The Legend of Lady Ilena

by Patricia Malone

  “I will wait for you, then, in the spring.” I want to say more, but I’m not sure just what.

  “Ilena!” A shout comes up to us over the sound of the wind. It is Belert. “Come. Ryamen is awake.”

  RYAMEN IS PROPPED UP ON A PILE OF BEDSKINS. HER FACE is still pale, but her eyes are open and alert. She makes a weak motion toward me. I reach out and clasp her dry hand with my own cold ones. She clutches my fingers firmly and does not release them when I try to let go.

  The room is crowded. Kigva hovers over a tiny pot at the fire. Three I do not know—two men and a woman, all of Belert’s age or older, all with an air of authority—sit on benches pulled close to the bedplace. Belert sets a small stool beside me and motions me to sit down. He takes a place on the bed, at Ryamen’s feet. Durant stops at the door.

  “Come on in, Durant,” Belert says. “We have three here from Dun Alyn, but a witness from Arthur’s table is more than welcome.”

  Durant finds a clear spot on the floor stones near the entrance and sits, leaning against the wicker wall.

  “I feared for you.” Ryamen’s voice is stronger than I expected. The others shift and lean closer. She looks only at me. “I could not get back. Resad was at the gate when I tried to return to you.”

  “I was fine,” I say. “You rescued me when I could not save myself and led me to shelter.”

  “You are your mother’s child,” she says.

  The words do not alarm me. I know that she will not name Grenna as my mother, and I have no idea what she will tell us. Yet I am content here. I belong at Dun Alyn just as I belonged with Moren and Grenna in the Vale of Enfert. There is peace and safety in this room. I take a deep breath and settle myself on the stool.

  The scent of herbs in the room brings thoughts of Grenna. It is thyme I smell, thyme and borage and something I don’t recognize. But the thyme is strongest. Thyme wasn’t known to the women in the Vale of Enfert, and Grenna couldn’t find any in the fields around us. I remember Moren’s return with Cryner. After the commotion I made over the new puppy, Moren pulled a parcel from his pack and handed it to Grenna.

  “I brought you a gift also. From …” I remember how he started to name someone, then stopped and said, “From your good friend.”

  It was a bundle of thyme, dry and fragrant. Grenna tied a piece of cloth around the twigs to catch the seeds. When spring came, we planted thyme in the corner of our yard; it grows there still. I look around Ryamen’s little room at the bundles and stacks of drying plants and understand now who sent that gift to Grenna.

  An elder behind me, the woman, asks, “Tell us first, Ryamen, who put you into the pit and why.”

  “Resad and Ogern,” Ryamen answers. “Only I know the truth of Ilena’s birth. As long as I live, Ogern cannot claim Dun Alyn for his granddaughter. They will try again.”

  “No,” Belert says. “Ogern and Resad are dead. Will you tell us what you know?”

  The room is silent while she considers this. When she speaks, her voice is low. “Ogern was a good Druid in the old days. Resad fed his hunger for power.” Her dark eyes move from one face in the room to another and settle on the elders. “Will you give oath to keep Ilena safe? Do you intend to honor Cara’s wishes?”

  I keep my eyes on her face and do not turn to look at those behind me. I hear their murmurs.

  “The lady has nothing to fear from me.”

  “I pledge to carry out Cara’s wishes in this matter, if we can determine them.”

  “Let us hear the truth, old woman.”

  Belert says, “I have told these elders, and will tell all in the Great Hall tonight, that Ilena is heir to Dun Alyn. As Moren’s daughter she is the proper successor to Cara.”

  Ryamen looks at him in silence for a time, then brings her eyes back to me. “Ilena is not Moren’s daughter.”

  It takes a few minutes to understand what she has said. I keep my eyes on hers and draw strength from her steady stare while I try to take in this new blow. In all the agony of accepting the news that Grenna is not my mother, I never even considered that Moren might not be my father.

  The house in Enfert, so like this one, comes into my mind again. The love I knew there was the love of parents for a child. No matter what I learn now, when I hear the word “father,” I will always picture Moren; and when I hear the word “mother,” I will always see Grenna’s kind face smiling at me.

  There is a shifting behind me. Someone lets out a noisy breath. I can see Belert’s face fall. It will be difficult to name me chief if the people of Dun Alyn are not satisfied that I am the true heir.

  “Ilena …” She stops and closes her eyes.

  Kigva pushes past me with a bowl of warm water. I try to release Ryamen’s hand to move out of the way, but her grasp is firm. I lean to one side so the healer can work. She speaks softly to her patient. “You must go slowly, old one. Another would be dead by now. You are too weak to talk.”

  We wait while she bathes Ryamen’s face with the cloth and adjusts the skins behind her back. When Kigva moves out of the way, I free one hand and smooth Ryamen’s brow with gentle strokes. Her eyes flutter open.

  I say softly, “Can you speak now, Ryamen? If not, it can wait until you are stronger.” My feelings are at war inside me. Part of me wants to know what she will say, but another part throws a fierce wall against the thought that Moren and Grenna are not my parents. Perhaps if she says no more, I can blot this nightmare out.

  She turns her head slightly and focuses on my face. “I must speak now.” Her voice is low, and I hear the ones behind me shift and rustle as they bend closer. “I promised Cara. Moren promised also, and he is gone. I must…” Her voice trails off.

  Belert stands and sighs. “We should go. It is cruel to keep her from resting.”

  “Cruel? Cruel to keep me from speaking, Belert.” Her voice is stronger. “Sit and wait.” She seems to gather herself before our eyes, and she continues. “It was the end of the long winter. Belert was away. The birthing began.”

  There is total silence now in the crowded house.

  She rests a moment, then goes on. “It was a hard birth. Grenna and I were with her.” She closes her eyes again.

  I hear one of the elders behind me whisper, “She is telling of Miquain’s birth. She is confused.”

  I can see the frown on Belert’s face as he turns to the speaker. It is quiet again.

  Ryamen opens her eyes and continues in a steadier voice, “It was not her time, though she was very large. At last a baby was born, a beautiful girl.”

  There is an impatient rustle behind me and another glare from Belert.

  Ryamen breathes deeply for a few moments before she speaks. “Grenna took the baby, and I started to press Cara’s abdomen to force the afterbirth.”

  Belert’s thoughts seem far away now. How painful this must be for him, with Cara and Miquain both gone.

  “My lady screamed and stopped me. She tried to speak, but the birthing force took away her words. Another head appeared. It was a second baby girl.”

  “Twins!” The voice comes from behind me.

  Belert is pale, and his face shows deep sorrow and a sudden understanding. “I was not there to protect her. She would have feared the old curse.”

  “Yes,” Ryamen says. “She knew Ogern would act against the children. The taboo against twins was still strong then.”

  “I should have been with her,” Belert says.

  One of the men behind me speaks. “I remember that winter, Belert. You had no choice but to lead a hunt. People were hungry. I rode with you; game was scarce. We traveled for two days before we found anything.”

  Ryamen continues, “While I tended the second child, Grenna laid the first at her mother’s breast and went for Moren.”

  “He stayed behind with a few others to guard Dun Alyn,” Belert says. “And because Grenna was distraught about losing their own infant just two days earlier.”

  “Yes,” Ryamen continues. “Cara and Grenna we
re so happy to be with child at the same time. And then Grenna’s boy died a few hours after his birth.”

  “What did Moren propose?” Belert asks.

  Ryamen sighs and closes her eyes. Kigva hurries to her. This time the bowl holds a potion with a sharp medicinal scent. I help hold Ryamen’s head while she sips a few mouthfuls.

  After a few moments she begins to speak again. “Moren wanted to stay with Cara to protect her and the babies. He said you would deal with Ogern when you returned.”

  “Yes. Would that I had faced him down many years ago.” Belert sighs.

  “Cara insisted that one of the girls be taken to safety at once. At last Moren agreed. He and Grenna hurried to prepare for a journey.”

  I try to grasp the meaning of what I am hearing, but it is too bewildering. I feel I must be deep in a dream.

  “Cara held both tiny girls for a time, then she handed Miquain to me and sat with Ilena alone, sobbing bitterly.”

  I cannot hold back the tears myself now. The picture Ryamen paints is so beautiful and so sad that I cry from both love and sorrow. When I look at Belert, I see tears on his cheeks too.

  “And so,” the woman behind me says, “Cara sent the secondborn away to save her?”

  “No.” Ryamen’s voice is firm now. She seems to gain strength from the telling. “She kept Miquain, the secondborn. Ilena, the firstborn, was stronger and more likely to survive a trip.”

  One of the men speaks behind me. “And so it is Miquain we would have sacrificed in the grove?”

  Ryamen looks toward him. “Yes. And Ilena would have lived. She is the elder, the true heir of Dun Alyn. That is why my lady sent me to take the Great Torc of Dun Alyn from its hiding place. When Grenna took Ilena, Cara placed the torc on her wrappings. It is rightfully hers.

  “Cara longed to see Ilena, but she knew from Moren’s visits that the child was well. She sent gifts that Ilena would someday know came from her mother.”

  Belert looks at me and smiles a slow, sad smile. “So, you are not Miquain, but still you are my daughter.”

  I do not know how to answer. I understand what has been said, but I do not really feel the truth of the situation yet. I look into his eyes and return his smile. Two fathers! Moren and Belert!

  Belert turns back to Ryamen. “Why didn’t Cara tell me? She must have known I would fight for our children.”

  Ryamen answers, “She knew that well. She feared for her daughters, but she also feared for you. She was sure that Ogern would use the twins as an excuse to challenge you for Dun Alyn, and then you and both children would be in danger. She knew better than you what Ogern was capable of.”

  Durant stands and says, “I did not know any held twins to be a curse. I thought that idea died out everywhere generations ago.”

  Belert says, “It has not been practiced here in recent years. But at the time of Miquain’s—and Ilena’s—birth the Druids still sacrificed the secondborn twin of livestock and of humans.”

  An elder behind me says, “The lady Cara fought against that practice for years and finally stopped it.”

  “Hmph!” Kigva speaks from her place by the fire. “It is still practiced at times. Chiefs don’t always know what Druids do.”

  “There will be no more human sacrifice at Dun Alyn—anywhere, by anyone!” The words burst from my mouth with such force that even I am surprised.

  Belert stares at me for a moment and then nods. “Yes, Ryamen is right. You are your mother’s daughter.”

  Ryamen’s next words are soft and slow. “Cara made me pledge again, not long before her death, that I would tell the story when it was time. I was not in the hall the night Cormec brought Ilena in, but I heard about it from a neighbor on his way home from dinner. I knew the time had come to speak, but first I wanted to get Ilena to safety.”

  “Thank you, Ryamen,” Belert says. “You honor Cara’s memory with your courage.”

  Ryamen manages another small smile and closes her eyes. Kigva moves to her side and speaks to Belert. “She is so weak. Are you through?”

  He nods and stands. “Is there any doubt about Ilena’s place at Dun Alyn?”

  The three elders get up at the same time, and all gaze from my face to Belert’s. The woman speaks. “There seems no doubt at all.” She looks to the others.

  “None. Ilena is the true chief of Dun Alyn.” The speaker is the taller of the two men.

  “We welcome you, Chief Ilena.” The third elder to speak has a deep voice and a stern face. “We regret the dangers you have faced here.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “I am unharmed, but”—I nod to Ryamen—“others have suffered for me.”

  The woman says, “We let Ogern influence us for too long.”

  We move out into the compound, and the elders make their farewell.

  Durant says, “I must meet with Hoel and the others. We plan to leave at daybreak tomorrow.”

  “Will you be at dinner?” I ask.

  “Of course,” Durant says. “I want to see you dressed as a lady again. This time I can use both eyes.” He nods to Belert and hurries off to the men’s quarters.

  Belert and I face each other in silence. I remind myself that he is my father. And I am Chief of Dun Alyn!

  “Well, Ilena.” He reaches out to touch my cheek with his finger. “Dun Alyn is yours now.” He looks in the direction Durant has taken. “Someday you will choose a man to rule beside you.”

  I smile. “I’m sure I can find one.”

  “I will see you at dinner, then. People are eager to greet you. Will you wear the green dress again?”

  “But I have …” I would prefer to wear my own, yet I want to please my father. “Of course, if you like. But I will wear the girdle that my mother made for me.”

  When I return to my quarters, I find my pack has been opened and things put away. My blue dress lies over the bedplace. I open the larchwood box and take out the green one. Why does Belert prefer the green? Perhaps he doesn’t know I own a dress. He might like the blue as well.

  The servant girl comes in. “I put away your things, lady. Will you wear the blue dress to the banquet?”

  “I think the green,” I say.

  “Miquain wore it always,” she says. “And she had another before it.”

  Suddenly I remember. Green is the ancient color worn by women who are priestesses or chiefs. In the old times no one else was allowed to wear green. It is still rarely worn by any but women of ruling families.

  “The green,” I say.

  She takes up my blue shift and folds it neatly before placing it in the box. “If you are ready to bathe, I’ll bring water,” she says.

  “I wish that I could wash my hair.” I go to the window. The sun is out now, and it is warm. “Do I have time?”

  “Of course. The ladies always washed their hair just outside in the yard. I’ll bring warm water and a basin.”

  What luxury! With someone to pour water and fetch more when that is gone, the job goes quickly. We move inside for me to bathe and put on the green dress. Then I go back out and sit on a bench to comb the tangles while sun and wind dry my hair. I am enjoying the sensation of being clean all over when I hear a small voice behind me.

  “Lady Ilena? May I talk with you?” It sounds like a child.

  I turn to see the girl who sat beside Ogern in the Great Hall. It must be his granddaughter. She is pale and her eyes are red with weeping. She is holding her hands behind her back. I remember Ogern’s body on the rocks and feel a wave of sorrow for the child.

  “Of course,” I say.

  “I brought you this.” She thrusts the torc into my lap and jumps back as if she is afraid I will strike her.

  “Thank you,” I say. “Did your mother or father tell you to bring it to me?”

  Her voice is very soft, and she looks down at her feet as she answers. “I don’t have a mother or father. They’re dead. I only had Ogern.”

  I think of how I felt at Moren’s death. “I’m sorry.” I reach
out to comfort her, but she moves back farther. “I won’t hurt you,” I say.

  “Will you have me killed?” she asks.

  “Of course not.”

  “Or send me away somewhere?”

  “No. You are my cousin, and you belong here at Dun Alyn. I won’t hurt you.”

  “Ogern wanted to hurt you. I know he did.”

  “That doesn’t mean that I will hurt you.”

  “Thank you, lady.” She gives me a last frightened look, then turns and runs out of the small courtyard.

  The torc gleams in the sunlight. I trace the strange face-like carvings in the terminals with my finger. The Great Torc of Dun Alyn. I can almost see my mother, shadowy and indistinct, laying the neckpiece gently on the small bundle in Grenna’s arms. My tears blur the gold into a blaze of light.

  The Great Hall is as crowded and noisy as it was that night when Cormec led me, injured, frightened, and dirty, up to Belert’s table. The carved chair is empty. Belert—my father—Lenora, and Perr are seated to its right; Durant, Hoel, and Doldalf are on its left. The bandage on Doldalf’s shoulder is white above his checked tunic.

  I peer through the smoky haze for a few minutes before I realize that the place of honor in the center is for me. Lenora sees me and waves.

  Heads turn throughout the hall, and the place falls silent. I smooth my girdle and resist the urge to adjust the circlet in my hair. The torc is warm against my neck as I take a deep breath and square my shoulders.

  Grenna said, “There is a place the three of us belong. Someday we’ll go there.”

  I start down the aisle between the tables and pretend for a few steps that she and Moren are walking beside me.

  THE LEGEND OF LADY ILENA IS HISTORICAL FICTION. There is no mention of a young woman named Ilena in the stories that have come down from the Dark Ages. However, those old tales hold fascinating glimpses of life in the hill forts and village settlements of sixth-century Britain.

  In a culture without writing, stories kept the records: family trees, tribal histories, records of crop successes and failures, reports of hunting trips, chronicles of alliances and battles. The stories were entertainment, a way to pass long evenings and forget for a time the hard work of the day and the danger all around, but they were also the newspapers, file cabinets, textbooks, and databases of the time. Every fortress of note had its own bard; every village had a storyteller.