Yet God, to do Thy will—
He stifled the harsh words rising to his lips. “Continue.”
The Lake dweller shuffled his feet. “Beltain comes.”
“We know of it.” The Abbot did not hide his distaste.
“My wife meant to go to the feast this year, and seek a partner of the fires.” The sound he made was half a coarse laugh, half an angry grunt. “I told her no. She said my no was nothing, she would go.”
The Abbot nodded. “So you beat her.”
“I was not the first! Other men in the village keep their wives in line.” He chuckled nastily. “But their women know better than to complain.”
“But yours?”
The Lakeman gave a high resentful grunt. “She broke her jaw.”
“She did? And then?”
“She went to the Lady.” The small black eyes grew inflamed. “And the Lady declared me outcast from the Lake. She—she—”
The thick body began to shake with rage. A torrent of abuse fell from his lips. “Witch—whore—great sow—no right to tell men to come and go …”
Praise God, the Abbot thought, that Brother Boniface does not know this tongue. Still, when all the men in this land were of this creature’s mind, the Lady would be no more.
And then, Lord God, oh, then—
With a start he was aware that the Lake dweller was addressing him again. “I knew you were against the Lady too, so I came here.”
The Abbot paused for thought, suspending both judgment and disgust. Slowly his eyes passed around the assembled monks, absorbing the message of their nods or shaken heads. At last he held up his hand. “Enough. We shall admit you to serve the brethren here.” He fixed the Lake villager in a commanding gaze. “Look that you obey their every command, or you’ll be whipped and turned away again.” He raised his voice and called to the end of the room. “Ho there!”
A shaven head popped instantly around the door. “Pass this man over to the brothers in charge of the household today,” the Abbot ordered. “Have them feed him and find him a bed, and put him to work.”
“At once, Father. This way, man.”
The Abbot inclined his head. “Go in God, brethren. Boniface, a word?”
The Lake dweller padded swiftly through the door. One by one the monks rose and followed him. The Abbot sat for a moment in silence, then turned to Boniface with a disenchanted smile. “You came to learn from us and share our ministry. You see from this the struggle that we have here.”
Brother Boniface’s delicate features registered a complex play of thought. “Sir?”
“You heard him talk of Beltain?” He paused for the young monk’s nod. “You know what time of year we are approaching now—”
“Nearing the end of April—”
“As it gives way to May.” The Abbot waited while comprehension flooded Boniface’s mobile face. “Yes. The old feast of the Great Mother through all the pagan world. Almost forgotten in Rome since our Lord Jesus Christ came to save us from such things. Dying out now in these islands, in every place where our faith has taken root. But still alive in the Summer Country, where they keep the rule of Queens.”
“So.” Once again a slow flush disfigured the young monk’s fair skin.
“Yes,” the Abbot repeated with grim emphasis. “Three days of dark magic from the great North Circle to the lands of the distant east. One long feast of fires and flowers, when these souls in darkness believe that the Mother calls the Sun God back to life after his winter sleep.” His voice took on shades of deepening contempt. “When he comes to her as her lover—as the young god Bel—to renew her with his force—”
He stopped, observing Boniface intently, ready to stamp out any signs of shame. Purity or no, the youth had to learn. “You follow me?” he demanded brutally.
Boniface nodded with downcast eyes.
“So,” the Abbot pressed on, “they rally to the highest hills to aid the renewal of the Mother with their own efforts on her behalf.”
“So it is true,” Boniface whispered fearfully, “that they—”
“That they act out the deed of the Great Mother with her golden lover, yes,” said the Abbot with savage sarcasm. “The women become the Goddess, and may bid any man to bed them at this time. Then these gods and goddesses rut like animals, for three days and nights. And they call this copulation holy work!”
“Holy Mary, Mother of God!” muttered Boniface, aghast and crossing himself. “They profane the purity of womanhood!”
“Their Queen herself changes her consort at will. And they are aided and abetted by the profane women who lead this evil cult,” the Abbot agreed grimly. “Above all by their so-called Lady, their priestess as they think, the great whore who lives like Jezebel on her island in the Lake.”
Boniface fumbled to cross himself again. “May God in His mercy show them the error of their ways,” he said fervently. His fine-featured face glowed with concern.
“Yes,” said the Abbot slowly. He looked at Boniface. Even with the shaven crown that proclaimed him a monk, he was a handsome youth. His large eyes had a tender trusting look, and his well-shaped face and chin invited a woman’s caress. “Yes,” the older man said absently again.
His mind went spinning away into realms of gold. The lord of gold, these pagans called their god, the handsome youth who came to bed the old whore, their ancient goddess. He smiled mirthlessly. No crone so ancient, no old slut so decrepit that she could hardly open her legs, but they all, every one of them, loved a golden youth. Boniface had that shining quality. The Lady would admit him and listen to him, when his seniors would be driven from the Isle.
And once a Christian foot was in the door—
He stepped forward to place his arm around the young man’s shoulders in a fatherly embrace.
“May God show them the error of their ways, you say?” he murmured. “Oh, He will, He will. Their sacred island is a holy place. We shall win it from them, never fear. We shall pluck down the ungodly from their seats, we shall enthrone Our Lady where their great witch reigns now. I see a church rising on Avalon, I see the cross of Christ atop its so-called Tor.”
“Truly, Father?” Boniface turned his large eyes up like a hopeful girl. “When?”
How young he is, the Abbot thought. “We have made a beginning,” he said heartily, “but more must be done. Think what it could be if we made this island sacred to our Christian rites, not theirs.”
“Yes!” Boniface breathed.
The Abbot made up his mind. Send me others like Boniface, gracious Lord, he prayed silently, and I shall deliver their Avalon into Your hand. And in the meantime, I shall begin with him.
“So, brother,” he resumed. “This Lake dweller, the man I just admitted to our ranks, see that you check his progress constantly. Befriend him, learn from him all you can about the Lake, the island, and the people there. Above all, get from him the secrets of their ritual, and all he knows about this Lady, God’s enemy. It is as well you glean from him all you can. It may be”—he eyed Boniface carefully—“that God may call you there one day.”
“Truly, Father?” Boniface’s eyes were like full moons. He was almost too entranced to speak.
The Abbot waved his hand. “Well, we shall see.”
From the church tower above came the faint insistent calling of a bell. The Abbot nodded at Boniface. “Time for vespers. Be off now to your prayers.”
Brother Boniface knelt to clasp the Abbot’s hand and bring it to his lips, then disappeared through the back door to the church. Deep in thought, the Abbot retraced his steps to the outer world. The stinging sleet that met him in the churchyard went almost unnoticed as he paced back to the cold cluster of dormitory cells.
His mind returned fretfully to the question that had occupied him on the way. Who to send to the Summer Country to bear witness there? Of all our fellowship in this benighted land, who, Lord, who? The cold numbed his brain. Names, faces revolved hopelessly in his mind.
Jesu, Mar
ia—
Then a harsh voice, a bullet head, and a pair of angry eyes rose up before him through the driving hail. By the time his hand fumbled for the wooden latch of the low dwelling he sought, his mind was clear. Thank you, Lord Jesus, he prayed humbly, and thanks to Mary the Blessed Mother above all—I have the man.
CHAPTER 9
“You say—the Queen is dead?”
“Just now, my lady.”
Cormac fixed his deep-set eyes on Guenevere, and her heart constricted in her chest. How pale you are in your cloud of shining hair, his look seemed to say, how beautiful in your pain. She looked away. “How did she die?”
“She smiled, and said your name. Will you come to her?”
SHE LAY JUST as she had when Guenevere last saw her, with the same serene air. Standing beside her in the chamber, Guenevere’s soul made its last farewell. How could your spirit have left you, in the short time I was away? If you had lived, I would have tended you night and day. And now you have slipped away to join the Old Ones in the Otherworld, and I did not say good-bye.
But she would not weep, for she was Queen now, and queens do not weep. Only alone and silently, just as her mother had departed, her shining soul going out to the Plain of Delight, where all new spirits, free of the chains of their bodies, in the star-eyed world beyond worlds forever laugh and play.
“SO NOW—the Queen is dead?” Malgaunt’s eyes were on Guenevere like those of a ravening wolf.
Guenevere fell back in dread. Malgaunt saw her fear and smiled. But then she heard her voice ringing out around the room: “I claim the Mother-right! This land is mine, and whoever steals it from me, I will repay!”
THE MOUNTAIN RANGE was shrouded in ice-cold mist. Slowly the line of chariots wound uphill. Guenevere gripped the chariot rail and stared out through the rain. In a cruel April they were bringing her mother home, home to the Mother who had given her birth.
The going had been bitter all the way. Ever since dawn, great weeping clouds had darkened the earth, and sleet as sharp as elf arrows whipped their flesh. Standing beside her father in the chariot, Guenevere burned with unshed tears. How could they leave her here in the cold like this?
Ahead of them Lucan drove the leading chariot dressed for battle, his sword and shield hanging by his side. With his pale face set like marble and washed with rain, his neck garlanded with the champion’s chain of gold, he looked like a creature from the Otherworld.
Behind him Guenevere could see the body of her mother reclining on an ivory couch, dressed for war. She wore a silver breastplate and a white robe girdled with gold. A silver helmet adorned with wings of gold crowned her head, and her long red hair flowed out loosely below. Deep bangles of ivory and ebony covered her arms, and at her feet lay her ceremonial sword and shield and spear.
And suddenly Guenevere was a child again in her chamber, touching the dread regalia half in fascination, half in fear.
Mother, will you go to war?
Hush, nonsense, darling, no, we are at peace.
But if there is war, Mother, will you fight?
Yes, little one, but with real armor, not with this.
When I grow up, will I fight too?
Warfare is changing now. When you grow up, you will lead battles from a high hilltop where you can command, not from the front.
Will I have a champion?
Yes, but he will fight for you in the field, not beside you in the war chariot as mine does.
And knights? Will I have knights? A queen will always have her knights.
GUENEVERE GLANCED AROUND. Yes, she would always have her knights—they were with her now. On all sides marched the Queen’s champions, each with his own band of men. Some were knights of recent years, others grizzled warriors who had fought in tournaments long gone by. Some were disfigured by great scars and wounds, others still handsome, though old and graying now. Sir Niamh, one of the earliest, was weeping openly as he marched along. In a short lifetime, Guenevere saw, her mother had won herself an eternity of love.
How does a woman make men hers for life?
Guenevere cast a sideways glance at her father, following the Queen as he had done all his life. “Father?” she ventured. He nodded impassively and stared straight ahead.
Why was he so cold? When she was a child with hair like sunlight, he had had her always by his side. While her mother was in Council or busy with affairs of state, he would take her roaming the meadows at dawn, or riding all day long. At owl-light in the Great Hall he would teach her the ways of chivalry, how to meet and greet even the finest lord, how to kiss and dismiss. She was his golden child, and he loved her like his life.
But as she got older, he liked her less and less. If she questioned him, he would snap, “D’you think you know better than your father now?” He spent more and more time at feats of arms, while the challengers grew younger every year. Guenevere had been glad when he lost the Queen’s Championship, because then he would have more time for her. But then he was always angry, and she did not want to be with him at all.
And he never stopped telling the Queen that Guenevere should be married now she was full grown. And when Guenevere would not agree to speak of this, in time he would not speak to her at all.
But now? She could not bear it. “Father, when we get to the Hill of Stones—”
“Beyond that ridge, not far,” he broke in curtly, pointing with his whip to the rocky outcrop ahead. As she looked, a shape flickered between the rocks and was gone. A moment later, there it was again, the figure of a wild, aged man dodging along the topmost edge of the ridge. Outlined against the sky, his skinny body was wrapped in a ragged cloak, and his head was covered by worn furs, dripping with sleet. The glittering stare that flashed from beneath the hood had more than a hint of madness, and the knife he brandished could have killed them all.
His thin scream reached them from far away.
“Make no queens here!” he cried out in a voice like the undead. “Let your Queen sleep in peace, do not put her daughter in her place! For I bring you word from Merlin—mark what I say!”
He was chanting now, low and rustily, with his eyes closed. His bony arms, blue-black with dirt and bruises, waved around his head. “Make no queens here in Camelot, for there is one coming who will sweep you all away! He is the King you have longed for, all the years of your life. From the Welshlands, from the north, from the east where the terror of the invader reigns, he has come to set you free. He will purge the land of your enemies, and bring the peace you have sought in vain. Merlin has shown him forth in the great church in London, and he will be High King!”
He opened his blank yellow eyes and threw his arms in the air. “No queens, then, no Queen Guenevere, before God and the Gods!” he screamed. Then he turned on his heel and raced shrieking out of sight. “For he is coming, he is coming, and he will soon be here!”
His mocking cackle lingered in the air. Guenevere could hardly speak. “Father,” she began huskily, “what does it mean?”
Leogrance shrugged. “Madness, foolery, nothing, pay no heed! This is Beltain, remember, when strange things walk. He won’t be the only wild wanderer out on the mountainside tonight.”
Beltain.
Another trouble surged into Guenevere’s mind. “Father, after the funeral, Taliesin says the wine will flow and the fires will be lit, and the people make ready to welcome down the God. What happens then?”
King Leogrance angrily tossed back his wet hair. “If your mother had listened to me, you’d know all this by now! You’d have come to the feast of Beltain long ago, and found a partner of the fires to champion you through what lies ahead.”
Something in his voice chilled Guenevere worse than the wind. “What lies ahead?”
“That!” Cracking the whip, King Leogrance laid savagely into the backs of the horses and pointed ahead. The chariot shuddered as the horses strained to pull forward through the mud. “The Hill of Stones!”
And there it was, the great hill rising up through
the mist, a halo of weak sunlight gilding its crest. Its vast greenness seemed to float above the watery valley like a landscape seen in dreams.
At the top of the hill Guenevere saw a circle of standing stones, ancient gray giants brooding in the mist. Farther down stood a clutch of low stone barrows, all facing east, aligned to the rising sun. Here every Queen of the Summer Country had been laid to rest since time began. They had brought her mother home.
At the bottom of the hill a great crowd of villagers and country folk clustered about the grass, some weeping silently, some crying out in grief. Farther off were huddles of the shy, dark people they called the land kin, the ancient folk who lived hidden in the hills and forests and secret places everywhere. They were the true guardians of the land, Guenevere knew, descended from the first dwellers in these isles who had mated with the Old Ones long ago.
The slow procession straggled to a halt. And there he was, appearing before she was aware.
“Lady Guenevere, permit me?”
Cormac put out his hand. Beads of silver hung on his dark blue robes and jeweled his black hair. His eyes, smoldering like charcoal, wore a distant air. Guenevere did not trust herself to speak. Her hand trembled in his hard, indifferent grip. Why is he so cold?
All around, the mourners were climbing down from their wagons, easing stiff limbs and rubbing frozen hands. King Leogrance left her to cross to Malgaunt, and the two fell at once into a conversation she could not hear.
“Lady Guenevere?” Taliesin nodded toward the largest of the burial chambers. The dark interior showed a pinpoint of light. “The Lady has come to welcome your mother home.”
“The Lady has come from Avalon?” Guenevere was astonished.
“She loved your mother,” Taliesin said gently. “This is her farewell.”
As he spoke a chanted melody began inside the chamber, a song without words. Yet it spoke of the beauty in the heart of the flame, of the passing glory of the white bird on the wing, and the blossom of the sea spray under the shining prow. It sang of a mother with her baby, of the hard love between men and women, and the gentle rest that comes at last to all.
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