The Hallowed Isle Book Three (4 page)

He wore his accustomed wolfskin over a druid's white gown. Both were well-worn, as if they had grown to his gaunt frame. But he looked strong. Later, as she poured mint tea into his bowl from the kettle that steamed over her fire, she realized that Merlin was assessing her as well.

“I am no longer the girl you knew in Luguvalium . . .” she said softly.

“You are still beautiful—” he answered her thought rather than her words “—as the forest in autumn, when the nuts ripen on the trees.”

Igierne felt herself flushing, and shook her head. “My moon has passed the full, but it is the sun we should be speaking of. When did you last see Artor?”

Merlin raised one bushy eyebrow in gentle mockery, but allowed her self-deprecation to pass. “Two, or nearly three moons past. He is rebuilding the fort at Isca. Castra Legionis, they call it. It will serve as a staging area for campaigns against raiders from Eriu. It was very crowded and full of soldiers. I did not stay long.”

“That is the main threat, then? Not the Saxons?”

The druid shrugged. “At present. Artor has tamed Hengest's cub and set him to guard the sheep in Canrium, but the rest of the Saxon pack are still hungry. Ceretic sits in Venta, licking his chops and eyeing the lands around him, and the Anglians roam the fens. Artor will have to deal with them eventually. But why do you ask me? Does not he write to you?”

“From time to time—” She tapped the carved wooden casket where she kept Artor's letters. “But a druid's sight is different from that of a king.”

“I cannot rule for him, Igierne,” Merlin answered her, “nor can you.”

She frowned, thinking of the advice she had been sending. Someone must speak for the Goddess, until Artor had a queen. “Is that why you spend so much time roaming the wilds?” she countered. “What if something happens? What if he needs you?”

“I will know.” His voice was a subterranean rumble, as if he spoke through stone. “The stars have shown me that a crisis is coming. For good or for ill, it will settle things with the Saxons for a generation. When that time comes, it is ordained that I be there.”

Igierne felt the truth of that in her bones. For a few moments there was no sound but the hiss of the fire.

“I too have searched the future,” she said finally. “Two years ago, at Beltain. This year I dared not—I was afraid. I remember the terror, but of what I saw I know only that the Lady of Ravens was there, and red war coming, and a child.”

“I know Her . . .” Merlin's face twisted with ancient sorrow. “Only the White Raven can stand against her when the war horns blow.”

“But what of the child?”

“You called out to me in that vision, and I heard—” Merlin threw up his hands in exasperation. “But what would you have me do? Should I have counselled Artor to order every child born on the first of May exposed? Even Caesar would have been unable to enforce such a decree! Foreknowledge is a deceptive gift, Igierne, for our hopes and fears distort the shapes of what we see. When I was young I searched the heavens constantly, but the older I get, the less I seek to know.”

“But if you foresee a danger, you can avoid it—” she exclaimed.

“Can you? The Greeks tell of a man called Oedipus, whose efforts to flee his fate instead fulfilled it.”

Igierne glared at him. She knew that as women got older they often became stronger, more resolute, while many men grew gentler in old age. Certainly it was so with Merlin. He, who in their young days had been hard as the hills, seemed now as elusive as wind or water.

“If I see danger coming to my country or my child I will confront it,” she told him, leaning forward with her hands on her knees. “And I will not cease to fight that fate while life shall last.”

“Perhaps that is
your
fate, Igierne,” Merlin said gently, and smiled.

“Mother, Aggarban is wearing my red belt!”

“Why can't I have it? You said you weren't taking it with you—”

Gwyhir's reply was muffled, as if he had decided to take matters into his own hands. Morgause sighed. She had been regretting Leudonus' decision to send her second son to join his brother at the court of Artor, but just at this moment she did not care whether he went to Castra Legionis or the Devil, if she could have peace in her house once more.

“Let him have it, Gwyhir,” she snapped, thrusting aside the curtain between her closet-bed and the central common area around the fire. “You were telling me only yesterday that the belt is too small.”

“But he should
ask
, mother,” said Gwyhir, straightening to his full height. He had got man-high in the past moons, but was still growing into his bones. His hair, lighter than Gualchmai's, stuck out at odd angles, giving him the look of a young bird.

Aggarban still wore the belt, though he was flushed and rumpled where his brother had grabbed him. He was dark and stocky, not much taller than the fourth brother, Goriat, even though he was almost four years older. Morgause looked at them and shook her head. She was too young to be the mother of such a brood of big, boisterous boys. At the moment, she wanted to send them
all
to Artor; all, that is, except for her sweet Medraut.

Her youngest son was turned two this spring. She had danced at the Beltain fires this year and gone into the woods afterwards with one of Leudonus' warriors. But she had not kindled. She told herself it meant nothing—there were three years between Gwyhir and Aggarban, after all, and four between Goriat and Medraut—but in her heart the fear was growing that Medraut would be her last child. Was he her punishment, or her key to greatness? She still did not know.

“Will you write and tell us all about Artor's fortress?” asked Goriat.

“I will be far too busy to write letters,” answered his brother loftily, “riding, and training with the sword and spear. When I win my first fight I will let you know.”

“And what if you lose?” Aggarban stuck out his tongue and darted out of the way of his brother's blow.

“Our brother Gualchmai is the greatest warrior the High King has,” said Gwyhir. “He may beat me, but by the gods, nobody else will, once my training is done.”

At least, thought his mother, he recognized that he still had a few things to learn. But in the long run, she shared his confidence. No son of hers could be anything but a champion.

“A fine lad,” said Bliesbituth as they watched Gwyhir ride out with Leudonus and his men. He was a chieftain who often served as a courier between Fodreu and Dun Eidyn. “But why do you send him to the Romans? If you let him come to Pictland, we would marry him to one of our princesses and he might father kings.” He smiled at his wife, a plump, pretty woman called Tulach, who was herself of the royal lineage.

“I have several sons,” Morgause said diplomatically. “Perhaps one of the others—”

“You think I am flattering,” said Bliesbituth, “but it is not so. Britannia was strong in the time of the emperors, but their time is ended. The Votadini should look northward. We were never conquered; our warriors never gave up their swords. If all the peoples who live north of the Wall were to unite, we would be a power to reckon with. The Romans call us the Picts, the painted people, but we are the Pretani, the true Britons of this isle. The south is exhausted—our time is coming now.”

Morgause felt the blood of generations who had fought to defend that Wall burning in her cheeks, but she held her tongue. From all accounts, Artor was keeping the Saxons and the men of Eriu in check; she was too tactful to remind Bliesbituth how her brother had dealt with the Picts three years before. The Romans, even at the height of their power, had been able to do little more.

Another thought chilled her suddenly. If all the might of Rome had been able to do no better, what did that say about the power of Alba? While Artor was young and strong, perhaps he could hold the north in check, but what about his successor? The lords of Britannia had refused to make her husband their king because his power was too far from the center of things, but in the time that was coming, it might be that only a king whose strength lay on the borders could hope to rule.
A king like my son . . 
. she thought, smiling grimly,
my Medraut.. . 
.

“And there is this to think on,” said Tulach. “They say that the people of the south have abandoned their gods. The new religion teaches love, and peace. Is it any wonder that the empire has fallen? You think you keep the old ways here, my queen, but among the Pretani we have preserved the ancient traditions in all their purity. It is not only our menfolk who have power!” The silver ornaments clasped in the tight curls of her bronze brown hair chimed softly as she nodded.

Morgause smiled thinly. “It is true that there are many in Britannia who follow the Christos, but I am the daughter of the Lady of the Lake and the heir to its mysteries.”

“No doubt, but there are things we could teach you, Morgause.”

Morgause did not answer her. The dust of Leudonus' cavalcade was fading, and it was time to go in. She could not deny that for a moment Tulach's offer had tempted her. But the power that waited on the Isle of Maidens was bred in her, blood and bone. It had been too long since she had tasted its waters and breathed its air.

She should pay her mother a visit, she thought then, and take Medraut. It was time Igierne met her youngest grandchild.

* * *

“Well, Morgause, motherhood certainly agrees with you. You are blooming like a rose!” Ebrdila grinned toothlessly and patted the bench beside her. Behind her, the roses in Igierne's garden had been trained over an arbor. In this sheltered spot, the red blooms clustered in profusion, scattering bright petals upon the path.

True
, thought Igierne, surveying her daughter with a more critical eye,
but this rose is beginning to look just a bit blown
.

Morgause still had a fine, full figure, but after five children, her breasts no longer rode high, and the muscles of her belly had not yet recovered their tone. But it was her face that had prompted the observation, as Igierne noted the permanent high color in the cheeks, and around the mouth, the first faint lines of discontent. Ebrdila's old eyes might not be able to see it—but then Morgause had been her special pet since the days when Igierne, newly married to Uthir, had left the girl in her care.

“Oh, I am very well!” Morgause gave the old woman a swift hug as she sat down beside her, “and so is my baby. Is he not a fine boy?” She smiled complacently at the child who was playing with the rose petals in the path.

“He is indeed,” answered Ebrdila, “just like his mother!”

Igierne had to admit the boy was handsome, though most children, however ugly as babies or gawky as they grew, were plump and rosy at this age. Had Artor been so sweetly rounded when he was two, so seriously intent upon the wonders of the world? Regret for the lost years ached like an old wound in her breast. This boy's hair shone like burnished bronze in the sunlight—Morgause had been the same—but when he looked up, Igierne found herself disconcerted by his considering stare. Then he grabbed for another rose petal and laughed, and the odd moment was gone.

Igierne cleared her throat. “And how is Leudonus?” For a moment Morgause simply stared at her.
Your husband
, thought Igierne,
surely you remember him, even if he is not the father of this child
.

“He is in Isca with Artor,” Morgause answered, a little defiantly. “He took Gwyhir into his household with Gualchmai. But surely you knew that—do not you and your son correspond? I thought he asked your advice every time he wiped—”

“Morgause!” Ebrdila chided gently, “There is no need to be coarse.”

She had not criticized the content of the remark, only its expression. But at least Igierne now knew that the jealousy Morgause had felt for her brother when she was a girl was still there.

“And did Leudonus suggest that you spend his absence here?” she asked, trying to keep her tone from becoming sarcastic. “It has been a long time—”

Morgause frowned. “I found myself missing the Lake, and all those I love here,” her daughter said then. “I did grow up here, after all.”

“Indeed you did!” Ebrdila smiled happily and patted her hand.

I feel ill
, thought Igierne, but she managed a smile as well. Whether she liked it or not, Morgause was born of the old blood. The Isle of Maidens was her heritage.

“Tonight the moon shines full, and we will honor her. It will be good to see you in the circle once more.”

“Not the ritual on the hilltop, I hope—” said Morgause.

“But of course. The night will be clear,” her mother replied.

Morgause grimaced. “I had hoped to see the Cauldron again. Artor bears the Sword, but the Hallow that remains on this isle is its equal in power. I am surprised you do not make more use of it!”

Igierne lifted one eyebrow. Was
that
why Morgause had come? “Would you take a war-axe to slice cheese? Neither Sword nor Cauldron are to be used unless need compels.”

“True, but unless you practice with a weapon, you won't know how to use it when the need does arrive. Your son bears the Sword, but the Cauldron is my inheritance. Is it not time I began to learn its mysteries?”

From the look on her daughter's face, Igierne feared she had not been able to conceal her instinctive alarm.

“Not while you are still a mother and a ruling queen,” she kept her voice even with an effort, wondering why she felt so reluctant to let her daughter anywhere near the Cauldron, since what Morgause had said was quite true. “I myself did not even begin to understand it until I was done with all that and retired to the Lake to give my whole heart to its Mysteries.”

“No doubt you are right.” Morgause shrugged dismissively. “And I am sure the ceremony on the heights will be very beautiful. It has been some time since I did much climbing, but if you can get up the mountain at your age, I should be able to manage as well.”