Yet there is hope, he prayed. One sister has been spared. Her spotless soul must have preserved her flesh. Is it too much to hope that she may yet survive, to lead this dead community to new life?
A footfall in the corridor caught his ear, and his heart lifted with a painful lurch of joy. Here she was now, his right hand and helpmate through all these troubled years. His task here had been hard, the work even cruel, to purge the place of sin. But her Christian piety had led the way for them all. Whoever had had to be beaten, starved, or walled up, it had never been her. And always she had been at his side, urging him on.
And through all the recent plague, he marveled, she had never faltered once. Indeed she seemed to grow stronger as her sisters wasted away. Her black eyes had grown bigger, her pallid skin warmer, and he even thought she looked taller and fuller now. But that could be only his sight fading, as his sickness took hold.
“Father,” a voice called from the corridor.
“Sister Ganmor.”
Suddenly he knew with the clarity of the dying that he loved to say her name. Her name? Agony and delight split his cracked lips and spread over his ravaged face. He had loved her, the sister herself, loved her whole-heartedly for all these years. And her virtue and grace had amply rewarded him. He loved her. The knowledge spread through him with a joy beyond tears. How blessed he was that God had permitted him to know the love of a good woman, and enjoy it without sin.
He was weeping with gratitude. “Ganmor?”
“Father?”
The door opened, and the stench came in with her. Lying in his own filth, he had grown used to the stink, but this was something else. And her voice today was not as he remembered it. Fear gripped his heart. Had she caught the sickness after all? Would she die too?
He squinted up at the lean, black-clad form. She stood with her back to the window, framed against the light. As always, her head was bowed under the weight of her heavy wimple, and her hands were folded submissively in her long black sleeves.
“Father?” she said again.
But her voice had changed. And suddenly she was growing, filling the tiny cell. As she swelled, her black habit dwindled on her frame till it became a slender tight-fitting gown, with a low neck and narrow sleeves. The coarse wool softened into a sensuous midnight velvet, and the hideous wimple dissolved and re-formed as an elegant headdress with a gossamer veil.
He cried out in panic. “Sister, is that you?”
“Father?” she replied.
And this time there was nothing pious in her tone. “ ‘Sister,’ ‘Father,’ what nonsense that all is!” the strident voice ran on. “You’re on the edge of the grave, I’m going to a new life; we could call each other by our names now, don’t you think? But the Christians took yours away when they took mine.” She laughed mockingly. “Father what? I don’t suppose you can remember what you’re called.”
His brain labored, and his heart pounded in his chest. “I am— I am—” But it would not come.
Again the cruel laugh. “It doesn’t matter. Your God knows who you are.”
“My God?” he cried in anguish. “Not yours?”
Her laughter chilled his soul. “No, Father, never mine.”
“You are not Ganmor!” he screamed in dread. “Who are you?”
“I am Morgan Le Fay!”
And suddenly she was beside him at the bed, leaning over him, trapping his helpless frame. Her eyes were like cartwheels of black fire, spinning in her head.
“Why, Father,” she crowed, “I am the mistress of this convent, did you not know? All these years, when you and your blind masters thought you ruled this place, you have done my bidding, and carried out my will. A lifetime ago, I was condemned here as a child. Ever since then I have worked to destroy the place.”
An Otherworldly glow spread over her face. “Oh, it has not been easy, keeping the vow of darkness I made then. There are good souls among you Christians, and a powerful will. But you broke the hearts of the sisters for me, through the beatings, starvation, and death-punishments your order imposed. After that, it only took a little, little plague to claim their bodies too.”
The Abbot groaned. “You brought the sickness?”
White teeth gleamed in the mulberry mouth. “It was not hard.”
The Father Confessor’s soul was lost in a waste of pain. He could not weep. A lifetime’s work lay in dust around his feet. All lost, to no avail.
“And now?” he said dully.
She gave a horrible laugh. “Now I return to the world I left behind. I have a task that has been long brewing, and now is on the boil. In the meantime, I shall live as a great lady again.” She leaned into him and her breath scorched his face. “I was born a queen. And now I go to make my son a king!”
She has a son. The young virgin, as I thought her, has a son. The Father Confessor listened in hopeless despair, beyond surprise.
The exultant voice went on. “This house of wretched women will be no more. The Dark Mother has come to take the sisters home. This is Her day. Today they go to Her.”
The dying man moved his head in a slight nod. The Dark Mother, yes. Why was he not surprised? He used to know that the feast of Candlemas overlaid a darker rite. As a young priest, he had been taught that this was the time when the Holy Spirit was sent to quicken the Virgin Mary with child, in order to win the day back from the pagans who claimed it as theirs. What did they call it, Oimelc, Imbolc? For thousands of years they kept this as the day of the Dark Maiden, the Queen of love and death. All his life he had lit candles to the Virgin on this day, to keep the evil at bay. And now the forces of darkness had triumphed. They were here.
Here in this room.
He looked up at the devil woman with her eyes of fire, her pale skin like death, and her gown as black as pitch.
And he had let her in.
The Father Confessor gasped and fought for breath. The grave gaped for him, and he saw the flames of hell. Now he faced God’s judgment for opening the way to sin. Honest failure could be forgiven, or losing his flock to a God-sent plague. But harboring a she-devil, aiding her and, God save us! loving her too—nothing but damnation awaited him now.
And the fire, the everlasting torment of the fire—
A thin scream bubbled in his throat and died. “Ganmor—I beg of you—”
The figure in black was moving through the door. Her mocking laughter lingered in the cell. “Farewell.”
With the last of his sight, he watched her glide away. It was all over: only the reckoning remained. And hell itself could be no worse than his sufferings now. He turned up his face to the ceiling, and closed his eyes. Soon, Lord. Let it be soon.
CHAPTER 50
The journey was long, but every mile revived Guenevere’s heart. Afterward she knew she had passed into a dreamtime outside the common span of days and weeks. Lying in a curtained litter, she dreamed the days way, lulled by the plodding of the horses’ hooves. At night, Ina bathed her temples with rosewater and brushed patchouli into her hair. She slept in the traveling bed with the curtains drawn back to the stars, and woke in the morning with a fresh spring of hope.
And all around her, the earth was reviving too. Along the wayside, tender pouting cowslips hung their heavy heads, and pale primroses sprawled in the undergrowth like fainting girls. The birds returning with spring filled every tree with song, and the hillsides carried the bulls’ triumphant bellow from every wattle pen.
New life.
So she dreamed and drifted through each shining dawn. Soon they left the roads, and passed into the woods by hidden greenways hardly known to wayfarers of the human kind. The first time she followed these tracks she had been a young princess, traveling to the Lady in royal style, to learn the ways of the Great One herself. She had lived and studied with the Maidens of the Lake, in pure obedience to her mother’s will, because all the Queens of the Summer Country had done so too. But then she had come to love the Sacred Isle, and above all the mystical ruler who lived, v
eiled and withdrawn, at its secret heart. For years she had dreamed of becoming like the Lady of the Lake, sovereign of her domain and of her own body, owing command and control to no man.
Later, she had made a second journey to the island with Arthur, to see what the Lady foretold. They had ridden out of Camelot in proud array, their banners dancing and lances glittering in the sun. These days she was no hopeful princess or ardent bride, but a heartsick woman in search of the healing that only love can bring.
“The children of Avalon may always return to me,” the Lady told all the Maidens when they left. “Never be afraid to come back to your home.”
Mile after mile, swaying in her litter, Guenevere heard the distant call.
Avalon, Avalon, sacred island, home.
But as they drew near to Avalon, her doubts revived. My husband betrayed me, and I betrayed my love. What hope of help or healing lies in that? Twice she ordered the horsemaster to leave the woods and make for Camelot, bypassing Avalon. But each time she changed her mind, and they turned back.
And by the time the sweet mist of the holy waters began to rise through the trees, she was calm again. Around her the men-at-arms grew subdued, and even the horses trod with greater care. With painful slowness they picked their way down through the dense forest to the plain of the Sacred Lake. And there it was, floating on its sheet of shining water, the island in the lake that the Old Ones called the Isle of Glass. Before them waited the boatmen of the Lady to ferry them across.
Around the Lake, white drifts of blossom mantled every tree. At its edge, pale meadowsweet and golden kingcups admired their reflections in shallows as clear as glass. A light breeze danced over the still surface, and gold and silver fish slipped through the sunlit depths. Beyond the island lay the homes of the Lake dwellers, strange contraptions rearing up on stilts. There, overhung by trees and shrouded in mist, they scavenged a living from the dark and brackish waters beyond the Lake, and hid from sight. But they were faithful followers of the Lady, manning the passage to the island night and day. Already they were loading up the boats to bring the newcomers and their possessions safely across.
Leaving the guard on the bank, Guenevere and Ina took to the first of the flat, slow-moving boats. Ahead of them the island slumbered in the midday sun. Along its shore, weeping willows trembled in the breeze, and above them lay Avalon’s ancient orchards of apple trees. High above the clouds of pink and white blossom soared the great Tor of Avalon itself, the green hill shaped like the Mother lying at rest. Guenevere’s eyes dwelt lovingly on the vast, spreading outline of the gently rounded body and grassy flanks. All the world, and all its secret knowledge, lay in there.
A small figure stood awaiting them on the low stone landing.
“You were expected, Guenevere,” said Nemue, in the rusty tones of those who rarely speak. “The Lady will see you at sundown. You may rest till then.”
But it was after dark before Nemue came for them in the small white guest house where they had been installed. The night air was as clear as spring water, and a thousand stars glimmered in a cloudless sky. In silence they went up by the winding path, through the white apple orchards and dark groves of ancient trees. At the top of the hillside lay the Lady’s house, a white stone structure built into the side of the Tor. As they approached, the doors opened without a sound.
Nemue nodded to Guenevere. “Enter.” She held up her hand. “Ina will stay with me.”
The great doors gaped onto a dark, echoing space. Guenevere’s senses swam. When she lived on Avalon, the girls in the House of Maidens used to whisper that the Lady’s house was not a house at all, but her enchanted way down to the Lake below. Gathering her strength, she stepped over the threshold into the warm, humid space. She thought her ears caught the sound of water far away, but she did not know.
The great doors clanged behind her, leaving her in the dark. Then a hundred tiny dragon lamps began to glow, scattering pools of gold. They encrusted the ceiling like stars, and shone out from countless hidden niches in the walls. Slowly Guenevere’s eyes adjusted to the light. She stood in a low, domed chamber, warm and welcoming, with a rich and heady fragrance filling the air. As Guenevere drank it in, she found herself trembling with joy. Many times in her dreams she had tried to get back to this place, without success. Now the starlit roof and honeycolored walls reached out to enfold her in their embrace.
Now she heard again the voice from her dreamtime, from the time before thought. “Come...”
Against the farthest wall stood a tall, strangely made throne bearing a silent, majestic shape. She was veiled in pale draperies from head to foot, and her headdress and fingers flashed with dragon fire. One hand was raised in welcome, the other pointing to a low seat among the rich eastern carpets on the floor.
“Welcome, dear Guenevere,” came the low, vibrant sound. “I am glad you have come home.”
Guenevere sank onto the stool, and fixed her eyes on the figure on the throne. Above the gauzy veil covering her face the Lady wore a moon-shaped diadem of palest gold set with tiny pearls. On her second finger she wore the Goddess ring, and in her hand she held an orb of polished crystal bound in hoops of gold.
“So, Guenevere,” she said, “you come to speak of Arthur, as I think?”
Guenevere felt the tears rising before she spoke. “He has betrayed me, Lady. I shall never love him again.”
“Ah, Guenevere,” the Lady sighed. “Never is too long a word to say. Love has a thousand lives. Fate spins as it will, and even the Mother cannot turn back the wheel.”
She could not bear it. “Tell me what to do.”
A soft breath came from behind the Lady’s muffling veils. “You are Arthur’s Queen. He is the High King of all the Britons, and you are their Queen too.”
Guenevere clutched her head. “May I not escape?”
The Lady leaned forward. “When you chose Arthur, he knew nothing but his power as a man. Through you he learned that women give life to the world, so the Mother ordained them to rule both love and life. You took him into the circle of the Goddess. You made him whole.”
There was a lengthy pause. “Without you, he would never have been High King,” the low voice intoned at last. “You made him what he is. Can you destroy him now?”
Guenevere could not speak. She hung down her head and wept.
The Lady’s voice went on. “When trust is lost, where does love hide its head? Look for the flower by the wayside, the pebble in the brook. Love may be driven weeping from the highest hill, yet live again in the smallest things.”
There was a sigh like the sadness of the world. “All women have to watch men fail, and fall. This is why the Mother made us older and wiser, before we are born. For ours is the task of the world, to create and bear new life, and afterward to endure its every pain.”
She raised her head, and the pearly diadem shimmered in the golden light. “For this, the Goddess grants us three rewards: the bliss of ecstatic love, the joy of having a child, and the warmth of a life well lived. These are the three delights of woman, tokens of the Great One’s own incarnations as Maiden, Mother, and Wise One. Each joy is appropriate to each stage. Some poor souls enjoy none of these, and many women are fated to know only one. The fortunate may know two.”
She raised a long pale hand. “But hear me, Guenevere. Few indeed are born to enjoy all three. They are the blessed ones of the Goddess, and their lives echo Her own holy trinity. As maidens they find the key to their bodies, and pass through the gates of bliss. As mothers they learn the joy beyond joy that only a child can bring. And as Wise Ones in their old age, they can look back on a life fulfilled, and their human work well done. You, Guenevere—”
“Yes?” said Guenevere fearfully.
The pause stretched out to the very edge of hope. Then a soft laugh came from behind the veil.
“Think, Guenevere! Already you have known all three. You have not lived four decades, yet you have had the love of the two best men in the world. You have held
your child in your arms for seven years, before the Mother took him for one of Her own. In the land that you love, your rule is secure, and your people bless your name. And you still have forty and more years of your life ahead.”
Guenevere lifted a tearstained face, and felt again the disquiet of new things. “Oh, Lady, can you see what lies ahead for me?”
The Lady nodded. “Guenevere, it has long been written in the stars. You will return to Arthur, as his wife and his Queen. But you will not live without love. A golden pathway lies ahead for you.” Her voice darkened. “But it is not without danger.” She surged to her feet. “Come!”
Behind the throne, a narrow opening gave onto a wide stone staircase descending into the dark. At once they left the friendly dragon-light for a midnight void whispering with unseen wings. Step by slippery step, Guenevere felt her way down through the blackness, till her feet met the softness of unresisting sand. Above them, she knew, slumbered the mighty Tor. But here below, the underground was alive with a thousand tiny scurrying noises as the dwellers in the dark slid away to their unseen lairs. Again the gentle sound of water reached her ears.
“Ho, there!”
The Lady clapped her hands, and Guenevere’s eyes dazzled with flaring light. They stood in a soaring cavern of primeval rock, its every surface glistening with red and white. All around the crystal walls hung the treasures of the Goddess, gold chains and ropes of precious stones, and jeweled weapons richer than any dreams. Heaped upon the floor lay more priceless offerings, vast cauldrons of copper, gold plates and bowls of silver, and drinking cups of bronze.
In the center of the chamber rose the waters of two springs, one white, one red. The Lady stood between them, her arms outstretched over two wide stone hollows carved in the living rock.
“The body of the Mother,” she chanted, spreading her arms through the echoing space. She pointed to the red spring on her left.
The Knight of the Sacred Lake Page 36