Lairgnen, the shortest, said, “As long as you promise not to turn us into toads or such-like.”
I smiled mirthlessly. “Well, if need be, I’ll turn you into strong field horses to till the land. But, I swear to turn you back once your services are not needed.”
I truly thought Barra was going to faint.
But they stayed.
I heard Guinevere now lived in a convent and ailed. They said her heart was broken over the loss of her king. I knew she felt the deaths of both Arthur and Lancelot. In this double mourning, we were sisters; I did not attempt to send a letter to her. Even though we shared that sorrow, the queen would not welcome a missive from “the witch.”
Chapter Sixty-One
As shattered Britain waited through the cold winter for the next wave of war, Cedric came to my workroom one eve. “Lady, I must speak to you of your young man, Falcon.”
I invited Cedric to take a seat by the workroom fire. “What troubles you? I thought his studies were going well?” I noted that in the time he had been at Drunemeton, Cedric’s lifeglow had become a strong violet with flashes of blue.
He nodded absently, picking at something in his white beard. “Yes. He studies well. His understanding of the reasoning behind power, the uses of magick, and all the mortal studies, do him credit.” He dug out whatever it was from his beard and tossed it into the fire. “But, he will never make a priest.”
I said, “He told me at five he would not choose to serve the Goddess as Her priest. I had hoped with a better teacher he might see the path. I cannot say this is unexpected.”
The old man looked troubled. “No matter what I’ve tried, nothing makes him grasp his destiny!”
I realized Cedric felt Falcon’s disinterest in becoming an adept to be yet another failure in his quest to keep the Druidic order together. “Perhaps his path serves the Goddess in ways we do not yet understand.”
Cedric seemed to deflate. “Yes.”
“Tell me, Droja says she thinks her children do well in their studies.”
“Oh, aye. That Kelvan has real promise,” Cedric agreed. “Just not the bloodline.”
“Kelvan can create magick?” I had not observed this in him.
Cedric said, “He’s not terrifically powerful, but he’ll make a good priest some day.”
A plan began to form in my mind. “And what about the young men who have been attending the moon rites and festivals at the Sacred Grove? Any potential adepts there?”
Cedric blinked at me for several moments before he said, “Yes. There are two I’ve thought had power, but no training. They are old to be taught, though.”
I paused to see the whole idea form in my mind. I was sure it was what the Goddess wanted. “Let us assume my son’s destiny is to be Lord of Drunemeton and bard of this land.”
Cedric nodded dispiritedly. “I suppose.”
“But, let us also take what tools we are given and build something new here. Have you read the Christian Bible?”
“Extensively,” he said. “I felt I needed to know what was being taught to the people. Some of it is good and wise. Some of it is trash. Some of it is possibly dangerous.”
I straightened my houseshift, considering how to phrase what I saw in my mind. “I believe we should build a chapel between the house and the village. You will be the priest and have your own house beside it.”
“What?!” he got up and stared down at me in horror. “No! I am no Christian!”
“Hear me out, sir.” I indicated he should take his seat again. “The one thing we’ve learned from the Christians is that they engaged the people more than we who served the Goddess did, and were more effective in spreading their message. So, you will be a priest. You will preach that part of the Christian lore that coincides with the wisdom of the Goddess. You will teach all those who wish to attend school. And in the evenings, you will instruct those who you deem worthy in the ways of the Goddess.”
His mouth hung open.
“We shall hide in plain sight. Let all who look upon Glast and Drunemeton see the piety at the chapel and enlightened Christian charity practiced by teaching the village children to read and write and do sums. But, just below their gaze, you will have your Druids, who will attend in the Sacred Grove, and when there are enough priests, spread out into Britain.”
“That’s … That’s …” he stammered.
“You will be a high priest once again, Cedric. Will you accept the task?”
“Yes, Lady,” he bowed low, but not before I saw the tears in his eyes. “Merlin told me you were the most brilliant of all the Goddess’s priestesses. I see now he was right. Your will shall be mine!”
Chapter Sixty-Two
The following spring, it seemed as if the land was trying to replace what people had lost. I had never seen the orchard so full of blossoms, the fields so full of emerging plants, the animals reproduce with so many calves, kids, and get. The very air seemed fecund.
And so it was that Beltane came upon us.
The whole day, I was distracted, and my head hummed as if a fat hive of bees lived there. What would happen? I knew not. But, I made sure Lota was not planning to go out into the fields that night. She just laughed and said she was “too old for such frolic.” And so my babes were safe at home, and I could participate in the revels.
I went to Glast and joined the people in the village celebrating around their bonfires. The goddess of the night was the butcher’s daughter. The god of the field was a farmer from down the road. These ordinary folk were transformed—not just by the pretty clothes and colored paste they wore. There was a glamour on them. The Goddess blessed these people. I shouted with gladness as they were taken off.
Priestess. Come.
Every hair on my body stood up.
Priestess.
Yes. Coming.
I hastened down the dark lane, avoiding coupling figures trying to find a place to lie down.
Eventually, I reached the Sacred Grove and stepped out of my clothes—in that holy place, clothes were no longer permitted. At the center, every tree was filled with tiny white flames. There was music emanating from every rock, every blade of grass, every oak, and even the stars. It was gorgeous … but I was almost afraid. I had never seen magick of this type.
And I did not call it.
I stepped to the altar. The music grew louder and louder, to the point where I almost could not bear it. I stretched my arms up to the sky and opened the doors of my mind in greeting to the Goddess.
The power all around me shimmered, and I rose up, into the night air.
The moon created a column of light in which I floated, weightless.
The tiny lights in the trees fell to the ground, but before they reached the grass, they zipped straight at me. More and more of the little flames gathered about me, swirling and shifting, higher and higher.
I was in a spiral of white flame!
A white spark broke off from the cyclone and darted into my body, striking a high musical note as it went under my skin. There was a searing pain that was also intense pleasure.
Then another hit me and another!
On and on it went, the notes and the pain and the pleasure dissolving my physical self. I felt myself spread thin across the inside of the white flame spiral.
After a long while, I was … re-gathered? No, it felt like the way a farmer would build a scarecrow.
I was assembled.
Slowly, I returned to the ground. My feet tingled at the touch of the grass—as if my soles had never felt such a thing before.
The music dimmed, and the white spiral drifted up and up until I could see it no longer.
I slumped across the altar, so dizzy I could not stand.
When I was able to be upright again, there came a gentle wind on my face.
This child is mine. She will be the beginnings of my worship. She will lead my followers on the long road to restoration. You will name her Arianrhod.
Hot tears rolled down my face
.
“So shall it be.”
Nine months later, I felt the birth-pangs. I went to my workroom and had Droja and Cedric attend me as before. Falcon insisted on holding my hand the way he was allowed to last time. I did not deny him this, if it pleased him to be there for the birth of his sister. Because he had heard the song for birth before, he knew the whole of it and sang it with me.
But there was a difference this time. When we called upon the magick to ease childbirth, something more happened. It was as if we were inside a bubble that existed. . . not in this world. Instead of the workroom, we were transported to a broad, flat plain filled with sweet grasses and wildflowers. The night was bright with the light of stars. But, we could also see orbs in the sky that were closer than the moon. They were lands with many people on them. And they danced at the arrival of the tiny babe who seemed to sing instead of cry with her first breath.
And then we were in my workroom, blinking at each other, the baby swaddled in my arms. Her lifeglow was a deep indigo with long traces of green—an adept of great power and healer-born.
“I must be more tired than I thought,” muttered Droja, as she went back to the kitchen.
Cedric bowed to me and the baby. “Blessed be,” he said. His eyes were wide with wonder as he took his leave.
Falcon stroked Arianrhod’s tiny head. “It’s like you made a star come to life, Mama.”
The child awoke and looked at me, the light of the universe in her eyes.
“We are truly blessed.”
“Who’s the father?” I heard Fredic asking Droja two moons later, when they thought I was out in the orchard.
“Like as not some fella from the village,” Droja replied. “She went out Beltane night.”
“I asked around. Ain’t nobody seen her that night,” Fredic said. “Some ’er sayin’ it’s a witch-child.”
“Be hush,” Droja said. “Lady Anya’s been good to us. She ain’t no witch!”
“Aye. I’m right fond of her, too, woman,” Fredic said. “But her’n Merlin ain’t normal folk, no-way. T’ain’t natural, the way that child came to be.”
Droja laughed dismissively. “You seen that babe’s face. That ain’t no demon-spawn. She’s precious and more like an angel! And as real as you.”
Fredic muttered something and went out.
I walked back to my workroom. I had worried there might be rumors about Arianrhod’s parentage. But with Droja putting fears to rest, I knew they would soon go away. Ever she was my champion with the villagers. They believed Droja’s good, earthy sense.
I shook my head to myself. The Goddess did like a good joke. I recalled when I laughed at the idea of the Christian’s tale of “virgin birth” with Merlin. Although I was no virgin, there was no man present in the Sacred Wood that night.
But I was also chilled with this thought:
We are just playthings to the deities if even the ways of Nature can be circumvented by Them.
Chapter Sixty-Three
After a great Yule storm, I had workmen retrieve three old oaks that fell in the Sacred Circle. I instructed them to use one to build doors that would enclose the grotto. One fellow was a fine carver, and I drew the images of Arthur and Merlin so that he might etch their likenesses on each door. I also had them fashion four chests for the interior of the grotto, covered with scenes from Arthur and Merlin’s lives that I also sketched out. One showed Arthur withdrawing the sword from the stone. Another was the Knights of the Round Table and Arthur riding to battle. A third showed Merlin discovering Excalibur in the crystal cave. The last was of Merlin with arms raised, and the Holy Grail sailing across a room full of people. I had little to put in them, but that would come.
Britain had settled into an uneasy peace. The country was divided between the Angles and the Saxons into four realms, of which our area was called Mercia. I took great care to make no enemies among the new rulers. I counseled my neighboring land-holders to do the same. “They can take our property if we cause them discomfort. Best to be pleasant and pay the tithe. Then we are seen as unthreatening, and they leave us be.”
The villagers worked hard to build Drunemeton Chapel and the priest’s house. The idea that they would be welcome, and the school would teach all who came, lent wings to their feet and strength to their hands. Three years after I commissioned the building, the headman of the village assured me the chapel would be “warm and dry for Christmas Mass!”
I paid a glass artist to create a great window to go above the altar. It was a triptych depicting the “Virgin Mary” in a green field, in the heavens, and floating above water. Of course, it was actually the Goddess in the three planes of existence. Cedric could use these panels to explain about Her power in the secret worship.
I had woodworkers carve the pews with Green Men and Trees of Life on the aisle ends. Wood for the altar came from the last of the fallen trees from the Sacred Grove. On it, I had the carver portray a magnificent oak Tree of Life. And so, I placed the imagery of the Goddess in the temple to the Christians’ god-who-must-not-be-named.
On the winter solstice, Cedric, Kelvan, and I invested the chapel with all the power at our disposal. Our energy sanctified the space and protected it from all harm. Three days later, Cedric celebrated Christmas Eve before a congregation of over 500, most of whom stood outside in the snow.
Cedric became one of the most popular men of Glast. Men conferred with him on planting and matters of import. Women strove to make the best dishes for him, for they thought him too thin. Young maids giggled in his presence. Cedric thrived on the attention, and I finally saw his eyes sparkle, his manner become once again the great priest he must have been when Merlin knew him.
A few strangers took jobs as apprentices with the village craftsmen. They were young men and attended Cedric when not engaged in their work. Kelvan worked half days at Drunemeton House and the rest with Cedric. In the Grove, these same young men stood beside him during the rites.
But always, it was I who led the worship in the Drunemeton’s Sacred Grove.
I heard nothing from Morgaine—no suspicious dreams or couriers. People started to forget Avalon even existed. How strange to think of that place as a legend, where once I was content to live.
Arianrhod seemed impatient with being a baby and raced into becoming a toddler. She nibbled experimentally at every plant she could reach—a problem with some of the more dangerous ones—but she never took any harm from them. She ran about on her wobbly legs, eager to take in every sight and every sound. Her deep green eyes seemed to see so much. Was she reporting to the Goddess? It sometimes felt that way.
Arianrhod followed Falcon wherever he went. He seemed to enjoy her company and made up little songs and stories for her. Sometimes, I spied them simply sitting together beside the pond, not talking. Just sitting, hands clasped. There was a strong bond between the two.
Falcon was growing into a remarkable young man. I often found him alone in a corner, completely still, staring out at nothing, lost in his thoughts. Or I would come upon him regaling a pair of farmhands with a lively tale. He was the first to ask if we might join the festivals in the town—for he always had a new song to sing.
I knew Falcon recalled his father with fondness. He would sometimes say things such as, “Would not Papa have enjoyed the way Teague sang the tale of Tristan and Isolde, Mother?”
Stephen-of-the-blue-eyes, as I called him, was an adventurer and a leader-born. I often saw him at the fore of a group of village children on imaginary charges through the greenwood or doing “battle” in the fields. He had taken over the little sword Arthur brought to Falcon years ago. That was his prize now, and he defended Drunemeton vigorously with it. The head guard Barra gave him lessons in sword play. The other guards sparred with Stephen, giving him pointers, but also a few bruises and scrapes.
I asked Stephen if he thought of his late father, even though Arthur passed before the lad was born. He said, “My father is in my heart. Some nights, just as I am falli
ng asleep, I hear him speaking to me.”
“What does he say?” Is it true? Does he retain Arthur’s chats to the child in the womb?
The boy shook his head. “I do not know. It is all about how beautiful everything is. Maybe it is just a dream, but it makes me happy.”
And so the children grew, and the seasons changed.
Every night, I told the children a tale of King Arthur, or Merlin, or the Knights of the Round Table before they went to bed. They listened with rapt attention; the boys were proud of their fathers’ adventures. But one day, Stephen asked, “Why were both my father and Falcon’s rulers? I thought only one could be king?”
“Merlin was the Druid High Priest. Arthur was Britain’s Great King, and Merlin was his advisor,” I explained.
Later, after the children were put to bed, I pondered the boy’s question. He had only eight winters, and so it was hard for him to keep relationships straight. A child’s mind can easily become confused. But in the future, after I am gone, who would make things clear, when the adults started to forget the stories? As Falcon and Stephen told the tales to their families, they would of course misstate, embellish upon, or omit certain details. In time, whole stories would disappear. That was the nature of storytelling. But the tales of Arthur and Merlin were too important to leave to such a mutable tradition.
I set myself the task of writing the entire history of Merlin and Arthur. I learned much directly from those great men, but my time at the castle also gave me stories which the two never chose to discuss. I took out the accounts I wrote in preparation to submit to Morgaine, back when I still thought her my mistress. There was the gossip about some of the knights and the lengthy tales traveling bards loved to tell.
The Priestess of Camelot Page 29