The Hallowed Isle Book Three (3 page)

Her fingers clenched in the new grass as the muscles of her belly contracted and released again. She was aware that the litter had arrived, but by then things had gone too far for her to be moved.

She fixed her gaze on the hollow moon, sliding down the western sky like a rind of pearl. She could hear the girls whispering. It was not right that the queen of the Votadini should give birth like a beggar woman beside the road. And at a crossroads too! At Beltain, when the folk of faerie moved from their winter quarters to their summer homes, more might be passing along that road than men. Morgause shook her head, denying her own fear. This pregnancy itself had been a challenge to the gods—it should be no surprise that the birth was the same.

“Draw the circle of safety around me if you are afraid—” she grunted between pangs, “and then get ready to catch the babe.”

The muscles of her belly writhed again, and she was unable to suppress a groan. Between birthings one always forgot the pain, but it seemed to her that the violence of the pangs that tore her now was greater than any she had known, as if the womb were trying to turn itself inside out in its haste to expel the weight it bore.

“Mother . . .” she whimpered, and then bit back the word. Blood trickled from between her thighs to stain the crimson gown. Igierne was not there—had never been there, really, when Morgause needed her, even when they were living in the same hall. Why should she call for her now?

Morgause had always taken such pride in her ability to bear sons. But women died in childbirth, and she was no longer in her first youth.
Am I dying?
Her thoughts circled in confusion. Is
the Goddess claiming my offering?
Shadows danced before her eyes like dark wings.

I am in Your hands, Lady . . . I offer my life if it will serve you, and that of my child
. She let out her breath in a long sigh, feeling a dim sorrow, but no fear.

Then another convulsion took her and she cried out once more. The rolling ache became a wrenching agony.

“
Warrior, and mother of warriors
—
now you shall fight for your life!”
came a voice from within. “
Cast the babe from your body, now!”

Morgause drew up her legs and dug her heels into the soft earth and pushed with all the strength she had. The pressure increased, as if she were being split in two. Again her muscles clenched and she bore down. She felt the gush of birthblood and a burning pain in her sex as the child's head crowned. Against her closed eyelids the sunlight was a whirl of red brightness. She sucked in air, and then with the last of her strength, pushed once more.

There was a moment of pulsing relief as the babe slid, warm and slippery, between her thighs. She gasped for breath, and in echo, heard his furious challenge to the world. The babe was still yelling when Dugech tied off and cut the cord and laid him on her breast.

Morgause lay in drowsy stupor, the contractions of the birth fading from her wracked body like the last tremors of love. She felt the warm seep of blood from her womb sinking into the thirsty soil and found it hard to care. Anxious voices twittered around her, but she ignored them. Only when hard fingers began to knead her belly did she open her eyes with a weak cry.

“My lady, the afterbirth must be driven forth—” said Leuku as the queen protested. The baby was still squalling.

“Set the child to the teat,” someone said then.

There were a few moments of confusion as they undid her gown. Morgause felt the babe rootling at her breast, and then a sudden sharp pang that shocked through her entire body as he fastened onto the nipple and her milk let down. Through the convulsions that followed as she was delivered of the placenta he hung on. It was only when he let go at last that she saw blood flowing from her nipple along with the milk and realized that her son had been born toothed and ready to take on the world.

From nearby came the deep rumble of male voices. Morgause looked up and saw Leudonus' grizzled head above the others.

“You have a fine son, my lord, for all that he came early into the world—” said Dugech, leading the king into the circle of women. Morgause's lips twitched as the other woman bent to take the swaddled child from her arms.

Dugech knew perfectly well that this boy, like the others, was full-term. Even Leudonus, who had sired his share of bastards, must know the difference by now, but if so, he had his own reasons to uphold the fiction. He frowned down at the squirming bundle Dugech had handed him, and silence fell while men waited for him to acknowledge paternity.

“A fine boy indeed. He has your hair,” he said finally. And then, holding him up, “Let him be called Medraut, of the royal kindred. Let the Votadini welcome a future warrior!”

This, if not explicit, was close enough to an avowal. The walls of the cleft echoed to their shout of welcome. Morgause smiled.
A warrior
, she thought,
and more than a warrior. I welcome a king!
She could sleep now, knowing others would guard her child. The moon had finally disappeared, but through her closing eyelids, she still saw the red glow of the Beltain Sun.

If she slitted her eyes just so, thought Guendivar, the reflections from the warriors' spearpoints merged into a single dazzle of light. That was almost more fun than watching them throw the spears, and certainly better than listening to them argue about the casts. She had promised Telent that she would watch him compete today. He was in Prince Leodagranus' guard, and carried her around on his shoulders, though the last time she asked he had said that at almost seven, she was too old.

Guendivar chewed on her lower lip, watching as he prepared to cast anew. She knew that she was growing, but he was
very
tall. Perhaps she would go away now, to punish him.

At the thought, she was already in motion, flitting past the line of men like a white blossom before the wind. Her mother, who had been dozing in the shade of the figured cloth, sat up suddenly, calling, but by then Guendivar was halfway down the field and could pretend she had not heard. Petronilla was always trying to make her be polite and tidy; Guendivar had learned the advantages of evasion early on.

She wanted to see the rest of the festival. At the edge of the field, peddlers had set up their wares in bothies made of woven branches and strips of striped cloth. There were only a few, and their goods would have been considered paltry stuff when the Romans ruled, but only the older people remembered those days. In the old days they would probably have celebrated the festival in Lindinis, her father's town, instead of spending most of their time at the old villa in the hills. To the folk of the countryside, the red pottery oil lamps and the beads of Roman glass seemed very fine. Guendivar wandered among them, admiring, and one of the traders gave her a green ribbon to tie back her hair.

The afternoon was waning when she saw one of her mother's women advancing toward her with a decidedly repressive look in her eye. Rather suddenly Guendivar remembered that Petronilla had been quite explicit about the behavior that was expected of a chieftain's daughter at this festival. She knew that she had disobeyed, and she did not mind being punished once it was over, but the sun was still well above the trees!

Before the woman could grab her, Guendivar was off again, slipping behind a cart and then around the horse-lines and toward the protection of the trees. Perhaps her father's huntsmen knew these woods better than she did, but Guendivar did not think anyone else could find her once she was among the trees. And even a woodsman might think twice about entering the tunnels that a small girl could negotiate with ease.

One of them brought her out into a small glade surrounded by hazels. The grass in the center was flattened, as if someone had been sleeping there, and hanging on one of the hazel twigs was a flower crown. Guendivar began to smile.

To watch the dancing last night had been exciting, with the drumming and the naked bodies shining in the light of the fires. She had not quite understood what those men and girls were seeking when they leaped over the flames or ran, half-embraced and laughing, for the forest, but she knew it must be something wonderful, part of the magic she felt pulsing from the land itself on Beltain eve.

Guendivar could still sense it, a little, here in the glade. She sat still, senses extended, feeling the warmth of the afternoon radiating from the grass. The sounds of the festival seemed distant, and as she continued to sit and her eyelids grew heavy, more distant still. She had not gotten much sleep the night before, and the day had been busy. The warm air caressed her and she curled drowsily down into the tangled grass.

It was the change in the light that roused her, a ray of the sinking sun that found its way through the tangle of branches to her closed eyelids. Still half-asleep, she scrunched them shut more tightly and turned her head, but the sun's angle let the last of its radiance pour through the trees. Sighing, Guendivar rubbed her eyes and slitted them open.

Within the glade, every stock and stone was glowing, and each leaf and blade of grass was edged with flame.
Pretty . . 
. she thought, watching with half-focused gaze, and stretched out her arm.
Everything has light inside, even me.. . 
. Beneath the scratches and the smears of soil and the scattering of golden freckles, her pale flesh shone.

A flicker at the edge of vision caught her attention. Her vision refocused; something was moving there. Bemused by beauty, she did not stir, even when her vision transmuted the spiraling sparkles into attenuated figures that danced and darted about the glade. At first they seemed tiny, but they seemed able to change their size at will, and they moved as if weightless, or winged. And presently she realized that susurrus of sound was neither the wind nor music, but the chatter of high, sweet voices.

Fragments of old tales configured themselves into sudden certainty. Slowly Guendivar sat up, refusing to blink, lest the vision flicker away.

“I know you now . . .” she said softly. “You are faerie-folk. Have you just moved house into these woods today?”

For a moment even the motes of light seemed to stop moving. Then the air shimmered with faerie laughter.

“
She sees us! She can see!”
The faeries clustered around her in a glowing swirl. One of the figures floated upward to face her, expanding until it was as large as a child of three.

“Of course I can see you,” answered Guendivar. “I have seen faeries before, I think,” she added, remembering, “but they never talked to me.”

“
It is the moment between day and darkness, and in this child, the old blood runs true,”
said one of the others. “
But she will lose the vision when she is grown.”

Guendivar glared, but a new question was already on her lips. “Will you show me your country?”

“
This
is
our country
—
it is all around you, if you have the eyes to see
—” came the answer, and indeed, when Guendivar lifted her eyes, the familiar shapes of tree and rock seemed doorways to unguessed dimensions. But she dared not look too long, for fear that her new friends would flit away.

“Then will you give me a wish?” she asked.

“
Our gifts can be dangerous
. . .” the faerie responded, but Guendivar only laughed.

“Am I in danger here?” She grinned. “My wish is that my heart shall stay as it is now, and I shall always be able to see faerie.”

“
Are you certain? Folk so sighted may find it difficult to live in the mortal world
.. . .”

Guendivar shrugged. “I think it is boring already. It will not matter to me.”

“
It will matter
. . .” said the faerie, with momentary sadness. Then it, too, laughed. “
But we cannot refuse you on this day.”

Guendivar clapped her hands, and as if on cue, the sun slid behind the hilltop and the light was gone. Her new friends were gone, too. For a moment she felt like crying, but it was getting cold, and she was hungry. She looked for the tunnel through the hazels, and found that to her altered vision, the world around her still shone from within.

The faerie had not lied to her. Laughing once more, Guendivar ran back to the world of humankind.

A.D.
489

J
UST AT DUSK, ON AN EVENING WHEN THE FIRST SLIVER OF THE
first new moon of summer hung above the brow of the hill, Merlin arrived at the Lake. As always, he came alone and unheralded, appearing like a spirit at the edge of the forest. Igierne, on her way to the rock at the highest point of the island for her evening meditation, felt his presence like a breath of scent, which at first teases, and then releases a flood of memories. She stopped short on the path, so that Morut nearly ran into her.

“Go down to the landing and send the boat across to the shore. We have a visitor.”

Morut's eyes widened, but she did not question Igierne's knowledge. Smiling, Igierne watched her go.

When she had first returned to the Lake to reclaim her role as its Lady, after Artor was made king, Igierne had felt herself half an impostor. The skills required of a bean-drui needed focus, application, constant honing. She was like a warrior taking down the sword he has allowed to rust on the wall. And yet her mental muscles, though stiff and clumsy, still remembered their early training, and in time she found that the passing years had given her a depth of understanding that had not been there when she was a girl. There might be others on the island to whom these skills came more easily, but none with her judgment regarding how and when they should be used. And after a dozen years as Tigernissa of Britain, Igierne found it easy to rule a gaggle of women and girls.

But Merlin, she thought as she watched him coming towards her, had wisdom of a different and higher order still. When she was a young woman, he had seemed much older than she, but from the vantage of fifty-two, a man in his early sixties was a contemporary. It was not age that set him so apart from other men, but an inherent wildness, despite all his years in the courts of kings.