The Hallowed Isle Book Three

by Diana L. Paxson

  “Who are you?” Guendivar whispered. She was accustomed to the folk of faerie, but this was a being of nobler kind than any she had met before.

  “I am Cama, the curve of the hill and the winding water, I am the sacred round. It has been long . . . very long . . . since any mortal called to Me.. . . What is your need?”

  Guendivar felt her skin pebble with holy fear. The new faith had not yet succeeded in banishing the old wisdom so completely that she could not recognize the ancient goddess of this part of the land. But her cry had been wordless. She struggled for an answer.

  “The water flows—the wind blows—but I am bound! I want to be free!”

  “Free . . .” The goddess tested the sound as if she did not quite understand. “The waters flow downhill to the sea . . . heat and cold drive the currents of the wind. They are free to follow their natures. Is that what you desire?”

  “And what is my nature? I am wed, but no wife!”

  “You are the Queen . . .”

  “I am a gilded image. I have no power—”

  “You are the power . . .”

  Guendivar, her mouth still opening in protest, halted, almost understanding. Then the owl called, and the insight was gone. She saw the figure of the Lady dislimning into a column of glimmering light.

  “Help me!” she cried. She heard no answer, but the figure opened its arms.

  Shivering, Guendivar climbed over the coping and stepped into the pool. Soft mud gave beneath her feet and she slid into the cold depths too swiftly for a scream. Water closed over her head, darkness enclosed her. This is death, she thought, but there was no time for fear. And then she was rushing upwards into the light. Power swirled around her, but she was the center of the circle—being and doing, the motion and her stillness, one and the same.

  In this place there was no time, but time must have passed, for presently, with no sense of transition, Guendivar found herself experiencing the world with her normal senses once more. The moon had moved a quarter of the way across the sky, and its light no longer fell full on the pool. She was standing, streaming with water, but the bottom of the pool was solid beneath her feet.

  She felt empty, and realized that what had departed from her was her despair. Perhaps this serenity would not last, but she did not think she would ever entirely forget what she had seen.

  VII

  THE WOUNDED KING

  A.D. 498

  GUENDIVAR HUDDLED NEXT TO THE HEARTH OF THE HOUSE the king’s household had commandeered, listening to the hiss of the fire and the dull thud of rain on the thatching. If she sat any closer, she thought unhappily, she would catch fire herself, but her back still felt damp even when her front was steaming.

  None of the other dwellings in this village were any better. She pitied the men of Artor’s army, shivering in the dubious shelter of tents made of oiled hide as they cursed the Irish. The euphoria of their great victory at Urbs Legionis—the city of legions that was also called Deva—had worn away. Illan, king of the men of Laigin who had settled in northern Guenet a generation ago, was on the run, but he was going to make the British fight for every measure of ground between Deva and the Irish Sea.

  She laid another stick on the fire, wondering why she had been so eager to accompany Artor on this campaign. For most of the past week it had been raining, grey veils of cloud dissolving into the silver sea. With each day’s march, the stony hills that edged the green pasturelands had grown nearer. Now they rose in a grim wall on the left, broken by an occasional steep glen from which shrieking bands of Irishmen might at any moment emerge to harry the army that was pushing steadily westward along the narrowing band of flat land between the mountains and the sea.

  Artor was up ahead somewhere with the scouts. It had been foolish to think that their relationship might improve if she accompanied him. The king spent his days in the saddle, returning tired, wet, and hungry when night fell, usually escorting wounded men. Artor had not wanted to bring her, but during their brief courtship he had said she could ride with the army, and she had sworn she would neither complain nor slow them down.

  There was no risk of the latter, Guendivar thought bitterly, since she travelled with the rearguard. As for complaining, so far she had held her tongue, but she knew that if she had to stay cooped up in this hut for much longer she was going to scream.

  With that thought, she found that she was on her feet and turning towards the door. She pushed past the cowhide that covered it and stood beneath the overhang of the roof, breathing deeply of the clean air. It was damp, heavy with mingled scents of wet grass and seaweed. Mist still clung to the hilltops, but a fresh wind was blowing, and here and there a stray gleam of sunlight spangled the sea.

  It might only be temporary, but the skies were clearing. Guendivar gazed longingly at the slopes whose green grew brighter with every moment. Surely, she told herself, they could not be entirely different from the gentle hills of her home. Some of the same herbs would grow there, plants that her old nurse had taught her to use in healing.. . .

  The young soldier who had been assigned to her personal escort straightened as she came out into the open. His name was Cau, one of the men who had come down from the Votadini lands with Marianus. There was some tension between the followers of Marianus and Catwallaun, both grandsons of the great Cuneta, though Catwallaun’s branch of the family had been settled in Guenet a generation before. Many of the newcomers resented being set to guard the rear of the army, but Cau had attached himself to Guendivar’s service with a dedication reminiscent of those monks who served the Virgin Mary. He had left a wife back in Deva with their infant son, Gildas, but he still flushed crimson whenever Guendivar smiled.

  “Look—it has stopped raining.” She stretched out a hand, palm upward, and laughed. “We should take advantage of the change in weather. I would ride a little way into those hills to gather herbs for healing.”

  Cau was already shaking his head. “My lord king ordered me to keep you safe here—”

  “The king has also ordered that his wounded be cared for. Surely he would not object if I go out in search of medicines to help them. Please, Cau—” she gave him a tremulous smile “—I think I will go mad if I do not get some exercise. Surely all the enemy are far ahead of us by now!”

  Cau still looked uncertain, but he and his men were as frustrated by their inaction as she was. She suppressed a smile, knowing even before he spoke that he was going to agree.

  After the stink and smoke of the hut, to be out in the fresh air was heaven. When the grasslands began to slope upward, they dismounted, and Guendivar wandered over the meadow searching for useful herbs while Cau followed with a basket and the other men sat their horses, grinning in their beards.

  Guendivar made sure she found enough herbs among the grasses to justify the expedition. She picked the five-lobed leaves of Lady’s Mantle and Self-heal with its clustered purple trumpets, both good for cleansing wounds. As they wandered farther, she glimpsed the creamy flowers and tooth-shaped leaves of Traveller’s Joy, whose bark made an effective infusion for reducing fever, and Centaury, also good for fever, and for soothing the stomach and toning the system as well. Purging Flax went into the basket, and wild Marjoram to bathe sore muscles and reduce bruises.

  It was a hard land, whipped by the sea winds, and nowhere did the useful plants grow in abundance, but by midafternoon they had nearly filled the basket. Her men had earned a rest, and Guendivar led them towards the musical trickle of water that came from a small ravine. The stream itself was hidden by a fringe of hazel and thorn, with a few straggling birch trees, but after all the running about she had been doing, its moist breath was welcome.

  She had opened her mouth to tell Cau to bring the bread and cheese from her saddlebags when a wild shriek and a crashing in the bushes brought her whirling around. From out of the brush men came leaping, brandishing spears. There must have been fifty of them, against the dozen men of the queen’s guard. Her escort spurred their mounts forwar
d to meet them, but the ground was steep and broken; two horses went down and the others plunged as men ran towards them.

  “Selenn! Run! Get help—” cried Cau. The last of the riders pulled up as the attackers surrounded the others, stabbing with their spears. In another moment he had hauled his mount’s head around and was galloping down the slope.

  Cau grabbed Guendivar’s arm and thrust her down, standing over her with drawn sword. One enemy got too close and a sweeping swordstroke felled him, but a word from the leader directed the others towards the rest of her escort, and in minutes they were dead or captive, and the queen and her protector surrounded by leveled spears. Guendivar got to her feet, chin held up defiantly.

  “You will be putting down your blade now, and none will harm you—” said the leader. An Irish accent, of course—but she had guessed that from the jackets and breeches of padded leather they wore.

  “Artor will kill me . . .” muttered Cau, lowering his sword.

  Guendivar shook her head. “It was my will, my responsibility—”

  The enemy leader made a swift step forward, took the weapon and handed it to one of his men. He drew two lengths of thong from his belt and tied first Cau’s and then Guendivar’s hands.

  “Come now, for we have far to go.”

  “You are mad,” said the queen. “Release us, and perhaps Artor will not hunt you down.”

  “Lady, would you be refusing our hospitality?” He eyed her appreciatively. “I’m thinking that your king will pay well to have you back again.”

  One of the spears swung purposefully towards Cau’s back. The warrior’s grin told her he would not hesitate to spear his captive, and Guendivar started forward, knowing that Cau must follow her.

  “It is myself, Melguas son of Ciaran, that has the honor to be your captor,” he said over his shoulder, teeth flashing in his russet beard. His hair was more blond than red, confined in many small braids bound and ornamented with bits of silver and gold. He led the way at a swift trot and it took all Guendivar’s breath to keep up with him.

  “It is Guendivar daughter of Leodagranus who has the misfortune to be your captive, and lord Cau, who commands my guards,” she said when they paused for a moment at the top of the slope. The ravine deepened here, and in the shelter of the trees ponies were waiting, surefooted native beasts that could go swiftly on the rough terrain.

  “And do you think we did not know it? For many and many a day we have been watching you.” Melguas tipped back his head, laughing, and she saw the torque of silver that gleamed beneath the beard.

  “A damned cheerful villain,” murmured Cau, but Guendivar closed her eyes in pain. This had been no evil chance, but the enemy’s careful plan, waiting only on her foolishness. She thought of the three men of her escort whom the Irish had left dead on the field and knew their blood was on her hands.

  Darkness had fallen by the time they stopped at last, and they had covered many miles. Sick at heart and aching from the pony’s jolting, Guendivar allowed Melguas to pull her off the horse and thrust her into a brush hut without protest. They left Cau to lie beside the fire, still bound, with a blanket thrown over him. It did no good to tell herself that Artor would be as wounded by the loss of any of his companions as by her capture—none of them could have been taken so easily.

  That night she huddled in the odorous blankets in silent misery. How long, she wondered, before Selenn reached the rearguard and told his tale? How long for another messenger to get to Artor? By the time he could send men to her rescue, the rain she heard pattering on the brush would have wiped out their trail. Perhaps he will think himself well rid of me.. . . She contemplated the prospect of an endless captivity with sour satisfaction. She was glad now that Julia had been left behind in Camalot, so that she was not weighted by the burden of the sister’s grief as well.

  In the morning she was given a bowl of gruel and made to mount the pony once more. For most of the day they moved steadily, following the hidden paths through the hills. Here in the high country, the wind blew cold and pure, as if it had never passed through mortal lungs; an eagle, hanging in the air halfway between the earth and the sun, was the only living thing they saw. When Guendivar expressed surprise that the Irish should know these paths, Melguas laughed.

  “My father is a prince in the land of Laigin, but ’tis here I was born and I am on speaking terms with every peak and valley.”

  As I am in the Summer Country, Guendivar thought then, wishing she were there now. “Are you taking me to King Illan?” she asked aloud.

  “Surely—better than a wall of stone to protect us is the lovely body of Artor’s queen.”

  “Do not be so certain,” Guendivar said grimly.

  “How not?” Melguas looked at her in surprise. “Are you not the White Lady, with the fertility of the land between your round thighs and its sovereignty shining from your brow?”

  Not for Artor, thought Guendivar, but she would not betray him by saying so. These Irish seemed so confident of her value—what magic did queens have, there in Eriu, that these exiled sons should hold them in such reverence? Melguas had forced her obedience, but neither he nor his men had dared to offer her either insult or familiarity. This is what Merlin was trying to tell me, she thought then, but I must be a fraud as well as a failure, for there is something missing within me that prevents me from becoming truly Artor’s queen!

  * * *

  That night they slept wrapped in cloaks beneath rude brush shelters. In the middle of the night, Guendivar felt the need to relieve herself and crawled out from the shelter, shivering as the chill touched her skin. The privy trench had been dug a little down the slope. When she was finished, she stood, gazing at the black shapes of the mountains humped against the stars. If this had been her own country, she would have tried to slip away in the darkness, but she did not know this land, and besides, Melguas was a careful commander, and though she could not see them, there would be guards.

  She turned, and as if the thought had summoned him, saw a dark man-shape rising out of the rocks.

  “Ah, lady, you are cold—let me make you warm—”

  It was Melguas, but something within her had already known it. With a sense of inevitability, she felt his hands close on her shoulders, the scent of male sweat as he pulled her against him and kissed her mouth.

  “I am a queen—” she whispered when he released her at last. “Is this how you respect me?” But her heart was thumping in her breast, and she had not wanted him to let her go.

  “It is—as I would serve the land herself, had she a body I could worship . . .” The soft Irish voice was trembling, but his grip was firm.

  I must stop this, Guendivar told herself as he pulled her close once more, his hands reverent on her skin. But if she cried out, no one would help her—there would only be more witnesses to her shame. His hand moved to her breast, and she swayed, all her frustrated sensuality asserting its claim. He laughed then, sensing her body yielding, and bore her to the shelter of a stony outcrop and on the soft grass laid her down.

  Pressed against the earth by the weight of Melguas’ body, the queen had no power of resistance. And at the moment of fulfillment, it seemed to her as if she was the earth, opening ecstatically to receive his love.

  Guendivar woke, shamed and aching, to a soft drizzle that continued throughout the day. She drew her shawl over her head, peering at the faces of the warriors. But there were no sly looks or secret smiles, and if Melguas looked triumphant, her capture was excuse enough. Perhaps her secret was secure. She wondered if Cau suspected. Their captors had left him bound all night, and he must be feeling even worse than she was. He sat his pony without complaining, but he no longer smiled.

  The cloud cover was beginning to darken when Melguas drew rein.

  “Illan’s camp lies yonder—” He gestured towards the next fold in the hills, and it seemed to Guendivar, accustomed after two days to the cold silences of the heights, that she could hear a distant murmur like a river
in flood. “If you wish it, we will be stopping for a moment so that you may dress your hair and brush your garments and appear before my lord as a queen.” There was a familiar warmth in his gaze.

  Guendivar stared at him. Riding with Artor’s men, she had packed away her royal ornaments so that they would think of her as a sister and comrade. After two days in the saddle, she must look like one of the women who followed the army, her face grimed and bits of brush tangled in her hair. If all my jewels cannot make me a real queen, how will it serve if I tidy my hair?

  Melguas was waiting. Guendivar’s mother had been constantly carping at her to at least pretend she was a lady. Why should this be any different? For three years now she had been pretending to be a queen. What had happened to her last night should have destroyed even the pretense of legitimacy, but her captor’s belief compelled her. She took the comb the Irishman held out to her and began to untangle her braids.

  Through the veil of her hair she could see the light in Melguas’ eyes become a flame of adoration. As the red-gold strands blew out upon the wind the other men stared, even Cau had straightened in the saddle, watching with some of his old worship in his eyes. Their faces were mirrors in which she saw the reflection of a queen. She slowed, drawing out each stroke of the comb with intention, drawing from the men who watched her the power to become what they needed her to be.

  And in that moment, when the attention of her captors was focused on her beauty, riders burst suddenly over the rim of the hill and the warcry of the Pendragon echoed against the sky.

  Gualchmai was in the lead, as big and barbaric as any of the Irishmen. Melguas made a grab for Guendivar’s rein, but she recovered from the first shock of recognition in time to boot her pony into motion. She dropped the comb and grabbed for its mane as the beast leaped into a jolting canter, managing to collect the reins herself in time to stop the animal before it ran away with her.

  By this time Melguas and Gualchmai were trading blows, the clangor of steel assaulting the trembling air. She glimpsed Betiver and Cai and Gualchmai’s brothers—Christ! Artor had sent all his Companions! And then she realized that he had not sent but led them, that the big man in silver mail and the spangenhelm that hid his features was Artor himself, charging into battle like the Great Bear.