loss. But his mother was still alive.

  Medraut was free to hate her now.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Medraut spun around, for a moment too astonished not to have sensed that his mother had entered the small, whitewashed chamber where the priestesses had placed him to answer her. Tuned since birth to her presence, he should have vibrated like a harpstring when its octave is plucked. But the link between them was broken; if he had doubted, he felt the truth of that now.

  “Without a word, you abandoned me. Is it so surprising I should come to see how you fared?”

  Morgause eyed him uncertainly. Clearly she too felt the difference in the energy between them, all the more, he reflected angrily, because she had not been expecting it. Obviously she had not known their bond was broken. Since she went away she had not thought about him at all.

  “As you see,” she said finally, “I am well.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You are changed.” And indeed it was so, though at first glance it was hard to describe what had altered. Where before she had always worn black and crimson, now she was dressed in the dark blue of a senior priestess on the Isle. But that was only external. Perhaps it was the fact that her high color had faded that made her seem different, or the new silver in her hair. Or perhaps it was the aura of power, almost of violence, that had always surrounded her, that was gone.

  Medraut probed with his inner senses, as she had taught him, and recoiled, blinking. The power was still there, but leashed and contained. It occurred to him that her inner stillness might, if anything, make her stronger. A frightening thought, but it would make no difference, he reminded himself. After today nothing she did could hurt him anymore.

  His mother’s shoulders twitched in a shrug—a subtle, complex movement that simultaneously suggested apology, pride, and oddly, laughter. She looked at him directly then, and he shivered.

  “So are you.” Her voice was without expression. She asked again, “Why did you come?”

  “To accuse you—” The words came out in a whisper, and Medraut cleared his throat angrily. “You killed her. Without a word to me. You had Kea murdered! Why?!”

  He had expected disdain or anger, but not the flat incomprehension with which Morgause gazed back at him.

  “The slave girl!” he said desperately. “The one I slept with at Fodreu!” How inadequate those words were for what Kea had done for him, making of her forced choice a gift that transformed him, as if by receiving his first seed, she had given birth to him as a man.

  For a moment her eyes flashed in the way he remembered, then she sighed. “Did you love her? I am sorry.”

  He cleared his throat. “Sorry that I loved her, or that you had her put down like a sick dog?”

  “At the time . . . it seemed best to ensure that there should be no child,” Morgause answered at last.

  “Do you truly believe that? Surely you wisewomen could have made sure any child she might conceive was not born!” He shook his head, temples beginning to pound with the sick headache that came from suppressing rage. “If death was a fit remedy for inappropriate conception, you should have hanged yourself on the nearest tree when you found yourself pregnant with me!

  “You did not kill her because of my child, Mother . . .” all the bitterness Medraut had carried so long poured out at last, “but because of yours. I think you ordered Kea’s death because you feared I might love her more than you!”

  Morgause’s hands fluttered outward in a little helpless gesture that snapped the last of his control.

  “Well, you failed! I hate you, Queen-bitch, royal whore!” He flew at her and discovered that even without stirring she still had the power to stop him, shaking, where he stood.

  “You are a prince! Show some control!”

  “I am an abomination! I am what you have made me!”

  “You will be free of me . . .” Morgause said tiredly. “I will not be returning to Dun Eidyn.”

  “Do you think that will make a difference, when every room holds your scent, and every stone the impress of your power. I am going south. Perhaps my father will teach me what it means to be a man. He could hardly do a worse job of it than you!”

  The long hours in the saddle had given him the time to think it through. His mother had raised him to believe himself meant for a special destiny, and for two years now, he had thought himself true heir to Britannia. But in discovering her treachery, he had begun to question everything, and it had come to him that Artor’s high seat was not hers to bestow. Neither would the inheritance come to him through Christian law. It was Artor himself he must persuade if he wanted his heritage.

  “You will do nothing of the kind!” For the first time, Morgause looked alarmed. “You will stay in Alba and inherit the Votadini lands. Artor has all of your brothers. He does not need you.”

  “Do you still hate him, Mother?” Medraut asked maliciously. “Or has this convers
ion to holiness taken even that away?”

  “Artor . . .” she said stiffly, “is no longer my concern.”

  “Nor am I, mother dear, nor am I . . .” Medraut’s fury was fading, to be replaced by a cold detachment, as if the rage had burned all his humanity away. He liked the feeling—it took away the pain. “I am the age Artor was when he became king, no longer subject to a woman’s rule. Will you lock me up to keep me from going where I choose?”

  “If I have to—” Morgause said shortly.

  Medraut laughed as she left him. But when he opened the door to follow, he found it guarded by two sturdy young women who looked as if they knew how to use the short spears gripped in their hands. In some things his mother’s lessons still served him well. His first outraged response was suppressed so swiftly they scarcely noted it.

  “Have you come to protect me? I am afraid my mother still considers me a child.” He eyed them appreciatively and his smile became a complicit grin. They were young and, living among women, must be curious about beings of a gender they saw only at festivals. In another moment one of the girls began to smile back, and he knew that she, at least, was not seeing him as a child at all.

  “Do not say that it serves me right, after all the trouble I gave you, to find an enemy in my son!” exclaimed Morgause, whirling to glare at Igierne, who sat still in her great carven chair. So still—even in the throes of her confusion, Morgause felt a pang. With each day Igierne seemed to grow more fragile, as if her substance was evaporating like the morning dew.

  But her voice, when she replied, was strong. “Have I said so? But if he is rebelling, surely you, of all mothers, ought to understand.”

  “That is not what has upset me. Medraut has grown as I shaped him, and now that I no longer desire to do so, I am afraid to loose him upon the world.”

  “You shaped him,” observed the third woman, who had been sitting with Igierne when Morgause slammed through the door into the room. “But the wisefolk of my land teach that the Norns are three. You bear responsibility for what has been, maybe, but now your son is becoming a new person, and he must choose what shall be.”