by Anna Elliott
“If you know who I am,” she said after a moment, “then you know, also, who my father was. Modred—the traitor. Cause of King Arthur’s death and seven years of land-bleeding civil war. I—”
Isolde stopped, shivering slightly, still dazed by the strangeness of remembering after having forgotten for so long—by the feeling of light and color and recollected sights and sounds where there had been only blackness. It was strange, as well, she thought, with an ache about her heart, to see her father’s dark, secret, fine-boned face—so much a harsher, masculine version of her grandmother’s—instead of only a name in a harper’s tale.
“I scarcely saw my father,” she went on. “He was nearly always away on campaign. And he was not the sort of man to concern himself overmuch with a daughter. Maybe if I’d been a boy—” She stopped, shaking her head. “But as it was, he left me for the most part with my grandmother, Morgan. People say she was a witch.” Isolde moved her shoulders. “I don’t know. Perhaps she was. She followed the old ways, and refused all dealings with the Christian priests. But she was a powerful healer. She used to say that if she could no longer be either maid or mother, she could still serve the Goddess as crone. She…taught me a great deal.”
Isolde paused, for a moment feeling the rough bark of the twigs and branches Morgan had placed in her hands, looking down into the shimmering, oil-slick water in the scrying bowl. Watching her grandmother’s own hands, white and small, digging plants from the ground with sure, firm plunges of a trowel. Hearing her grandmother’s voice.
Beli the Great, the son of Manogan, had three sons, Lludd, and Caswallawn, and Nynyaw.
Still staring unseeingly into the darkness, Isolde went on. “I know she hated Arthur, her brother, because of—” she stopped. “But that hardly matters anymore. Any more than it matters now whether she was a witch or no. You know—all Britain knows—what happened in the end. The plague struck. And then my father died at Camlann. My grandmother and I were at the fortress there—the garrison my father had built to house his troops. My grandmother had wanted to be near him, in case—”
Isolde stopped again, her eyes on the silvery pool of moonlight at their feet. “Perhaps the Sight had shown her what was going to happen. She never said. But then, after Camlann, plague-sickness struck the garrison. It was—” Another shiver rippled through her as the newly recovered memory of that time bubbled and rose to the surface of her mind. “It was a ghastly time. The dead piled in the courtyard and burned because there were no men well enough to dig graves. The sick left to lie in their own filth because there was no one to tend them. I remember the stench of the place, still. It was said birds flying overhead would drop out of the air and die when they flew over the garrison walls. My grandmother and I did what we could, but there were only the two of us. And she was old by then. Old and tired, after Camlann. She’d lost her son and brother—and her place—all at one time.”
Isolde broke off again, staring sightlessly out across the night-dark moor. “Marche…Marche had been given charge of the garrison by the king’s council—the men of Arthur’s force left alive. And he was appointed guardian to my grandmother and myself, as well. Prison warder, really,” she said, her mouth twisting. “Though they didn’t call it that, of course. But none of them trusted my grandmother—or me—even then.”
From somewhere beyond the stone circle came the shrill cry of a night bird. Isolde shivered again. “When the plague struck, my grandmother asked Marche to let us leave the garrison. She…begged him, on her knees—not for herself, though. She wanted to see me safe—safe from the plague. And maybe from Marche as well. And Marche…refused.”
Even now, a wave of bitter anger choked her at the memory, and Isolde clenched her hands on the folds of her gown before going on. “He refused, then rode off with his own men and left us there, walled in along with the sick and dying and dead. I suppose he—and probably all the rest of the king’s council—hoped we’d fall ill of the plague sickness and die, as well. But—”
She stopped. Beside her, Brother Columba had neither moved nor spoken since she’d begun, but his attention was a palpable force, his simple, undemanding silence oddly soothing. Isolde drew a steadying breath and then began again. “But only my grandmother took ill. She was a healer, but she’d no power to heal herself. I nursed her, but what I knew was more a curse, I think, than a blessing. I kept her alive, for a time. But it only made her suffering longer. She died. And it was said—whispered everywhere—that all that had happened…the plague…Camlann…all of it…was a punishment. A judgment from the Christ-God for her practicing sorcery and magic arts. And if she’d been able to See the future, why hadn’t she done differently? Why make the land bleed with a seven-year civil war? And all for nothing, in the end. For nothing.”
Isolde stopped again, then went on, slowly, “I’ve thought sometimes, you know, that we’d do better to worship the Satan your holy books speak of. That he must be more powerful than God or Christ, since there is so much more evil in the world than good. But all the same…I gave up everything my grandmother had taught me. Gave up the Sight, as well.”
“The Sight?” Brother Columba repeated.
Isolde moved her hand in brief dismissal. “Being able to see things—know them before they happened. Or read thoughts. Or watch events going on great distances away. Or hear the voices trapped in the streams and trees and stones.” She paused, eyes on the shadowed stones. “My grandmother used to call it a gift of the Old Ones. Passed through the blood to all the women of our line. But all the same, it…wasn’t hard to lose. One moment it was there, and the next it was gone. Just a kind of hollow place where it had once come.”
Still Brother Columba said nothing, and after a moment she went on, “It did no good, though. We had a child—Con and I.” She paused, staring down at her clenched hands, the knuckles white under the skin. Then: “It was a girl. Born dead. It seems the God of the Christians is one to bear a grudge.”
There was a brief silence, and then Brother Columba said, “Perhaps. Or perhaps He took a little angel into Heaven to sit beside Him. To escape a world of suffering and sin.”
Isolde reached out and snapped off a few blades of the tough, springy grass that grew round the stone. “That’s an easy answer.”
Brother Columba seemed not at all discomposed. “A simple one, maybe. But so is faith. Not easy, but simple.”
Isolde rolled the grass between her forefinger and thumb, the blades cool and slightly damp with the evening dew. “Perhaps.” She was silent, remembering Con stumbling in, drunken and flushed with rage and striking her that single, furious blow. “Your fault,” he’d shouted. “You and your cursed witch’s blood.” I can’t, though, she thought, speak of that. It wouldn’t be fair to Con. Especially when he’d dropped on his knees beside her afterwards, his face buried in the blankets, and cried, wide shoulders heaving with sobs.
Instead she went on, “I was ill for weeks afterwards with fever. It happens, sometimes, when the milk comes in and there’s no babe to suckle. The midwife…the physicians…all thought I’d die. But then—” She broke off, seeming to smell the heavy oil and incense again, even in the clean moorland air. “Father Nenian came to read the last rites over me. To give me the sacrament, so that I might die in a state of grace and go to Heaven and the Christ.”
She stopped again, her mouth twisting in a brief, bitter smile. “He probably saved my life. I didn’t care, very much, whether I lived or died. But I wouldn’t let myself go to the God who’d killed my daughter. So…I lived. And I kept myself barren after that. I wasn’t going to conceive another child for God and the Christ to kill.”
She paused, then added softly, staring blindly into the dark, “Con never knew. It…grieved him to think that should he fall in battle he would leave no heir to take the throne.”
“And that is the sin you wish to confess?”
Isolde let her eyes travel once more round the enclosing circle of stones. She raised one hand, then let
it fall. “I suppose so. Or…not confess, exactly. I just felt that…that I wanted someone to know the truth. In case I don’t survive what happens when I leave here—whatever that may be.”
Brother Columba shifted position, hands resting squarely on his knees. “Since I am not a priest, I cannot undertake to absolve sins. Nor even pass judgment on whether sin has been committed. I can only tell you that the moment we stretch out a hand for God’s grace, it is there.”
“Perhaps,” Isolde said.
She could feel no real lightening of spirit, no lessening of the weight that had lain these years on her heart. But she found she was glad she had told Brother Columba, all the same.
She watched a ragged wisp of cloud drift across the face of the moon. “I’ll not say you’re not a sorceress,” Kian had said. “But maybe there’s all kinds of witches in the world.” And I wish, Isolde thought, that he might be right. That I had even the smallest power to help me now—the slightest hope of defeating Marche.
The empty space within her blazed with sudden, flaring pain. And then, like a trickle of sweet, cool water, she felt something begin to flow inside. Her eyes were fixed on the patch of moonlight at her feet, and, very slowly, an image began to gather and take shape in the silvered circle of earth, just as, once before, an image of Con’s war tent had gathered and formed in a fire’s flames. Wavering at first, and blurred, like a reflection in water, then gradually steadying. A heavy man’s dark-eyed, brutal face. Marche’s face.
Chapter Twenty-six
MARCHE WAS SPEAKING. AT FIRST Isolde saw only his lips moving, and then slowly the sound grew, first blending with the soft night sounds of the moor, then rising and swelling until Marche’s voice was all she heard.
You’re a fool. If you’d shown any skill at all, the men would have followed you without question.
His head was thrown back, but Isolde had again the impression of nerves stretched almost to the breaking point. A boar, caught in a trap, lashing out at all who approached, be they friend or foe.
At first she couldn’t see to whom Marche had spoken, but then the scene cast in the moonlit pool widened, spreading enough to show a second, younger man. Owain of Powys. Owain’s handsome face looked sullen, his brows drawn together, the line of his mouth tight and turned down.
His jaw shot out in defiance. “And I suppose your men all stand square behind you in this?”
“My men know who they take their orders from,” Marche said shortly. “And if there are any that disagree, they’ve sense enough to hold their tongues. Besides, it’s only the commanders that know. The rabble have only to follow where they lead.”
He stopped, eyeing Owain narrowly. Then: “You’ve not tried to double-cross me, have you? Made a grab at the kingship for yourself?”
“Of course not!” Owain’s face flushed slightly, and his tone was suddenly belligerent. “What do you take me for?”
Marche’s lip curled. “I take you for a man who’d cut off his own mother’s tits if he thought it would win him an extra half acre of land.” He stopped again, then said, “You’d best not try to betray me, though. The invasion is coming whether you keep faith with me or no. The only difference will be what happens to you after. The Saxons have special ways of dealing with their captive kings.” Marche’s voice was soft, almost expressionless, but some of the color ebbed out of Owain’s face, and his throat contracted as he swallowed.
“Of course not,” Owain said again.
Marche studied him a moment more, then nodded, apparently satisfied. “Good. Then we’d best decide what we’re to do.”
Owain’s brow furrowed. Then, “What about Brychan?” he asked. “The king’s men would follow him.”
“Brychan?” Marche snorted. “Don’t be more of a fool than you can help.”
“What do you mean? They’d trust his word, surely.”
“I’m sure they would. And can you see Brychan standing up and telling them that they were all to trot along and do our bidding like a lot of obedient little dogs?” Marche’s control snapped and he brought one fist down with a crash on a nearby table, sending a chased golden goblet clattering to the floor. “God’s wounds, I’d have been better off making alliance with the village whores!”
A hot tide of color—angry, this time—swept up Owain’s smooth cheeks, and his voice, when he answered, was tight. “You could make him do as you said, surely?”
Marche gave a harsh bark of laughter. “Of course I could. I expect I could make him cut off his own prick if I ordered him to it. But a leader that’s been broken by torture’s not likely to inspire much confidence in the men he commands, is he?”
“Well, at any rate, I don’t see why the invasion’s needed.” Owain’s tone was once more sullen. “Surely Octa—”
Marche drew a ragged breath, and said, teeth clenched, “I’ve told you. Octa has only enough of an army to fight the forces here. Not enough to squander on a second campaign. Now—”
And then, with a suddenness that made Isolde gasp, the scene was gone, burst like a bubble, and the pool of silver on the ground was only pale moonlight and nothing more. It was a long moment before she had her breath back, and longer before she realized that Brother Columba was likewise staring down at the place where the vision had appeared.
Brother Columba drew in his breath, like a swimmer surfacing, said in a low voice, without looking up, “I always wondered what it would be like, to be in the presence of a miracle.”
Isolde shook her head slightly. “A miracle?” She looked across at Brother Columba, his eyes still focused on the ground. “You wouldn’t call that witchcraft, then?”
She thought a slight smile touched Brother Columba’s mouth. “Christ himself turned water into wine, healed the sick, brought back the dead. That might be called witchcraft, as well, by those who didn’t believe.” Then he raised his head and met her gaze, his brown eyes shadowed pools. “Magic or miracle—who can say? God gives power where—and when—he chooses. And He has promised to answer our every prayer—if not always in the manner we would wish.”
Isolde shook her head. “I offered no prayer.”
“No?” Brother Columba looked at her quizzically, his head tilted slightly to one side. “But something brought you to the men with whom you now travel. Brought you to me. Brought you here, I think, to seek an answer.”
“And now I’ve found it?” Isolde said. She was silent, her eyes once more on the pool of moonlight, now showing nothing more than the grass and the earth beneath it. Perhaps something had brought her to the shore the morning before. To meet with Hereric and save his life. It would be good to believe it. To believe that she herself was part of some larger pattern, as perfect and ordered as the tales she’d told.
And have I an answer now? she thought. Maybe. She could only guess at what the exchange between Marche and Owain meant. But I do know, now, what I have to do.
She looked up. “You realize that what happened—the vision—might have been granted by the power of the stones. By whatever was once worshipped here.”
Brother Columba nodded equably. “It might, of course,” he said. “But either way, it gives you a reason to hope, does it not?”
THEY SET OUT BEFORE DAWN, LEAVING Hereric still deeply asleep on the wooden bench, Brother Columba keeping watch by his side. There seemed, this morning, to be the sharp bite of winter in the air, with mist rising in curls off the gray, scrub-covered moor. Isolde kept her traveling cloak drawn close about her as she and Kian followed the track along which she and Trystan had come, Cabal padding along behind. When they reached the crest of a hill, Kian paused, squinting into the rising sun as he swallowed the last of the dry brown bread that had been their morning meal.
“Should reach Tintagel by night.”
It was the first time he’d spoken since they’d left Brother Columba’s hut.
Isolde nodded. “That’s best, in any case. We’ll stand a better chance of getting inside after dark.”
She stood a
moment, looking out over the stretch of moorland below, studded with marsh grass and still, glassy pools. However the vision she’d glimpsed last night had come, she somehow never doubted that what she’d seen in the moonlit circle of stones had been true.
Twice, now, she thought, I’ve run away. But I can’t run away again.
If she was to stop Marche, it would have to be now, in the next few days. And that meant she would have to return to Tintagel, to make her case before the king’s council, whether they believed her or no.
Isolde glanced at Kian, striding along beside her. For Trystan’s sake, he’d agreed to accompany her, to help her get inside Tintagel’s walls. For Trystan, Isolde thought, whom I have to try to set free, as well.
She wasn’t sure, even remembering what she now had, whether Trystan was innocent or guilty of betraying her to Marche’s guard. But she’d known since the night before that she couldn’t leave him at Tintagel to die. Or maybe she’d known it from the moment Trystan had plunged into the darkness to take on Marche’s guard. And that was why she’d avoided, until the night before, all thoughts of where her next steps must lead.
They had started down the steep incline, Isolde in the lead, Kian following behind, when it happened. Kian gave a sharp cry, as of pain or surprise. Isolde swung round, her blood running cold, expecting to see an oncoming patrol of Marche’s guard. Kian, though, was lying sprawled on the ground, one foot still half wedged in a deep depression amid the scrubby grass.
Isolde ran to kneel beside him, and he gasped, face twisting, “Clumsy…fool. Stepped right into it. Rabbit hole…or some such.”
His scarred face was beaded with sweat, and Isolde said, dropping to her knees and beginning to run her hand gently along his ankle and leg, “Have you broken something? Can you tell?”
Kian shook his head, eyes closed. “No. Not…my leg. It’s…my shoulder.” He spoke between harshly drawn breaths. “Goes…out of joint…now and again. Old…battle wound. Happened again when I fell.”