The Hallowed Isle Book Three (19 page)

“Why do you think I brought her here?” Igierne replied, with that lift of the eyebrow that had always exasperated her daughter, so eloquent in its assumption of authority.

For a moment, Morgause could only stare. “How generous! Well, I will speak with Ninive after the assembly, and then we will see if she takes after you, or me.. . . But I can see why Gualchmai did not wish to bring a girl-child to Artor's court,” she added reflectively.

“What do you mean?”

“My brother does not write to me, but others do,” Morgause replied, “and there are many who say that the queen's bed is not empty, though Artor does not lie there.”

“It is not so—” said Igierne, but Morgause suppressed a smile, seeing the uncertainty in her mother's eyes.

“Is it not? Well, I have no objection if Guendivar follows northern ways. If the king is not potent, it is up to the queen to empower the land.”

“By taking lovers, as you have? Who fathered your sons, Morgause?”

Morgause laughed, having goaded her mother to a direct attack at last. “What man would dare to boast of having fathered a child on the queen, especially when it was not she with whom he lay, but the Goddess, wearing her form, and he himself possessed by the God? My children are more than royal, Mother, they are gifts of the gods!”

In the next moment she realized that this stroke had missed its mark. Igierne sat back and took another sip of tea.

“Ah—so that is how it came to pass. Beware, daughter, lest the gods call you to account for what you have made of their gifts to you.”

Morgause frowned, aware of having revealed more than she meant to. But even if Igierne knew Medraut's parentage, what could she do? This child, at least, was her own, body and soul.

“You have had a long journey, Mother, and you must be weary,” she said then. “And I must be fresh for tomorrow's assembly of the clans. Dugech will show you where you are to sleep.” Morgause rose, summoning the woman who waited by the door. But despite her words, she herself tossed restlessly until the dawn.

Still, the gods had not abandoned her, for by the end of the council, the clans, while recognizing the claim of Dumnoval to lead the southern Votadini, and choosing Cunobelinus as warleader for the northern clans, had agreed that Morgause should continue to rule in Dun Eidyn as regent for Gualchmai. But Ninive chose to return to the Isle of Maidens with Igierne.

“They tell me that you are shaping well as a warrior.” Morgause looked up at her fourth son as they stood on the guard path built into the rampart of Dun Eidyn. Goriat over-topped her by more than a head, and she was a big woman. Indeed, he towered over most men. She was not entirely certain who had fathered him, but as he grew it seemed likely that it was a man of Lochlann, who had come bringing furs and timber from the Northlands that lay eastward across the sea. She remembered the beauty of the trader's long-fingered hands.

“Men say that Gualchmai is the greatest warrior in Britannia. If I cannot surpass him, I have sworn to be the second.” Goriat grinned.

“But are you the best fighter in Alba?” she asked then.

“I can take any man of the tribes—”

“South of the Bodotria,” she corrected, “but you have not yet measured yourself against the men of the Pretani.” Morgause gestured northward, where the lands of the Picts were blossoming in tender green beneath the sun.

Goriat shrugged. “If Artor fights them, I suppose I shall find out.”

She looked up, startled by his tone. It was natural that he should think of following his brothers into his uncle's service, but she had not realized he considered it a certainty.

“Perhaps Artor will not have to fight them,” she said carefully. “If one of his kindred is their warleader.. . . The Pretani have a princess of the highest lineage who is ripe for marriage. You know they seek outlanders to husband their royal women to avoid competition within the clans. They have sent a messenger, asking me for one of my sons. Marry the girl, and you will lead their armies and father kings.”

“The Pretani!” Goriat exclaimed in revulsion.

“Alba!” Morgause replied. “If the Votadini and the Pretani make alliance, the north will be united at last!”

“And then may the gods pity Britannia!” He turned to face her, his long fingers curling into fists. “But it will not happen. If you think I will lend myself to this plot, Mother, you have gone mad. Play your games with Medraut, if you will, but I will stand on the other side of the board.”

“You are an idiot without understanding,” she hissed. “With one of my sons on the high seat of Britannia and my grandson on the sacred stone of the Pretani, we will rule this entire Hallowed Isle! You will go north, Goriat, or you will go nowhere! You think yourself a man and a warrior, but I am the Great Queen!”

Morgause turned and stalked away along the parapet, leaving him there. He was young and rebellious, but she held the purse-strings. His brothers had gone outfitted with arms and horses and servants as befitted their station, but her fourth son should have nothing until he agreed to do her will.

But the next morning, when she called for him, Goriat had disappeared.

For three days, Morgause raged. Then she began to think once more. For a time she considered sending Medraut to the Picts instead, but he was not yet a warrior, although in other areas he was precocious enough to give her concern. Yet even if he had been of an age to marry, Medraut had a different destiny. At heart, Morgause, like Goriat, held Britannia to be the greater prize, and of all her sons, Medraut was the one with the greatest right to it.

At Midsummer, the tribes of the north celebrated the sun's triumph by clan and district, making the offerings and feasting and blessing their cattle and their fields. Each year, it had been the custom of the queen to keep the festival with a different clan, but the summer after the death of Leudonus, she gave out that this year she would observe the holiday in seclusion, and her youngest son with her, in honor of her lord.

A few days before the solstice they set out east along the shore of the firth, towards a headland with a house to which Morgause had often retired when she needed to recuperate from the demands made on a queen. Her folk were accustomed to this, and there was no surprise when she dismissed all attendants except Dugech and Leuku. But none knew that the following evening a boat was beached on the shore below, whose crew spoke with Pretani tongues, or that it pushed off once more before the sun was in the sky, bearing the queen of the Votadini, her maid Dugech, and her son.

“Why does Leuku not come with us?” asked Medraut as the land grew dim behind them.

“She will keep a fire going in the house so that any who pass will believe we are all still there.”

For a few moments he was silent. “Does that mean we will be gone for some time?”

“For a space of several days. It is time you saw how folk who have not abandoned the most ancient ways of our people keep the festival.”

Medraut's eyes brightened as he realized that she was at last going to share with him the secret of her mysterious journeys.

At thirteen, he had reached an uneasy balance between boy and man. He would never, she thought, have the height and sheer muscular power of his brothers. But the size of his hands and feet promised growth, and even now, at a boy's most awkward age, he had an agility that should develop into uncommon speed and grace. Gualchmai and Gwyhir and Goriat possessed physical splendor, while Aggarban, when last she saw him, had been cultivating a dark truculence that was impressive in its own way. Her youngest son would have an elegance that verged on beauty. Already, when he chose to do so, Medraut knew how to charm.

And sexual maturity was coming early as well. She had seen him bathing with the other boys, and though the fuzz on his cheeks was not yet worth shaving, his man's parts were full sized, surrounded by a bush of red hair. Medraut had an eye for women already, and only the most dire of threats to her maidservants had preserved his virginity thus far. Morgause would have preferred that he hold on to that power, but since chastity was probably unattainable, she meant to channel the magic of Medraut's sexual initiation through ritual.

“And in what way, Mother, are the rites of the Pretani different from Votadini ways?”

From his expression, Morgause could tell that there was something strange about her answering smile. “There is more blood in them,” she said softly, “and more power.”

The current had been with them, and the northern shore was already near. On the beach, horsemen were waiting. Morgause felt her pulse begin to beat more strongly. She took a deep breath, scenting woodsmoke and roasted flesh on the wind.

They came to Fodreu in the evening when the sun, still clinging to his season of triumph, turned the smoke from a multitude of cookfires to a golden haze. Coming over the rim of the hill they could see the gleam of water where the Tava curved abruptly eastward. Just above the bend was a ferry, with rafts to take them across the swift-running stream, and then they were following the road along the far bank towards the royal dun. Drest Gurthinmoch had emerged victorious from the turmoil following the death of Nectain Morbet and married the queen. He reigned now over the Pretani of both north and south from a stout dun near the sacred grove that held the coronation stone.

But that was another mystery. Today, their way led to the wide meadow where a women's enclosure had been prepared for the honored guests of the Pretani queen. Here, Morgause parted from Medraut, with certain words of warning to the warrior assigned to escort him. Then she passed through the gateway where Tulach was waiting to escort her to the queen.

The inner enclosure had been hung with woolen cloths embroidered with sacred symbols. Behind the queen's high seat the hanging stirred in the draught, so that the red mare pictured upon it seemed to move. Above it were images of the comb and mirror, symbols of the Goddess who ruled both in this world and the next. The queen herself wore red garments, also heavily embroidered, and was eating dried apples from a woven platter held by one of her maidens.

Uorepona—the Great Mare—was for her both a name and a title, always borne by the ruling queen. She was older than her husband, having been queen to Nectain Morbet before him, a little woman with grey hair, her body sagging with age.

Morgause made her obeisance, wondering nervously if Uorepona had loved her first husband, and if so, whether she might seek vengeance on the sister of the man who had killed him.

“The Great Mare of the Pretani bids you welcome,” said Tulach in the British tongue.

“The Great Queen of the Votadini gives thanks, and offers her these gifts in token of her friendship,” answered Dugech, motioning one of the slaves to bring forward the casket. Courtesy was all very well, but too much humility would be taken as weakness.

The atmosphere warmed perceptibly as Uorepona examined the ivory comb, the ornaments of golden filigree, and the vessels of Roman glass. A length of crimson silk was unfolded and immediately put to service as a mantle. The queen's woman offered Morgause apples from the platter, and she began to relax, understanding that as an accepted guest, she would be safe from now on.

“I have brought with me my son to be initiated into manhood—” she said later that evening as they sat around the women's fire. “He is the son of a king and comes of a line of warriors, and has never lain with a woman. I will give you the first offering of his seed if you have among your servants a clean maiden to receive it.”

Uorepona spoke to her women in the Pictish dialect and laughed, by which Morgause concluded that though she did not speak British well, she understood it. When she had finished, one of the women replied.

“He is the bronze-haired lad that came with you, is it not so? My lady says that if she were younger she would take his seed herself, but as she is old, she will set her ornaments upon one of her servants to stand in her stead. The lady Tulach shall help you to choose . . .”

The Great Mare was served entirely by women. Even the slaves were of good blood, captives taken in war. Almost immediately, one of the girls caught Morgause's eye, a slim child scarcely older than Medraut, though her breasts were grown. But what had attracted the queen's attention was the bright red-gold of her hair and her amber eyes. She was very like Guendivar.. . .

“That one—” she gestured. “Where is she from?”

Tulach shrugged. “She is British, taken as a child in Nectain Morbet's war, but her lineage is not known.”

Morgause nodded. “She will do very well.”

The longest day continued endlessly beneath the northern sky. Earlier, the men had competed in contests of strength and skill, and the cattle had been driven through the smoke of the herb-laden fires. Now the sun was sinking, although it would be close to midnight before the last light was gone from the sky. The scent of cooking meat drifted through the encampment as the carcasses of sacrificed cattle roasted over many fires, but the smell of blood still hung in the air.

Tonight, the gods of the Pretani must be rejoicing, thought Morgause. Even the Votadini festivals were not so lavish, and as Christianity strengthened in the south, Artor's feasts had become bloodless travesties. A distant drum beat was taken up by others; her blood pulsed in time to the rhythm that throbbed in the air. Soon, the Goddess would receive another kind of offering.

Morgause had been given a place of honor with the women. On the other side of the circle she could see Medraut, sitting with the other boys. He had a gift for languages, and his agile tongue had clearly mastered the speech of the Pretani well enough to make them laugh. But from time to time his gaze would flicker towards her, questioning.

Trust me
—She sent reassurance back with her smile.
This is for your good. You will see.. . 
.

The slaves brought platters of meat still steaming from the spit, and skins of mead and heather beer. Some of the men were already becoming drunken, but what was given to the boys had been diluted. The ritual required that they be merry, but not incapable. Chieftains rose in place to boast of their achievements and praise the king. Young warriors marched into the center of the circle and danced with swords. And presently, after Drest's bard had completed a song in his honor, the drumbeat quickened, and the boys, with the awkward grace of colts just beginning their training, danced into the circle in a wavering line.