She laid the body of the cock at the base of the stone, straightened, and lifted her hands; and Maderun, feeling the pulse of power, opened her eyes and raised hers as well.
“Sword-God, War-God, God of Justice, we call you. Cocidius, Red Lord, and Shining Belutacadros we call, as the folk in this land hailed you before the Romans came. Mars of the Soldiers, hear us, and forgive us that we have no knowledge of your other names.” She stretched out her hands and set them about the hilt, and Maderun covered them with her own.
Argantel had been taught the secret twist by which the Sword might be withdrawn, but though a woman could guard the blade, it was not for her to wield it. And indeed, as she felt the power focused in the Sword growing, she would not have dared. It was hard enough simply to hold onto it, and she was glad of the strength of Maderun’s hands enclosing hers.
“Hear us!” she cried, “as you heard your servants in years of old. Grant us a vision! Show us the Defender who will restore peace to this land!”
She felt Maderun’s clasp loosen, freed one hand and gripped her cousin’s hard over her own. The younger woman’s eyes had closed; she swayed, tremors shaking her body. Argantel suppressed a surge of panic. This wasn’t supposed to be happening! Maderun’s role was to support, to add her energy, her need, to that of the priestess to whom the God would send His words.
Fool that she was, to think that because her cousin was untrained she had no ability. They shared the same blood and the same potential—and without the disciplines of a priestess, Maderun had no defenses against the force that lived in the Sword.
She moved again, this time trying to detach Maderun’s fingers from the hilt. But now it was the other girl who clung with a grip she could not break. Argantel straightened, fighting to control her own breathing as Maderun twitched and moaned.
“Belutacadros!” she cried, choosing the most beneficent of the aspects she knew. “We have called you, and given you honor. Go gently with this woman, daughter of your priests of old. Speak through her, that we may hear, and leave her without harm!”.
Very carefully she let go of the Sword and edged backward, lifting her hands in salutation. For a moment longer Maderun jerked, gasping, like a horse that fights the rein. Then she stilled, and the tension went out of her in a long sigh. When the girl drew breath once more, Argantel could see how, with the air, something else was flowing into her. Or rather Someone Else, for the figure that held the Sword now stood like a warrior, tall and grim.
“Long. . . it has been long since I wore flesh. . . .” The first words were a whisper, then the voice strengthened. It was deep, with a faintly gutteral accent.
Argantel blinked, for laid like a veil above the form of her cousin she saw a man’s shape, clad in a hauberk of overlapping scales, features half-hidden by a helm. For a moment he gazed around the chamber, and the priestesses flinched and bowed their heads, afraid to meet his gaze. Trembling, Argantel held her own head high, praying she would have the courage to face the power she had invoked.
The dark gaze turned to her at last. “Why have you called Me here?”
“My people perish, beset on every side. The Romans forbade us to bear arms, and now they have abandoned us. Send us a Duke of War.” He looked at her and suddenly he laughed. It was not a comforting sound.
“You have asked for War and War you shall have. The enemies of whom you now complain are children compared to those who shall come after them.”
“What do you mean? Is there nothing we can do?”
“I am a god of Justice. What you ask for you shall receive. If your leaders act in honor, they may yet be saved, but if they are ruled by greed they will lose all. I do not ordain this fate; I only read men’s hearts and tell you what I see.”
“Then I ask you to give us a King who will rule with honor, a King who will be worthy to wield this Sword!”
For a long moment he looked at her, and the pressure of his gaze forced her to her knees. “He will come,” he said softly at last, “not from your womb, but from your blood. You will ally yourself with a husband who is skilled in war and true in heart, and sworn to shed his blood for this land. He will defend the North by force of arms, and you will defend it by the force of the spirit. Tigernissa, High Queen, you shall never be, but Branuen I name you, the White Raven of Britannia who rules the hidden realm. You have the will. It remains to be seen whether you have the wisdom. Use your power well.”
Argantel felt the color leave her cheeks and then flood back again.
“And what of my cousin, whose body now serves you. What will her fate be?”
“She is an empty vessel, that any power that passes can fill. A wilder power than my own will possess her, nor can you protect her. But from wildness shall come wisdom, and the child she bears must live, for by his magic you shall gain your king.”
Once more he glanced around him, and as she heard his voice ringing across the room Argantel realized that his previous words had been for her alone to hear.
“Endure, resist, meet honor with honor, and your Duke of War shall become a Peace-King whose name will live as long as this land lasts.”
He looked back at the Sword, fingering the hilt regretfully. Then, with a little sigh, his eyes closed. For a moment Argantel was not sure who she was seeing. Then it was only Maderun who stood there, dazed and pale, and as Argantel realized that the god had left her, the girl swayed and crumpled to the floor.
“You will ally yourself with a husband who is skilled in war, and true in heart, and sworn to shed his blood for this land.”
Beneath her lashes Argantel considered the husband the Sword-God had given her. At least she supposed it must be the work of some god, from the rapidity with which the marriage negotiations had been concluded. Amlodius Licinius, Protector of Brigantia, had the height of his barbarian ancestors, tribesmen from the north coast of Germania who had crossed the Rhenus to enter the service of Rome. His fair skin was reddened by exposure to wind and weather, his pale hair thinning, as if the pressure of a helmet had worn it away. His blunt features bore the marks of a decided character, but she did not yet know if he was kind.
To those who had argued out the marriage contract, that had not been important. What mattered to them was that he represented the last legitimate government established by Rome. As for Amlodius, he recognized that the times were changing, and wished to found a dynasty that would endure in the North by allying himself to the oldest blood in the land. He would respect her birth, and if he did not, she was Lady of the Lake, with her own defenses.
She mopped up some of the meat sauce with a bit of bread and chewed it slowly. She had thoroughly considered all the aspects of this alliance. Amlodius needed her link to the land, and the Old Faith needed a protector. The marriage had the blessing of the gods. The table was strewn with the remains of the wedding feast, and soon it would be time for the bedding. Only now, confronted with the physical reality of her new husband, did she wonder if among all the reasons of state that bound them there might be room for love.
The great hall which had once been the basilica of the Roman magistrates of Luguvalium was garlanded with greenery and crowded with all those who had come to honor the occasion. She supposed she should be flattered, although they had come as much to win favor with Amlodius as to honor her.
Coroticus, newly come to his grandfather’s high seat at Dun Breatann in Altacluta, had been given a place at the high table. Flushed with wine, he was debating policy with Vitalinus of Glevum. Vitalinus was as wily, it was said, as the fox from whose pelt he might have taken the color of his hair. Antonius Donatus, Protector of the Novantae country, watched them sourly. He was an old man now, appointed to his post by Theodosius, the last ruler of a united Empire. He had fought the Picts and the Scotii most of his long life, and seen the power of Rome drain away from Britannia like blood from a wound.
At one of the lower tables her cousin Maderun sat with some of the princes’ wives. As if she had felt the thought, Maderun loo
ked up and smiled. Smiling back at her, Argantel realized that most of those here were friends to her husband, not to her. Abruptly she found herself wishing she could go down to sit with the other women, and wondering whether anyone at the high table would miss her if she did.
But then she would have had to talk to Ebrdila, who could not quite hide her satisfaction. Argantel remained High Priestess and Lady of the Lake, but at least until Amlodius had got her with child, she must remain in Luguvalium, and the older woman would rule the priestesses in fact, if not in name.
“They say that Ambrosius is dying—”
A sudden tension in the man beside her recalled Argantel’s attention. It was Coroticus who had spoken, but everyone was looking at Vitalinus.
“Who will wear the purple after him?” Argantel said then, since no one else seemed willing to ask.
“Does it matter?” asked Coroticus. “The time of the emperors is ended. It was ever the way of our people for each tribe to choose a king, as we do in Alba. Even in Britannia the authority of Ambrosius and the House of Constantine was not everywhere accepted, is that not so?” He looked at Vitalinus again, and Argantel remembered hearing that the Lord of Glevum had opposed Ambrosius to the point of civil war.
“Emperor or overking, the name does not matter,” said Vitalinus, pushing away his platter. “But someone must exercise supreme authority. If our people had stood together, Rome would never have conquered us at all.” He lifted his goblet, found it empty, and set it down again. Argantel gestured to one of the serving lads to go around the table refilling them.
“I agree,” rumbled Amlodius. “Today, Britannia is more than just the British tribes, and the Picts and the Scotii threaten us all. What use is it for me to fight them off here if they then turn their keels northward to attack you, Coroticus, in Dun Breatann? When wolves attack a herd, they separate the weakest animal from the rest and bring it down, but if the others make a ring of defense around it, the attackers can do nothing. We must stand together or they will gobble us up piecemeal.”
It was the longest speech she had yet heard from him, thought Argantel. Clearly he was articulate enough in court or camp. She would have to teach him that women were capable of sensible discourse as well.
“My thought exactly!” Vitalinus looked at him gratefully.
“Perhaps such measures are required in the south,” objected Coroticus, “where for generations the men of the tribes have been forbidden to bear arms. But the men of the north still know how to use their swords, and we need no emperor who will take more in taxes than the enemy takes in spoils!”
Amlodius shook his head. “There are strong arms in the south—twenty-year men of the Legions who have retired near the old fortresses. They are not British, but this is their home, and they can teach their skills to the sons they have bred up in this land.”
“Will you seek to be emperor if Ambrosius dies?” asked old Antonius Donatus.
“I will!” Vitalinus answered, his gaze continuing on to the other men. “Will you support me?”
Amlodius nodded. “I will uphold you, so that you confirm me in my lordship here—” His glance went to Argantel, as if that had reminded him of the other source of his authority.
“I will swear alliance,” Coroticus said then, “but my people were never ruled by the South, and will not accept an overlord.”
Antonius Donatus nodded his agreement. “But it is not the men of the North that you must convince to help you defend them, Vitalinus. We love our independence, but the Pictish wolf is always at our door. Your task will be to persuade the great folk of southern Britain, who have lived in peace for so long they cannot believe anyone would dare to do them harm.”
“I will persuade them,” Vitalinus said soberly. “And I will rule.”
Amlodius lifted his goblet in salutation. A silence fell as the others drained their own. Then Antonius Donatus looked at Argantel and laughed.
“Well, this is fine talk for a wedding feast! I wonder that your bride has not fallen asleep waiting for you to pay her some attention.”
“I am not sleepy, I assure you,” said Argantel tartly. “I saw the ruin the Scotii leave behind them only a few months ago. We women may not take up a sword, but we can die on one. Should we not be as concerned with what plans are being made for our defense as you?”
“Ho, you have married a fire-eater!” Coroticus laughed. “Take care lest you set the bed aflame!”
Argantel was interested to see a flush of embarrassment redden Amlodius’s neck and ears.
Some of the other guests, overhearing, were beginning to shout that it was time for the bedding of the bride. Argantel felt her own cheeks grow warm, and wondered if her face were as crimson as her veil. Ebrdila was advancing towards her with Maderun and the other women close behind.
“We will escort the Lady to the bridal chamber,” she said grandly, “and inform you when she is ready.”
It was like a ritual, thought Argantel as she rose to her feet. All the decisions had been made, and it only remained to go through the ceremonial motions. Wordless, she allowed the other women to lead her out of the hall.
Argantel sat wrapped in a nightrobe in front of the hearth, her waist-length hair spread out across her shoulders like a veil. The other women were busy turning back the bed and arranging the greenery with which they had adorned the room. Maderun drew the brush through the last strand of hair and stepped back, head tipped to admire her handiwork.
“Look how it gleams!” Maderun lifted it so that her cousin could see. Argantel nodded. As Maderun laid the lock back again it shimmered with little fiery glints from the flame on the hearth, reminding her abruptly of the Sword.
“Lord, I consented to this marriage because of your words,” she prayed silently, “grant it your blessing . . .”
Maderun, misinterpreting her stillness, laid a hand on her shoulder.
“Argantel, are you afraid?”
She shook her head. “I have served the Goddess in the holy rites, and I am not a virgin. It is only that this life will be such a change from all I have known.”
Maderun sighed. “That is true for all of us. I used to dream of entering a holy sisterhood, but if what spoke to you in the Sword-rite was a divine being and no demon, we must bear the children Britannia needs. No doubt my father will be arranging a match for me when I get home.”
“I suppose so—” Argantel looked up at her cousin, and saw something vulnerable, almost fey, in her expression. The other women were already moving toward the door. Filled with sudden tenderness, she took the other girl’s hand and kissed it. “Thank you, Maderun, for staying to support me on this day. May your god bless and protect you on your journey home.”
Maderun caught Argantel’s hand to her cheek and smiled. “And may your goddess fill your new husband with love for you.” She smiled tremulously and, turning, followed the others from the room.
Argantel was not left long alone.
Barely a moment had passed, it seemed, when the door was flung open again and the men, laughing, thrust Amlodius into the room.
“Be off with you, now! You have seen us put together in the bridal chamber. Go get drunk or something, and leave us alone!”
Propelled by a volley of bawdy commentary, the door slammed shut. Amlodius drew a deep breath, some of the high color leaving his face. Clutching her robe closed, Argantel rose. She was a tall woman, but he towered over her.
He cleared his throat. “We have not had much time to become acquainted, but I will try to be a good husband to you. You must tell me if there is something you need.”
She nodded. “Most of all I will need you to talk to me. I have been used to ruling the priestesses on the Isle of Maidens, as you rule your warriors here. Do not treat me like a woman who knows no more than her distaff and her cookfire, Amlodius. Like you, I serve this land. Do we have an agreement?” She paused. “You are looking at me as if you were surveying a battlefield.”
Amusement sparked in
his blue eyes, and as he shrugged off his robe, she saw that if this was a combat, his forces were ready. Argantel felt a slow fire kindling beneath her skin.
“That bed is our field, lady, and you shall be my fellow-warrior. . . .”
With a swift step he bore down upon her, and letting her own garment fall, she readied herself for the fray.
II
THE WILD MAN
A.D. 425—29
THE ROAD FROM LUGUVALIUM TO DEVA RAN SOUTH THROUGH THE hills and then straight across the levels beside the sea. In these times no route could be said to be completely secure, but after what she had seen the preceding autumn, Maderun feared to return to Maridunum by sea.
The weather grew warmer as Beltain neared. Creamy primroses clustered beneath the hedges and the first starry blooms of the hawthorne appeared. As each day came to a peaceful close, the fear that had made Maderun tense against each jolt of the horse-litter faded and she began to enjoy the journey. She had never, she thought, known the land to be so beautiful. She laughed at the antics of the new lambs on the hillsides, and plaited the flowers that the men of her escort picked for her into wreaths for their hair. Maderun listened to their singing and laughed, for it was the tune that the lads and lasses sang when they went out to gather greenery for Beltain.
Two weeks of journeying brought them in sight of the northern coast of the old Deceangli lands that curved west into the sea. Here the road ran between the water and the forest. Another long day’s journey would bring them to Deva, and a bath, thought Maderun longingly, and a soft bed.
Looking around their campsite, no one would guess that a major center of Roman civilization lay so near. Tonight she would lack even the poor comforts of a shepherd’s shelter. Since noon they had passed only one ruined farmstead. The men were already busy cutting branches to build her a leafy bower. However, they had water and firewood, and the evening was calm and beautiful. She watched the sun go down across the Hibernian Sea and knew herself at peace with the world.
The Hallowed Isle Book One Page 2