“You are a goose, not a swan,” she exclaimed, “and just as greedy. But while we eat we may as well be comfortable.” She turned to uncinch the blanket and stilled, staring at the blood that had soaked into the cloth.
Frantically she unbuckled the cinch and pulled off the blanket, searching for the injury. But the pony’s sweat-darkened hide was whole.
Guendivar’s racing pulse thundered in her ears. She tethered the mare so that she could graze, and then, very reluctantly, she loosened her breeches, a pair that had been her older brother’s when he was a boy, and pulling them down, saw on the inseam the betraying red stain.
Swearing softly, she pulled the breeches off. She could wash them, and no one would know. But even as she bent over the pool she felt warmth, and saw a new trickle of red snake down her inner thigh.
That was when panic changed to despair, and she curled up on the grass and let the hot tears flow.
Guendivar was still sniffling when she became aware that she was not alone. In that first moment, she could not have told what had changed. It was like hearing music, though there was no sound, or a scent, though there was no change in the air. As she sat up, her senses settled on vision as a mode of perception, and she saw a shimmer that she recognized as the spirit of the pool. Words formed in her awareness.
“You are different today . . .”
“I’ve got my moonblood,” Guendivar said bitterly, “and now everything is going to change!”
“Everything is always changing.. . .”
“Some changes are worse than others. Now my mother will make me stay home and spin while she talks to me about ruling a house and a husband! After this, she’ll never let me ride alone again! I don’t want this blood! I don’t want to change!”
“It was the blood that called me,” came the reply.
“What?” She opened her eyes again. “I thought growing up would mean I couldn’t see you.”
“Not so. When you are in your blood it will be easier.. . .”
Guendivar felt the hairs lift on her arms. Around her the air was thickening with glimmering forms: the slender shape of the Willow girl bending over her; spirits of reed and flower; airy forms that drifted on the wind; squat shapes that emerged from the stones.
“Why are you here?” she whispered. “What does my woman blood mean to you?”
“It means life. It means you are part of the magic.”
“I thought it just meant having babies. I don’t want to be worn out like my mother, bearing child after child that dies.” Petronilla had borne eight infants, but only the oldest boys and Guendivar survived.
“When man and maid lie down together in the fields they make magic. Before, you were only a bud on the branch. Now you are the flower.”
Guendivar sat back, thinking about that. Abruptly she found herself hungry. She reached for the bag, and then, remembering, started to offer a portion to the pool.
“You have something better to give us—” came the voices around her. “There is a special power in the first spurting of a boy’s seed, and a girl’s first flow. Wash yourself in the spring.. . .”
Guendivar flushed with embarrassment, even though she knew that human conventions meant less than nothing to the faerie kind. But gradually her shame shifted to something else, a dawning awareness of power. She bent, and scooping up the cool water in her palm, poured it over her thighs until her blood swirled dark in the clear water. When she was clean, she washed out her breeches and the saddle cloth and laid them out in the sun to dry.
The faerie folk flitted around her in swirls of light.
“Sleep a little . . .” said the spirit of the pool, “and we will send you dreams of power.”
Guendivar lay back and closed her eyes. Almost immediately images began to come: the running of the deer, mare and stallion, sow and boar, men and women circling the Beltain fire. All the great dance of life whirled before her, faster and faster, shaping itself at last into the figure of a laughing maiden formed out of flowers.
When she woke at last, the setting sun had turned all the vale into a blaze of gold. But the spirits had disappeared. Her clothing was dry, and for the moment, her flow of blood seemed to have ceased. Swiftly she dressed and cinched the saddle cloth back onto the mare. She was still not looking forward to telling her mother what had happened. But one thing had changed—the thought of growing up no longer made her afraid.
For all the years of Guendivar’s childhood, the Tor had been a constant presence, felt, even when clouds kept it from being seen. But except for one visit made when she was too little to remember, she had never been there. As soon as she told her mother what had happened to her, Petronilla had decided to take her to the nuns who lived on the Isle of Glass for a blessing. The prospect filled her with mingled excitement and fear.
It is like growing up—she thought as they reached the base of the isle and the curve of the lower hill hid the Tor from view. For so long it loomed on the horizon, and now I cannot see it because I am almost there. I will only be able to see my own womanhood reflected in others’ eyes.
The top of the round church that the holy Joseph had built showed above the trees. Around it clustered the smaller huts that were the monks’ cells, and a little farther, a second group of buildings for the nuns. Nearby was the guesthouse where the visitors would stay. As they climbed the road, the deep sound of men’s voices throbbed in the air. The monks were chanting the noon prayers, her mother said. Guendivar felt the hair lift on her arms with delight as the sweet sounds drifted through the trees. Then the shadowed orifice of the church door came into view and she shivered. The music was beautiful, but cooped up in the darkness like that, how could men sing?
She sighed with relief as they continued along the hillside toward the houses of the nuns. To one side she saw apple trees, ripening fruit already weighting their branches, and to the other, neat gardens. Beyond was a tall hedge, hiding the base of the hill that nestled next to the Tor. She wondered what was behind it. There was something in the air of this place that made her skin tingle as it did when the faerie folk were near. If she could escape her mother’s watchful eye, this would be a good place to explore.
A tall woman came out of one of the houses, robed in a shapeless gown of natural wool with a wooden cross hanging from a thong around her neck, her hair hidden by a linen veil. But when she looked up, Guendivar saw a broad smile and twinkling eyes. For a moment that gaze rested on her in frank appraisal. Then she turned to Guendivar’s mother.
“So, Petronilla, this is your maid-child—she has grown like a flower in good soil, tall and fair!”
“Nothing so rooted,” answered her mother ruefully. “She is a bird, or perhaps a wild pony, always off running about the hills. Guendivar, this is Mother Maruret. Show that you know how to give her a proper greeting!”
Still blushing, Guendivar slid down from her pony, took the woman’s hand and bent to kiss it.
“You are welcome indeed, my child. My daughters will show you to your quarters. No doubt you will wish to wash before your meal.”
Guendivar’s belly growled in anicipation. Along with other changes, she was growing, and these days she was always hungry.
“You are not our only guests,” said Mother Maruret as she led them towards the largest building. “The queen is here.”
“Igierne?” asked Petronilla.
“Herself, with two of her women.”
Petronilla lifted one eyebrow. “And you allow them to stay on the Isle?”
The nun smiled. “We have been in this place long enough to understand that the ways of the Creator of the World are many and mysterious. If the queen is deluded, how shall that trouble my own faith? But indeed, she has never been other than quiet and respectful when she was here . . .”
Guendivar listened, wide-eyed. She had heard many tales of Artor’s mother, the most beautiful woman of her time. They said that King Uthir had fought a war to win her and killed her husband before her eyes, though others whispered that M
erlin had murdered him with his magic. She lived now in the north, ran the tales, on a magic island. Of course by now Igierne must be quite old, but it would be exciting to meet her all the same.
But when they entered the guest-house, though the queen’s two women were there, talking softly by the fire, Igierne was nowhere to be seen.
Just before dawn, Guendivar’s mother awakened her. The girl rose quickly and dressed in the white gown they gave her—she had been fasting since noon the day before before, and the sooner this was over the sooner she could get some food. Stumbling with sleepiness, she followed her mother and the two nuns, one of them young and one an old woman, who led the way with lanterns out of the guesthouse and up the hill.
Her interest quickened when she saw they were approaching the hazel hedge. There was a gate set amid the branches. The young woman lifted the iron latch and motioned for them to go in.
On the other side was a garden. Already a few birds were singing, though the sky was still dim and grey. She could hear the tinkle of falling water, and as the light grew, she saw that it was flowing down through a stone channel into a large pool.
“The spring is farther up the hill,” the young nun said in a low voice. Her name, she remembered, was Julia. “Winter and summer the pure water flows from the holy well. Even in years of drought it has never failed.”
Petronilla glanced at the sky, then turned to her daughter. “It is almost time. Take off the gown and step into the pool.”
“I was baptized when I was a babe,” muttered Guendivar as she obeyed, “Was not that not purification enough?”
“This is to cleanse you from childhood’s sins. You will emerge, a woman, transformed by the blood of your body and the water of the spirit.” Her mother took the gown and folded it across her arm.
Of the spirit, or the spirits? wondered Guendivar, remembering the spring on the hillside. It gave her the courage to set her foot on the steps that entered the dark water.
In that first shocked moment, she could not tell if the water was holy, only that it was freezingly cold. She stifled a yelp and stood shaking, the water lapping the joining of her thighs.
“In the name of the Blessed Virgin, may you be cleansed and purified of all sin and stain . . .” murmured Sister Julia, dipping up water in a wooden bowl and pouring it over Guendivar’s shoulders.
“In the name of Maria Theotokos, may you be cleansed and purified—” Now it was her mother’s turn.
“In the name of the Lady of Sorrows . . .” The old nun poured water over her head and stepped away.
In the name of all the gods, let me out of here before I freeze! thought Guendivar, edging back towards the steps. But her mother stopped her with a word. When Guendivar could escape her mother’s eye, she ran free, but she had never yet dared to defy her directly. Shivering, the girl stood where she was.
The sky brightened to a luminous pink like the inside of a shell. Light lay like a mist above the water. Guendivar took a quick breath, and realized that her shivering had ceased and her skin was tingling.
“Spirit of the holy spring,” her lips moved silently, “give me your blessing . . .” She scooped up water in her hand and drank, surprised at its iron tang. Then, before she could lose courage, she took a quick breath and submerged herself in the pool.
For a long moment she stayed there, her amber hair raying out across the surface, and each hair on her body lifted by its own bubble of air. The water she had swallowed sent a shock through every vein. The tingling of her skin intensified, as if the water were penetrating all the way to her bones. Then, just as it reached the edge of pain, it became light. The force of it brought Guendivar upright, arms uplifted, turning to face the rising sun.
She heard a sharp gasp of indrawn breath from one of the women. The sun was rising red above the slope of the hill. Rosy light glistened on her wet skin, glittered from the surface of the pool. For a moment she gazed, then the light brightened to gold and she could look no more.
“Receive the blessing of the Son of God—” her mother cried. But it was another voice that Guendivar heard.
“Be blessed by the shining sun, for while you walk in its light, no other power shall separate you from this bright and living world.. . .”
To that dawn ritual there was one other witness, who watched from the hillside as the women helped Guendivar from the pool and hid the radiance of her body in the shapeless robe of a penitent. When Igierne had first heard of the planned ritual, she had feared they meant to make the girl a nun; the actual intention was almost as hard to understand. What sins could a child of thirteen have committed? Before her marriage, Petronilla had spent some time as part of Igierne’s court. She came from an old Roman family that had long been Christian. Igierne knew that it was not the stains of childhood that Guendivar’s mother wanted to wash away, but her daughter’s incipient sexuality.
If so, she had chosen the wrong place to do so. Igierne knew how to interpret the blaze of light she had seen in the pool, and she knew also that the colony of monks established here by Joseph of Arimathea had learned how to use the magic of the Tor, but had not changed it. The powers that dwelt here were ancient when the Druids first saw this hill. She should not be surprised that this girl, whose face she had first seen in vision, should be recognized by the spirits of the Tor.
But it did make it all the more imperative that she speak with Guendivar. It would be difficult, for Petronilla kept her daughter well guarded. When the women had left the pool Igierne made her own way down to it, and found tangled in the branches above the gateway a wisp of red-gold hair. She smiled, and pulling a few pale hairs from her own head, began to twine them together, whispering a spell.
The little community on the Tor retired early, the guests to sleep through the night, and the nuns to rest until they should be called to midnight prayer. At night, said the Christians, the Devil roamed the world, and only the incantations of the faithful kept him at bay. But to Igierne, the night was a friend.
When the sound of quiet breathing told her that the other women in the guesthouse were asleep, she rose, slipped her feet into sandals and took up a cloak, and went outside. If anyone had questioned her, she would have said she sought the privy, but in fact her goal was the orchard, where she found a seat, put on the ring of twined hair she had made that morning, and began to sing.
And presently, just as the moon was lifting above the trees, the door to the guest-house opened and a pale figure came through. Igierne told herself that it was only the effect of moonlight on a white gown that made Guendivar’s figure seem luminous, but she could not help remembering the radiance of the morning and wondering.
Still, this opportunity must not be wasted. As Guendivar started down the path, Igierne gathered up her cloak and came out to meet her.
The girl started, eyes widening, but she stood her ground.
“Couldn’t you sleep either?” Igierne asked softly. “Let us walk. The gardens are beautiful in the light of the moon.”
“You’re human—” It was not quite a question.
“As human as you are,” Igierne answered, although when she remembered what she had seen that morning, she wondered.
“You are the queen—” Guendivar said then.
“The queen that was,” Igierne replied, as you are the queen that will be.. . . But it was not yet time to say so aloud.
They came out from beneath the moon-dappled shadows of the orchard and continued along the path. The moon shone full in a luminous sky, so bright that one could distinguish the red of the roses that lined the path from the dim green of the hill.
“Where are we going?” Guendivar asked at last.
“To the White Spring. You bathed in the Red Spring this morning, did you not? The Blood Well? Perhaps you did not know there is another on the Tor.”
“The Blood Well?” the girl echoed. “Then that is why . . . I thought—” Her voice became a whisper. “I thought that my flow had started again, that my blood had turned
the water red.”
“They should have explained,” Igierne said tartly. “There is iron in the water, just as there is in our blood. Did they tell you the water would wash away your sins? In the old days, maidens bathed here to establish their female cycle. Barren women came also, that their wombs might become as bountiful as the well.”
“I felt a tingling . . . all through my body . . .” Guendivar said then. “I suppose that now my mother will be trying to marry me off. She is very ambitious. But I’m not ready.”
“Indeed—” Igierne knew too well what it was to be married young to an older man. But for the daughters of princes, a long maidenhood was a luxury. And how long could Artor wait before his ministers compelled him to take a bride? “Do you think you will be ready when you are fifteen?”
The girl shrugged. “That is the age at which my brother was allowed to ride to battle.”
“It is the age at which my son became king . . .”
“That was a long time ago,” said Guendivar.
Igierne’s heart sank. What were the gods about, to make Artor wait so many years for his destined bride? Silent, she led the way down the path to the second gate, and the smaller enclosure where the White Spring welled up from the ground.
“What is this one for?” the girl asked.
“They say it brings hope and healing. You are in health, but sometimes the spirit needs healing as well. Let the water flow into this bowl, and then hold it up to catch the light of the moon.”
Guendivar nodded. “There was sun-power in the Blood Well, but this feels different—” She lifted the bowl.
“I wish—” Igierne began, then paused. The girl looked at her expectantly. “Not many would have noticed that. If I thought there were any chance your mother would agree, I would take you for training on the Holy Isle . . .” If only I could give Artor a queen who was an initiate of the ancient mysteries!
“An island?” Guendivar shook her head. “I would feel prisoned if I could not gallop my pony beneath the sky. Why do you you live there?”
“Long ago the Romans sought to destroy all Druids because they were the ones who preserved the soul of our people and reminded them of what it was to be free. Those who survived their attacks fled to Alba or Eriu, or secret places in Britannia where they could survive. The Lake is one such, hidden among high hills, and also it is very beautiful.”
The Hallowed Isle Book Three Page 5