by Robin Morgan
One night, Alyce, unable to sleep, started down to the kitchens to brew herself a cup of skullcap tea. Padding along the lower hall, she overheard Petronilla pacing in her room, talking aloud, half to herself and half in an address to the listener she could not possibly have known was so near, standing just outside her door. Over and over, Petronilla anguished, arguing with her invisible amchata Alyce:
“Are ye daft then, m’Lady? Canna ye see? Ye think t’is easy, ye think we won. Ye canna know them as I do. Ye dinna understand the power they get over a body. They got ways to make your spirit afraid. None can stand up to ’em. None. Ach, why, why t’is ye canna see?”
Forgetting her tea, Alyce returned to her turret room and sat for a long time, staring out the window toward the Covenstead. Then she went to her writing table, pulled up her stool, and sat down. She drew a fresh sheet of parchment, shaved a new quill nib, unstoppered her ink pot, and began composing a careful letter to the Lord Justice.
It began with jolly news about his kinsman her son William, boasting as any mother might about young Will’s looks, intelligence, recent growth spurt, and remarkable physical grace (she chuckled as she wrote this); clearly Will took after the Outlawe side of the family, she added, wrinkling her nose with distaste at stooping to such bald flattery.
Then she got to the real point of the letter.
Next, she drew a second parchment and wrote similarly to the Seneschal, praising him as a man of conscience, and sending her personal regards to Lady Megan.
Then she got to the real point of that letter.
The real point of both letters was an appeal: that the Lord Justice and the Seneschal journey to Dublin and wait upon the Archbishop, who was also the Dean of Saint Aidan’s, and that they inform him (and whomever else they in their vastly superior wisdom deemed necessary) of the Bishop’s interdict; that they take particular care to apprise the Archbishop-Dean as to how this interdict was disturbing, dividing, and provoking the people—even toward possible civil unrest. Alyce delicately wondered of both men whether they might also wish to remind the Archbishop-Dean that it was a Kyteler, one of her forebears, who had more than a century earlier commissioned the famous Crozier—the bronze reliquary of gilded silver with gold filigree, inlaid enamel, and millifiori beadwork—and donated it to Saint Aidan’s Shrine at Dublin?
By the time Richard de Ledrede was released on bail after eighteen days, his cincture hung loosely around his middle, and he felt himself a famished man. But just as he was finally sitting down to a long-anticipated dinner of a whole roast suckling pig accompanied by numerous flagons of malmsey, he was infuriatingly interrupted by a courier, just ridden in and bearing letters with official seals.
It was not appetizing news. He found himself commanded to appear before the Lord Justice of Ireland as well as the Archbishop of Dublin, to answer charges regarding his having dared place the diocese of Ossary under interdict.
At first, he fell into a fit of pique, stamping about his chamber and flinging his wine cup at the wall the way his father had done when in a rage. These obnoxious Irish! How had they put him in the position of the accused, when his proper role was as the accuser? This primitive marsh of a country had ignored him, then flouted him, then humiliated him. Now his career was at stake. And all because of one damnable bitch.
Richard de Ledrede walked to where the wine cup lay, stooped with some effort, picked it up, and placed it carefully on the table. He clapped his hands and, when the servant appeared, sent for more malmsey. Then he sat down again, determined to enjoy his dinner.
Some leisurely hours later, in better humour and surrounded by fresh candles and more wine, he reread the summons, snorting in admiration of Alyce Kyteler’s influence and the skill with which she wielded it. How he had missed political swordplay with an equal! Yet how gratifying it would be to defeat and destroy her utterly.
He called for his writing materials. Then he wrote back to Dublin in an unctuous tone, deeply regretting his inability to appear there and making ingenious excuses for refusing the “kind invitation.” He pled ill health, citing—with a smile to himself—a medical diagnosis of dyspepsia and choler. He added that it was, moreover, gravely unsafe for him to travel such a distance, since he had been warned that violent pagans would surely waylay and murder him en route. He rolled the parchment, waxed and sealed it with the signet of his bishop’s ring, sent for a courier, and dispatched the letter.
After three more rounds of malmsey, he slept soundly that night.
But the besieged prelate was granted only a few days respite—plus pheasant, partridge, custards, and brandywine—before the responses ricocheted back from Dublin.
His excuses were not accepted.
Instead, he received a sharp reprimand from the Archbishop. That affront was compounded by an accompanying missive from the Archbishop’s highest deputy that denounced him as “a truant monk from abroad” zealously bent on carrying out papal commands about which no one in Ireland had ever heard.
But there was a crowning insult.
Dublin overruled him, and lifted the interdict.
De Ledrede’s wrath at what he now termed “this affliction called Ireland” was apoplectic. But beyond his own circle of loyal priests and monks, the rage was not shared. On the contrary, the Bishop was further maddened at hearing happy shouts in the streets. People learning the news were flocking to the Cathedral, seized by a sudden piety that inspired them to resume brisk business dealings in Cathedral Square.
Back at Kyteler Castle, the release of tension was palpable. In spontaneous revels, the wine and ale flowed freely to everyone in residence, and to everyone who passed by or dropped in to visit. The children drew a rough portrait of the Bishop in the dirt and practiced pitching stones at it.
“T’is true we are not the world’s most graceful winners,” Alyce remarked wryly, “With traditional Irish mercy, when we have an adversary down, we kick him into the ground.”
It did seem that the foreign witch-hunter was in general disgrace. It further appeared that Celtic loyalty and courage were flowing strongly through the Irish—peasant and noble, Wiccan and Christian alike.
Meanwhile, Father Brendan Canice, having wheedled himself a temporary leave from the Bishop’s service, had set off to journey back to Kells. Stopping on the way north at an inn for the night, he heard the news about the lifted interdict from another traveler. At dawn the next morning, he slipped out onto the heath and gave joyous thanks to Brigid, cheerfully scolding himself for being unsure in his heart whether he was praying to the Goddess or to the Saint, but confident that his good intentions would be divined by Something sublime.
XII
HARVESTING SOULS
INDIFFERENT TO THE JOYS AND GRIEFS of humans, their fears and hopes, forthright lies and secret honesties, the wheel of the year revolved, steady on its seasonal cycle. Two periods in that cycle were, for the heath people, times of intensive labor: spring planting and, near the Autumnal Equinox, the reaping.
Those fields that had been left to rest, ungrazed and unplanted, had been gleaned for haymaking, and now towers of sweet-smelling, prickly sheaves were piled high inside the barns and sheds, ready for winter use as fodder. Meanwhile, the second, late harvest had grown ripe. The grains had largely been garnered but other crops remained, so most everyone spent long days in the fields, picking and sorting. The estate beehives were being gingerly unburdened of their honeycombs by dexterous elders, while children went on forages for treefalls of chestnuts, almonds, and hazelnuts.
Work was intensive indoors, too, sometimes continuing late into the nights, which had begun to crisp with the first frosts as darkness drew down earlier. Halls echoed with the clang and clatter of reaping hooks, drying grapnels, croppers, and sieves, and courtyards hummed to the rhythmic snap of winnowing sheets. Brimming baskets were hauled back to the kitchens so that pears and quince could be stewed into compotes before they overripened to rot. Grapes were spread out for shriveling to currants under
the autumn sun, in courtyards where peas and lentils had already been strewn to dry. More grapes were boiled into jellies, pressed into verjuice and into clear liquid for fermenting as wine. Beans, marrows, and cabbages were being soaked in vats of spiced cider vinegar for pickling, along with a quarter of each day’s egg yield from the generous hens, since pickled eggs and vegetables would be staples throughout the cold months. The root foods—parsnips, radishes, beets, carrots—would be stored in the cellars, along with gourds, artichokes, licorice-root, bins of onions, and baskets of leeks. Every kitchen in the castle and in the cottages was greenly pungent with herbs, picked fresh, bound, then hung to dry from ceiling hooks. Up there, fading and brittling, were verbenas and lavenders from earlier in the summer, now taken down to be sugared and preserved as delicacies, though the rose-hips had been carefully culled and stored by Alyce, who prescribed them as a preventive medicine to ward off winter colds and influenzas. Other blossoms—heliotrope, dandelion, and crocuses with their treasured saffron stamens—had long been gathered and dried or distilled, along with raspberries and blueberries, to be used as fabric dyes.
All this time—more than two months—the Bishop had been silent. Indeed, he had hardly been seen, except when celebrating Mass in the Cathedral once a week, and even then he had one of his priests deliver the sermon. His case was still pending in the courts, but rumour hummed that he would never come to trial, that he was making preparations to depart for France. People were beginning to assume that he had relinquished his Irish crusade. Life throughout the Ossary bishopric was back to normal, and the townsfolk in Kilkenny—occupied once more with daily cares, feuds, and gossip—had all but forgotten the crisis. Even the Wiccans began to relax their vigilance and, with the harvest labor at last beginning to ease, to turn their attention to the next Sabbat, the Samhain Sabbat.
This, the most solemn of all Wiccan holy-days, mourned the death of the Old Year and welcomed the birth of the New Year. It honoured the Dance of Shadows, the one night when a gleam of eternity penetrates time, when the membranes of reality shimmer at their thinnest between all the worlds—worlds known and unknown; worlds past, present, and yet-to-be. Unable to break the people’s faithful observance of Samhain, the Church had adopted this night as its own, renaming it All Hallows’ Eve. For the heathen, though, this Sabbat also served a practical purpose. It imposed a natural harvest deadline, since any produce remaining in the fields after sunset on the last night of the month of Deireadh Fómhair was forbidden for consumption. That food belonged to the spirits of nature.
But Alyce Kyteler and her people knew they would have the harvest gathered in and would be ready for Samhain—which was to be memorable this year for still another reason. Samhain Eve was not only the night that opened portals to the Otherworlds. It was also the Time of Reckoning—the moment to discard unwanted habits and influences while adopting desirable new ones. So it was at this Sabbat that Petronilla de Meath, as a Seeker who had completed her Neophyte studies for the requisite year and a day, was to be initiated into The Craft.
This made her even more apprehensive than usual. Alyce tried repeatedly to address Petronilla’s misgivings, reminding her that she was fully prepared for the tests, had the basics of herbery memorized, was suitably versed in lore and legend, and was sufficiently knowledgeable about the public ritual Mysteries—as opposed to the secret Mysteries that required decades of study—so as to have no real worries at all.
“But what if I dinna pass?” Petronilla anguished, as they sat carding wools, “What if I be too scared at the last minute even to speak? What shall everyone be thinking of me then? What if I fail you? What if I fail and canna ever rise to the next level? Oh Jesu, Mary, and all the Saints!”
“My child,” Alyce sighed, tactfully ignoring Petronilla’s choice of words for an oath, “you will pass. Listen to me. Even if you do not pass, there is always the next sabbat, and the next, with easy space and time between them to practice what you know until you are initiated. Everyone would understand. Besides, who cares what anyone thinks! For that matter, Pet, let me say this again: please, please remember that you do not have to do this at all. We never force The Old Ways on people, you know that. We have no missionaries. You can remain a Christian, and we will all go on loving you the same as we do now. Or you can be part of both spiritual paths. Never forget: you are free to follow any road you choose—” Alyce paused, contrary words from her last quarrel with Will echoing through her mind “—and you will still be welcome at feasts and celebrations whenever you wish to come. We love you not because you came to us and stayed and eventually shared our beliefs, but because you came to us and stayed even when you did not share them. I cannot remind you of this too often.”
“Nae nae, but I be wanting to join. I feel a part of it already. T’is my real longing to … ye all—ye be the family I never had.”
“Then what is there to fear? I promise you, you will not get too scared. You are braver than you think, Petronilla. Believe me. Believe yourself.”
“And if I canna remember the Password? Oh Jesu!”
“Well, scribble it on a scrap of parchment and hide it in your sleeve to peek at. You read and write now. You never credit yourself with being as smart as you are!”
“Ye could fill the sky above with all I dinna understand. And what if on the night I canna find the parchment and canna remember the Password, eh? What then?”
“Petronilla. You know that you know the Password.”
“ ‘Perfect love and perfect trust,’ ” Petronilla whispered.
“Exactly,” said Alyce, striving for patience in this conversation, which was all but identical to one they’d had two days earlier. “And you know precisely what to expect, do you not? You know your Measure will be taken—”
“—with the Cord that gauges my height and by a pinprick of my finger to draw a single drop of blood—”
“—and you know that these are symbolic acts about defining who you truly are, your essence …”
“Like the snipped locks of hair and nail clippings in a love spell …”
“Just so, yes,” Alyce smiled with tutorial approval. “In that case, those are metaphors for the essence of the beloved. Even the Goddess and Green Man are merely faces of … the Unnamable Chaos. It is all metaphor, really. The power of the word. The power of the gesture. That is, unless someday someone discovers a person’s essence lurking in nail clippings and hair strands—though we know that will never happen. But don’t you fret about any of this. You will enter the next stage, and then you can train toward what arts of The Craft you wish to make your own. Have you decided yet? Not that you need to. There is still plenty of time …”
“I—I have thought about it. Many hours. I know t’is too stupid I am to be a Lore and Legend Keeper, and—”
“Nonsense.”
“—nae, but I canna … and I think I be too shy to become one of the seannachai, a Tale Spinner. Then when I look at Alyce Faber’s muscles I know I canna ever be strong enough to work metals or be a lapidary. But helping people not to feel pain—aye, t’would be a fine thing to do. So then I was thinking—you know—mayhap, a Healer? Or a show-the-way Hedgewitch, a teacher, a counselor? But ach, I am not so good with people, and I know I canna ever be wise, so t’is not likely I could—”
“Petronilla—” Alyce began, trying not quite successfully to contain her annoyance at this young woman’s overly developed self-critical faculty.
“Nae, hear me. I be telling you my truth,” Petronilla continued, unusually persistent, “I have thought hard on this. I pondered on trying to become an Animal Woman, a lady of the beasts, as animals dinna frighten me the way people mostly do. But I dinna think I’ve the knack for it—you know, for hearing the creatures and understanding ’em? So t’is this I’ve come to. I think mayhap—if I can pass Initiation, that is, and if I can commence studies on the next level—that I be liking to try for … becoming a Greenwitch?”
“A Greenwitch,” Alyce repeated s
oftly.
“Aye. T’is a feeling more natural for me to wander alone through the orchards and amongst the flowers and herbs—learning ’em, learning what they need to grow, learning how to use ’em. Like you. Oh, well, I mean, not like you, because you do so many other things—tale spinning, and you be knowing lore and legend, too. Everything. I only mean—”
“I think you will make a fine Greenwitch, Pet,” Alyce smiled, “There is something in you—a strength, a force—something I cannot grasp or name. But I can recognize it, even though you yourself do not yet see it. You shall surprise us both, I think—as a Greenwitch or whatever you choose. Besides, you would be amazed at how knowing herbs leads to being a Healer—of people and animals. And then leads to teaching others how, like a Hedgewitch. And then to learning lore, and then to passing that on. Any single path truly taken leads to all the others. What matters is choosing a starting place—where to stand and begin spinning outward. Even then, you will find that outward and inward become the same direction. The center of the wheel is everywhere.”
“T’is like—t’is all of one piece, is it then?”
“That is an excellent way to think of it, yes. Though it is not easy to keep that in mind. Everyday living can be such a distraction from seeing it all—life, death, everything—as of one piece. I mean, it is such a temptation to break it up into fragments, as if that might make things easier. Actually, I think that is what makes the transitions—the shifts from one bit to another?—so difficult. You see?”