I wrote all of this down. But after a fortnight of chronicling these doings, I could not think that was what Morgaine wanted. She desired gossip that she could profit from. So, I copied out the parts she might be interested in. I did not throw out the longer accounts I had written. Perhaps, when I was an old priestess, I would sit by the fire and read about these doings at Castle Camelot and wonder at such times I had lived through.
Yes. I keep this for myself. Morgaine will not care.
On the second night of the new moon, I heard a scratching-tap upon my door. It was late, and the noisy castle was quieter. I got up from my bed and opened the door. A figure, dressed in black with a black hood hissed, “Let me in, fool!”
I waved the person in and closed the door. “Are you from Avalon?”
The figure nodded and put out a hand.
“You are from Morgaine?” I asked.
The figure nodded emphatically and shook its open hand at me.
“You are very talkative,” I snapped, out of patience.
The hooded messenger spun about, took up the stick I had been using to poke the fire with, and brandished its blackened, ember-filled end at me.
I hurried over to the table and took up the parchment scroll I prepared for Morgaine. “Here!”
The courier flung the branch at the fireplace and went out with my scroll.
And that was the first of my reports to Morgaine.
Chapter Twenty
Word got around the court about my healing skills—whether from the servants, Sir Cai, or Merlin himself, I could not tell. I began to be called for. This serving woman had a rash. That page had carbuncles that would not heal. I was able to help with these small needs. At least I was useful. But most of the knights and their ladies persisted in thinking I was slow of mind or understanding. Often, they shouted their desires at me or talked as if to a baby. I tried to make them hear I could speak as well as they, but they seemed deaf to my words. It was as if there was a spell of misunderstanding upon them. I stopped trying to do any more than was needed.
All of them stared at the whip scar on my left cheek. I took to wearing my cloak with the hood up all the time, indoors and out.
One afternoon, Merlin arrived in my room. “Have you a moment?”
“Always.”
“Come then. There’s someone I would have you meet.”
He led me out to the stables and beyond to a building I had seen, but not entered. It was a room filled with beds, but only two men were there. The place smelled of bitter herbs.
“This is the infirmary for the knights and fighting men. And this,” he said as he waved a tall, sour-looking man over, “is Pwyll, the king’s physic.”
I bowed to him. He had a pale green lifeglow, streaked with brown. A healer, to be sure, but one who was vain about it.
“What is this, Merlin?” the man demanded.
“This is Lady Anya. She’s a great healer who Lady Morgaine brought from Avalon to serve the king and his court,” Merlin said.
Pwyll sniffed at me. “We need no witch here.”
“She has a great deal of knowledge that I thought you could use in your treatments,” Merlin said in a soothing voice. “Perhaps there are things you could teach her, as well.”
Pwyll made a noise with his mouth that sounded like a fart. “That’s not likely. The king trusts me with his very life. What need I a girl to tell me? And why should I share my knowledge with the likes of her?”
I could have been affronted by the man but was not. I read him as a small person with little to be proud of. The Viborg men I met of this type always seemed to poor-mouth women, so they could feel bigger.
Instead, I walked over to the nearest sick man to see how this healer worked. The young man had a fever, as I could see by his flushed face and the sweat on his brow. There was a gash on his upper arm that was held together with rough gut in large stitches. The wound had been stuffed with herbs that were rotting. The cut was red and weeping pus. “He will lose that arm if you do not remove the plant matter.”
“What’s she saying? Get her away from him!” demanded Pwyll.
Merlin said, “I suggest you allow Lady Anya to see what she can do. It’s obvious Keegan is suffering.”
Pwyll, apparently realizing how close Merlin was—and that the powerful Druid was displeased with him—swallowed and stopped talking.
The physic’s assistant edged closer to me, so I directed my words at him. “You should reopen the cut and take out the herbs. I would be happy to give you a salve that works on top of the skin but does not interfere with the healing wound. It both soothes and numbs. Further, making smaller stitches will help the hurt close faster and leave less of a scar—although it will be manly enough looking.”
Pwyll snorted. “That’s nonsense!”
I ignored him. “Once the swelling goes down, this man’s fever should go away, as well.”
Pwyll said, “I’ll report this to the king!”
Merlin replied, “I think that’s a good idea, Pwyll. You tell the king what happened here, and then I’ll tell him how rude you’ve been to Lady Anya. Let him judge the worthiness of your complaint.”
Pwyll looked distinctly unhappy. “Well …”
“In fact, I insist you come to court after the evening meal and we’ll put it before the king,” Merlin said.
“I—I’d hate to bother His Majesty about something like this,” Pwyll stammered.
“Hm,” was all Merlin said. Seeing I was finished, he led me out.
Once we are away from the infirmary, I asked, “Why did you take me there?”
“To show you how much you’re needed. What healing the men who serve the king receive isn’t good enough. We lose too many. Be sure, the king will hear of this, and he’ll think about having Pwyll train under you.”
I made the farting noise Pwyll had. “That day will never come.”
Merlin laughed. “We can’t force it to happen all at once. No man likes to be shown he’s wrong—least of all ill-mannered self-important toads like Pwyll. We must take it in small steps. But, the day will happen when he’ll concede you are the master and he the student.”
I begged to doubt, but said, “I thank you for referring to me as ‘Lady Anya,’ but I am no longer a high priestess, and base-born as well.” I had heard the kitchen staff mocking those who called themselves “lord” or “lady” when their birth did not merit the title.
“You were a high priestess, and nothing can change that. Watch how attitudes change when I refer to you in this manner in open court,” Merlin said.
I wondered if a simple word could really change the way people treated me.
That night, the servants in the kitchen stared as I walk in. “Did I grow a third eye today?” I asked.
“I heard Lord Merlin refer to you as ‘Lady Anya’ in front of the king and all,” said Fredic, a serving man.
“Ah,” I said, taking my seat.
“Well?” Lavena said. “Is it true?”
I knew this was ticklish matter. For people oft ill-treated, the servants protected the high-born folk there quite fiercely. “I was a high priestess in my native land. So, yes, I was a lady once—although I am as base-born as they come. But I am not called ‘lady’ in Britain. Lord Merlin thought it would make it easier for the lords and ladies of the castle to accept me if he referred to me as a lady. Then they would let me treat them and not look down upon me. If you think it best, I will go before the court and admit this. Lord Merlin did this without asking my permission, but I do not think he means any harm by it. Do you?”
They pondered this for some time, darting glances at each other, and me, playing with their table knives.
Finally, Lavena said, “Well, thank the heavens for that! I thought we was all going to have to bow and scrape to you in the one place in the castle where we don’t have to!”
The others laughed, and I joined in.
“I am just Anya here, and always, to you.”
I ne
ver heard what became of Merlin’s proposal to the king. He did not mention it again.
Whenever Merlin was in residence, he stopped in my room after evening meal. My heart beat hard when I heard the tap of his staff in the hallway outside my door.
Merlin had Eoghann bring an extra bench to my room so that we might sit side by side in front of the fire. I often became tongue-tied in his presence. On those days, we talked of only pleasant things: the way the light was in the morning or how the leaves had turned a deep red and orange. Nothing of consequence.
Other times, I babbled like a child. “Why are all the serving men crippled or old?” (“All the able-bodied men serve the warriors in some way.”) “Who is the king at war with?” (The Saxons, for the most part.) “Where do all these fighting men come from?” (All over Britain.) My questions seemed endless and, to my ears, embarrassingly childish.
Merlin answered me seriously and fully, with calm patience.
Yet, each moment mattered. It was as if I was only sleepwalking through the days until Merlin came and we spoke again.
I never said what was in my heart: That I was drawn to him, as the ivy is to the oak. I longed to touch him, have him hold me in his arms.
If he was aware of what I was feeling, he did not say.
The days when he was away seemed long indeed.
Chapter Twenty-One
On a morning at the waning of the Harvest Moon, one of Queen Guinevere’s women came to my room. She was very young—at least four winters younger than I. Bright freckles dotted her fair skin, framed by pale yellow, almost white, hair. She looked terrified and fingered the gold cross around her neck.
I could read her thoughts without any trouble at all: She thought I was an evil witch.
“How may I serve?” I asked after she stood there looking down at the floor for many moments.
“L-l-l-lady Anya, the queen commands that y-you attend her,” she said.
“Does she ail?” What medicines should I bring?
“No,” she said, backing out. “She wishes to speak to y-you.”
“I hear and obey,” I said, hoping to ease her fears.
I followed the girl, who kept whirling about to stare at me, as if she feared I would hex her with her back turned. Eventually, we climbed the staircase that led to the royal quarters. We went to a room filled with rich tapestries that depicted gardens, animals, and tales of love. Many pillows and chairs cluttered the room. There were several women there, and they all stared at me as if a large hairy bug had entered.
I bowed low.
The queen put down her embroidery and said, “I wish to speak to Lady Anya alone.” Please leave us.”
There was a general bustle, as the women exited. Each one stared hard at me before she left. I took it as a warning to be on my best behavior.
I removed my hood and bowed again. “How may I serve the queen?”
Queen Guinevere glanced at the scar on my cheek, then looked away. “Lord Merlin says you’re a high priestess of your order, is that true?”
“I was, my Queen, when I lived in Jutland,” I did not explain the title carried no weight in Britain.
The queen wrung her hands and began to pace. I did not speak, fearing to offend. After a time, the queen stopped before the fire and held on to the mantle as a drowning person may cling to a piece of driftwood. She said in a rush, “It’s said the healers of Avalon are most skilled in the matters of women.”
“It is so, My Queen. But I also have studied the healing of men.”
“I …” the queen turned away for a moment. Was she crying? I thought she might be. Then she whirled back to face me. “I am a young woman of good health. Yet, I have been with my husband, the king, for twelve years. And still, we have no child!”
I had heard about this from the servants in the kitchen. It was the subject of much speculation—both because there were many questions as to why there was no baby and because the king had not sent her away and tried again with another.
“Have you had any stillborn?”
The queen shook her head.
“Miscarriages?”
Again, the royal woman shook her fair head.
“Has there ever been a time when you thought you might be pregnant?”
“Often. But then, alas, the moon blood comes again,” the queen said with a little sniff.
It could be that it was the king who was the problem, but first I had to examine the queen and make sure the reason was not her. “Curious. Would you allow me to place my hands upon you?”
The queen looked for a moment as if she would say no, but then she nodded. I indicated she should sit in her chair. I asked all the questions every healer does: how her appetite was, if she passed urine and moved her bowels regularly and without complaint, if she suffered much pain during her moon blood. All seemed fine.
I leaned in and gently palpitated her belly. It felt doughy and healthy. But then I noticed the smell. “Do you chew rosehips, My Queen?”
“What?” she asked. “No! But it’s been said my breath is quite pleasant.”
I noticed with a sinking feeling that the whites of her eyes had a bluish tint. “Yes, quite. Do you know if they have removed your night jar yet, My Queen?”
The queen looked puzzled by the question, but said, “I don’t believe so. That lazy girl should have done it hours ago.”
I asked her to show me where it was. She pointed to a jar under the high, big bed. Taking off the cover, I beheld pee the color of new moss.
My worst fear was confirmed. “How long have you passed green urine?”
“Oh, since almost the first day I was in Camelot. Lady Alana says it’s the mark of God’s approval. That all true royalty do thus.” She seemed quite pleased with herself.
“And Lady Alana is who?” I asked.
“Lady Alana’s my most trusted companion. She’s the daughter of King Auguselus of Wales,” the queen said.
“Does she also give you your morning meal?” I asked.
“Why, yes!” the queen said. “She always brings me the very best things from the kitchen. I would trust no one else.”
“I—I must consult my herbs,” I said. “I will take the jar with me. I think I may have an answer for you soon.” I hastened out before the queen could question me.
I passed a page in the hallway. “Do you know if Lord Merlin is in the castle today?”
“Aye, he is,” the boy said, eyeing the night jar in my arms.
“Ask him to seek me in my workroom, please.”
He ran off, and I went quickly to my room. Once there, I put down the jar on the table and went to sit in front of the banked fire. I did not allow myself to think about what I might know. I tried not to speculate.
After a time, I heard Merlin’s staff on the flagstones near my door. He entered. “Anya? You called for me?”
“I am sorry to disturb you, Merlin,” I said. “Please shut the door.”
Giving me a sharp glance, he did so, then sat on the bench next to me. “What has occurred?”
I told him of my interview with the queen and what I found. “You have known her these twelve years. Have you detected anything untoward?”
He leaned on his staff and studied me for a moment. “I’ve been quite concerned with her lack of a child. But, my knowledge of women’s bodies is almost nonexistent. I simply assumed she was barren. What do these things mean, Anya?”
I felt sad and queasy all at once. “Back at the Viborg Motherhouse, we often treated the prostitutes for their ailments. It was there I learned about an herb that, when mixed with oil of rosehips, prevents pregnancy. It also gives those who take it pleasant breath, gives the whites of the eyes a slight bluish cast, and makes the piss green.”
“Dear Goddess!” Merlin shouted, standing. The bench fell over with a crash. “She’s been poisoned all this time, and I had no idea!”
“I feel certain her woman, Lady Alana, is the one who is giving it to her.” I righted the bench. “Likely, she
puts it in the queen’s morning meal.”
Merlin sucked in air through his teeth. “Be sure this is not the work of some back-country lord’s daughter. Someone is behind this.”
I felt as if a great dark cloud had come into the room. “And who could block you from seeing such a plot, my Lord?”
All the color left his face. “Morgaine,” he whispered.
I knew that. But I walked carefully around the point. “Why would she do such a thing?”
Merlin paused, and I realized he was about to share a secret with me. “Arthur has a son, called Mordred.”
“Then the queen’s barrenness is not such a tragedy.” I felt a little relieved.
He shook his head and walked a restless turn around the room. He stopped before me. “The Christians would object to Mordred taking the throne, even if there were no other heir.”
The room felt as if there is a great thunderstorm about to break. I could barely form the words. I did not want this to be true. “Why would they object?”
“Morgaine … bore the king a child.”
I recalled her baby-chewed broad nipples, the stretch marks on her belly. I had not asked about her child (or children). Many a priestess had born a babe spawned during the Goddess rites. The child of a high priestess is almost always given to fosterage. That was our way. One does not ask about these sons and daughters.
But, with Morgaine, there is always more.
“Was the king a willing party to this?” My heart was hammering so loud I was not sure I would be able to hear the answer.
“She tricked him. It’s my fault. I should have checked who the goddess of the rite was when Arthur received the Druidic king-making ritual. I knew Morgaine was angry that I caused her father’s death and angrier still that her brother would take a throne she thinks of as hers. But, I never thought she would actually make a child with him! I was too busy planning how he was going to rule Britain instead of seeing what the scheming bitch was doing!”
I blew out a breath. “And so, she made sure the queen had no child who would challenge her son for the throne.”
The Priestess of Camelot Page 10