The Hallowed Isle Book Three (7 page)

But when they entered the guest-house, though the queen's two women were there, talking softly by the fire, Igierne was nowhere to be seen.

Just before dawn, Guendivar's mother awakened her. The girl rose quickly and dressed in the white gown they gave her—she had been fasting since noon the day before before, and the sooner this was over the sooner she could get some food. Stumbling with sleepiness, she followed her mother and the two nuns, one of them young and one an old woman, who led the way with lanterns out of the guesthouse and up the hill.

Her interest quickened when she saw they were approaching the hazel hedge. There was a gate set amid the branches. The young woman lifted the iron latch and motioned for them to go in.

On the other side was a garden. Already a few birds were singing, though the sky was still dim and grey. She could hear the tinkle of falling water, and as the light grew, she saw that it was flowing down through a stone channel into a large pool.

“The spring is farther up the hill,” the young nun said in a low voice. Her name, she remembered, was Julia. “Winter and summer the pure water flows from the holy well. Even in years of drought it has never failed.”

Petronilla glanced at the sky, then turned to her daughter. “It is almost time. Take off the gown and step into the pool.”

“I was baptized when I was a babe,” muttered Guendivar as she obeyed, “Was not that not purification enough?”

“This is to cleanse you from childhood's sins. You will emerge, a woman, transformed by the blood of your body and the water of the spirit.” Her mother took the gown and folded it across her arm.

Of the spirit, or the spirits?
wondered Guendivar, remembering the spring on the hillside. It gave her the courage to set her foot on the steps that entered the dark water.

In that first shocked moment, she could not tell if the water was holy, only that it was freezingly cold. She stifled a yelp and stood shaking, the water lapping the joining of her thighs.

“In the name of the Blessed Virgin, may you be cleansed and purified of all sin and stain . . .” murmured Sister Julia, dipping up water in a wooden bowl and pouring it over Guendivar's shoulders.

“In the name of Maria Theotokos, may you be cleansed and purified—” Now it was her mother's turn.

“In the name of the Lady of Sorrows . . .” The old nun poured water over her head and stepped away.

In the name of all the gods, let me out of here before I freeze!
thought Guendivar, edging back towards the steps. But her mother stopped her with a word. When Guendivar could escape her mother's eye, she ran free, but she had never yet dared to defy her directly. Shivering, the girl stood where she was.

The sky brightened to a luminous pink like the inside of a shell. Light lay like a mist above the water. Guendivar took a quick breath, and realized that her shivering had ceased and her skin was tingling.

“Spirit of the holy spring,” her lips moved silently, “give me your blessing . . .” She scooped up water in her hand and drank, surprised at its iron tang. Then, before she could lose courage, she took a quick breath and submerged herself in the pool.

For a long moment she stayed there, her amber hair raying out across the surface, and each hair on her body lifted by its own bubble of air. The water she had swallowed sent a shock through every vein. The tingling of her skin intensified, as if the water were penetrating all the way to her bones. Then, just as it reached the edge of pain, it became light. The force of it brought Guendivar upright, arms uplifted, turning to face the rising sun.

She heard a sharp gasp of indrawn breath from one of the women. The sun was rising red above the slope of the hill. Rosy light glistened on her wet skin, glittered from the surface of the pool. For a moment she gazed, then the light brightened to gold and she could look no more.

“Receive the blessing of the Son of God—” her mother cried. But it was another voice that Guendivar heard.

“
Be blessed by the shining sun, for while you walk in its light, no other power shall separate you from this bright and living world.. . .”

To that dawn ritual there was one other witness, who watched from the hillside as the women helped Guendivar from the pool and hid the radiance of her body in the shapeless robe of a penitent. When Igierne had first heard of the planned ritual, she had feared they meant to make the girl a nun; the actual intention was almost as hard to understand. What sins could a child of thirteen have committed? Before her marriage, Petronilla had spent some time as part of Igierne's court. She came from an old Roman family that had long been Christian. Igierne knew that it was not the stains of childhood that Guendivar's mother wanted to wash away, but her daughter's incipient sexuality.

If so, she had chosen the wrong place to do so. Igierne knew how to interpret the blaze of light she had seen in the pool, and she knew also that the colony of monks established here by Joseph of Arimathea had learned how to use the magic of the Tor, but had not changed it. The powers that dwelt here were ancient when the Druids first saw this hill. She should not be surprised that this girl, whose face she had first seen in vision, should be recognized by the spirits of the Tor.

But it did make it all the more imperative that she speak with Guendivar. It would be difficult, for Petronilla kept her daughter well guarded. When the women had left the pool Igierne made her own way down to it, and found tangled in the branches above the gateway a wisp of red-gold hair. She smiled, and pulling a few pale hairs from her own head, began to twine them together, whispering a spell.

The little community on the Tor retired early, the guests to sleep through the night, and the nuns to rest until they should be called to midnight prayer. At night, said the Christians, the Devil roamed the world, and only the incantations of the faithful kept him at bay. But to Igierne, the night was a friend.

When the sound of quiet breathing told her that the other women in the guesthouse were asleep, she rose, slipped her feet into sandals and took up a cloak, and went outside. If anyone had questioned her, she would have said she sought the privy, but in fact her goal was the orchard, where she found a seat, put on the ring of twined hair she had made that morning, and began to sing.

And presently, just as the moon was lifting above the trees, the door to the guest-house opened and a pale figure came through. Igierne told herself that it was only the effect of moonlight on a white gown that made Guendivar's figure seem luminous, but she could not help remembering the radiance of the morning and wondering.

Still, this opportunity must not be wasted. As Guendivar started down the path, Igierne gathered up her cloak and came out to meet her.

The girl started, eyes widening, but she stood her ground.

“Couldn't you sleep either?” Igierne asked softly. “Let us walk. The gardens are beautiful in the light of the moon.”

“You're human—” It was not quite a question.

“As human as you are,” Igierne answered, although when she remembered what she had seen that morning, she wondered.

“You are the queen—” Guendivar said then.

“The queen that was,” Igierne replied,
as you are the queen that will be.. . 
. But it was not yet time to say so aloud.

They came out from beneath the moon-dappled shadows of the orchard and continued along the path. The moon shone full in a luminous sky, so bright that one could distinguish the red of the roses that lined the path from the dim green of the hill.

“Where are we going?” Guendivar asked at last.

“To the White Spring. You bathed in the Red Spring this morning, did you not? The Blood Well? Perhaps you did not know there is another on the Tor.”

“The Blood Well?” the girl echoed. “Then that is why . . . I thought—” Her voice became a whisper. “I thought that my flow had started again, that my blood had turned the water red.”

“They should have explained,” Igierne said tartly. “There is iron in the water, just as there is in our blood. Did they tell you the water would wash away your sins? In the old days, maidens bathed here to establish their female cycle. Barren women came also, that their wombs might become as bountiful as the well.”

“I felt a tingling . . . all through my body . . .” Guendivar said then. “I suppose that now my mother will be trying to marry me off. She is very ambitious. But I'm not ready.”

“Indeed—” Igierne knew too well what it was to be married young to an older man. But for the daughters of princes, a long maidenhood was a luxury. And how long could Artor wait before his ministers compelled him to take a bride? “Do you think you will be ready when you are fifteen?”

The girl shrugged. “That is the age at which my brother was allowed to ride to battle.”

“It is the age at which my son became king . . .”

“That was a long time ago,” said Guendivar.

Igierne's heart sank. What were the gods about, to make Artor wait so many years for his destined bride? Silent, she led the way down the path to the second gate, and the smaller enclosure where the White Spring welled up from the ground.

“What is this one for?” the girl asked.

“They say it brings hope and healing. You are in health, but sometimes the spirit needs healing as well. Let the water flow into this bowl, and then hold it up to catch the light of the moon.”

Guendivar nodded. “There was sun-power in the Blood Well, but this feels different—” She lifted the bowl.

“I wish—” Igierne began, then paused. The girl looked at her expectantly. “Not many would have noticed that. If I thought there were any chance your mother would agree, I would take you for training on the Holy Isle . . .”
If only I could give Artor a queen who was an initiate of the ancient mysteries!

“An island?” Guendivar shook her head. “I would feel prisoned if I could not gallop my pony beneath the sky. Why do you you live there?”

“Long ago the Romans sought to destroy all Druids because they were the ones who preserved the soul of our people and reminded them of what it was to be free. Those who survived their attacks fled to Alba or Eriu, or secret places in Britannia where they could survive. The Lake is one such, hidden among high hills, and also it is very beautiful.”

“I suppose—” the girl said dubiously. “But what do you find to do there all day?”

Igierne laughed. “Our life on the Isle of Maidens is not so different from the way the nuns live here, although we call ourselves maiden not because we are virgin but because we are bound to no man. We spin and weave and grow herbs as other women do, and beyond that, we pray. Do you think that sounds boring?” she answered Guendivar's grimace. “Our prayers are no abject plea to a distant god, but an act of magic. We seek to put ourselves in harmony with the flow of energy through the world, and by understanding, to bend it—”

“To change things?” Guendivar asked.

“To help them to become what they should be, that all shall prosper.”

For a few moments Guendivar considered this, her hair glistening in the light of the moon. Then, very softly, came another question. “Do you talk to the spirits, the faerie-folk?”

“Sometimes . . .” answered Igierne.

“I see them . . . they are my best friends.. . .”

The touch of faerie! That is the source of the strangeness I have seen in her
, thought Igierne.

The girl shrugged ruefully. “Now you know more than I have ever told my mother. Do not tell her that we have spoken. She already looks at you as if she feared you might summon a chariot drawn by dragons to carry me away!” She stopped abruptly, and even in the gloom Igierne could tell that she was blushing.

“Does she think the Tigernissa of Britannia without honor? You are still a child, and in her ward. I will say only this, Guendivar—if in time to come you need help or counsel, write to me.”

She could love this girl, she thought then, as her own daughter—more, she feared, than she had ever been able to love Morgause. But when the child was married to Artor she
would
be her daughter. Surely the goddess who had sent her that vision would not lie!

Guendivar nodded, set the bowl to her lips, and drank. After a moment she lifted her head, her eyes wide with wonder.

“The moon is in it—” With a ceremonial grace, she offered the bowl.

Moonlight flashed silver from trembling water as Igierne grasped the rim. The water was very cold, so pure it tasted sweet on the tongue. She closed her eyes, and let that sweetness spread through her.
Grant hope and healing . . 
. she prayed,
to me and to Britannia.. . 
.

Igierne held onto the wooden seat as her cart bumped up the street towards the Governor's Palace. She had forgotten how hot Londinium could get in the days between Midsummer and Harvest. Heat radiated from the stone walls of those buildings that remained, and the trees that had grown up among the ruins of others drooped with dusty leaves. Ceincair and Morut swayed in stoic silence beside her.

She ached in every joint from the jolting of the cart, her tunic was stuck to her back with perspiration, and her hair was full of dust despite the veil. For a moment of piercing regret, she wished she had never left the Lake. But there were baths at the palace—perhaps she would feel better when she was clean.

And then the cart pulled up at the gates. Guards straightened to attention, calling out her name. One or two were men she remembered from her days with Uthir. She smiled, giving orders, and for a little while, forgot that she was not still the queen.

By the time the three priestesses were settled it was evening, and Artor had returned to the palace. That was a relief. When Igierne had stopped in Isca on the way south she had heard he was in Londinium, but at any moment that could change. These days he seemed to conduct the business of Britannia from the back of a horse. She had sent a message to warn him of her coming, but she would not have been surprised to find him gone.