Lady of Avalon (17 page)

“Gawen! My son, my son, what have they done to you?” The priest took a step forward, wringing his hands, and three of his brethren appeared behind him. “Have they forced you to bow down to their idols? Has this whore seduced you into shame and sin?”

Gawen’s amusement changed abruptly to anger, and he stepped between Sianna and the old man.

“I have been ‘forced’ to do nothing, nor will I be! And this woman is my bride, so keep your foul tongue between your teeth regarding her!” Now the rest of the Nazarenes had reached the top of the Tor, and they did indeed have mallets and rawhide ropes. He gestured to Tuarim to get Sianna out of the way.

“She is a demon, a snare of that great Seducer who through the temptress Eve betrayed all mankind to sin!” Father Paulus replied. “But it is not too late, boy. Even the blessed Augustine was able to repent, and he had spent all his youth in sin. If you do penance, this single failure will not be counted against you. Come away from her, Gawen.” He held out his hand. “Come with me now!”

Gawen gazed at him in astonishment. “Father Joseph was a holy man, a blessed spirit who preached a gospel of love. To him I might have listened, but he would never have spoken such words. You, old man, have gone entirely mad!” He glared at the others, and there was something in his expression that made them step back.

“Now it is my turn to give orders!” he said, and felt the astral presence of a royal mantle enfolding him. “You came to us as supplicants and we gave you sanctuary, and let you build your church beside our holy hill. But this Tor belongs to the old gods that protect this land. You have no right to be here; your feet profane this holy ground. And so I say to you, begone, lest the mighty powers you have called demons strike you where you stand!”

He raised his hand, and though it was empty, the monks recoiled as if he had brandished the sword. Gawen smiled grimly. In another moment they would take to their heels. Then he heard the clatter of hobnailed sandals against stone. The Romans had arrived.

There were ten of them, under the command of a sweating decurion, the short thrusting spear they called the
pilum
in each hand. Barely winded, they surveyed the angry Nazarenes and the outraged Druids with an equally jaundiced eye.

The decurion considered Gawen’s gold embroidery, apparently decided it was a mark of rank, and addressed him. “I’m looking for Gaius Macellius Severus. These monks sent word that you might be holding him.”

Someone behind Gawen gasped, then stilled. He shook his head, hoping the man had not been in Britannia long enough to realize how clearly his own features bore the stamp of Rome.

“We are celebrating a ritual of our religion,” he said quietly. “We constrain no one.”

“And who are you to say so?” The decurion frowned from under his helm.

“My name is Gawen, son of Eilan-”

“Fool!” cried Father Paulus. “That’s Gaius himself who is talking to you!”

The Roman’s eyes widened. “Sir,” he began, “your grandfather sent us-”

“Seize him!” Paulus interrupted once more. “He’s a deserter from your Army!”

A convulsive movement rippled through the file of soldiers, and while the Druids watched them, Father Paulus shoved one of his brethren toward the circle of stones.

“Are you young Macellius?” The decurion eyed him uncertainly.

Gawen let out his breath. If his grandfather in Deva were willing to speak for him, he might get out of this after all.

“That’s my Roman name, but-”

“Were you in the Army?” snapped the Roman.

Gawen jerked around as he heard the sound of a hammer striking stone. Two of the monks had ropes around one of the pillar stones and were tugging at it, while a third was swinging at the other one.

“Straighten up, soldier, and answer me!”

For three long months Gawen had been conditioned to respond to that tone. Before he could think, his body had snapped to that pose of rigid attention that only legionary training could produce. In the next moment he tried to relax, but the damage had been done.

“I never swore the oath!” he cried.

“Others will be the judge of that,” said the decurion. “You’ll have to come with us now.”

From the circle came a
crack
and the tortured shriek of rending rock as the mallet struck a fault in the stone. One of the women screamed, and Gawen turned to see the pillar stone falling in two pieces to the ground.

“Sir, stop them!” he cried. “It’s forbidden to desecrate a temple, and this is sacred ground!”

“These are Druids, soldier!” spat the Nazarene. “Did you think that Paulinus and Agricola had got them all? Rome does not tolerate those who use magic against her. The Druids and their rites are forbidden-your duty is to destroy any who remain!” He darted toward the second pillar, which was beginning to rock alarmingly, and started to shove. The monks with the hammers, emboldened by success, had begun to batter at another stone.

Gawen stared at him, all memories of Rome and his own danger whirled away by a tide of royal rage. Ignoring the decurion’s commands, he strode toward the circle.

“Paulus, this place belongs to my gods, not yours. Get away from that stone!” The voice was not his; it vibrated in the stones. The other monks blanched and stepped back, but Paulus began to laugh.

“Demons, I deny you!
Satanas, retro me!
” He heaved at the stone.

Gawen’s hands closed on the bony shoulders; he wrenched the man away and sent him sprawling to the ground. As he straightened, he heard the unmistakable scrape of a
gladius
being drawn from its sheath and turned, his hand going to the hilt of his own blade.

The legionaries had their spears poised, but Gawen forced his fingers to unclose. Thoughts whirled madly.
I will not shed blood on this holy ground! They did not consecrate me as a war-leader, but as a sacred king.

“Gaius Macellius Severus, in the name of the Emperor I arrest you. Lay down your arms!” The voice of the decurion boomed across the space between them as he gestured with his sword.

“Only if you will also arrest
them.
” He motioned toward the monks.

“Your religion is outlawed, and you are a renegade,” snarled the officer. “Take off that sword or I will order my men to spear you where you stand.”

It is my fault,
thought Gawen numbly.
If I had not sought out Rome, they would never have known that Avalon was here!

But they know now,
some rebellious part of his own soul answered him.
Why waste your life for the sake of a few stones?

Gawen looked at the boulders. Where was the magic that had flared from stone to stone when the Merlin appeared? They were only rocks, looking oddly naked in the full light of day, and he had been a fool to fancy himself a king. But, whatever else might be true, on that stone altar Sianna had given him her love, and he could not allow it to be soiled by Father Paulus’ unconsecrated hands. Beyond the line of soldiers he saw Sianna and tried to smile, then, lest her despair should unman him, looked quickly away.

“I never took oath to the Emperor, but I am sworn to protect this holy hill!” he said quietly, and the ancient sword that the marsh men had given him-only last night-came sweetly into his hand.

The decurion gestured. The wicked sharp point of a lifting
pilum
caught the sun. Then, suddenly, a thrown stone clanged against an iron helmet, and the
pilum,
released too soon, went wide.

The other Druids were unarmed, but on the top of the Tor there were plenty of stones. A hail of missiles bombarded the legionaries. They responded. Gawen saw Tuarim pierced by a thrown
pilum
and go down. The other priestesses, thank the gods, were pulling Sianna away.

Three of the soldiers trotted toward him, shields up and swords poised. Gawen dropped into a defensive crouch, batting aside the first thrust with the neat parry Rufinus had drilled into him, and continuing with a stroke that sliced through the straps holding the front and back of the body armor together and into the man’s side. The soldier yelled and fell back, and Gawen whirled to thrust at the next man, the superb steel of his sword piercing
through
the breastplate. The look of surprise on his face would been comical if Gawen had had time to appreciate it, but the third man was bearing down on him. He leaped inside the fellow’s guard, and as the enemy blade, descending, scraped along his back, jabbed his own up beneath the armor all the way to the heart.

The falling body almost took the sword with it, but Gawen managed to wrench the weapon free. Four of the young Druids lay on the ground. Some of the marsh men had come up to help, but their darts and arrows were little use against Roman armor.

“Run-” He waved at them. Why would the fools not flee while there was time? But the remaining Druids were trying to reach his side, yelling his name.

Gawen’s charge took the Romans by surprise. One went down to his first stroke; the second got his shield up in time and slashed back at him. The blow sliced across Gawen’s upper arm, but he felt no pain. A stroke to his back made him stumble, but in the next moment he recovered, and his return blow took off the fellow’s hand. Five of them remained, plus the decurion, and they were beginning to learn caution. He might do it after all. Grinning savagely, he drove the next man who came at him back with swift strokes that whittled pieces from his shield.

The blue dragons on Gawen’s arms were crimson now, and though he still felt nothing, much of the blood was his own. He blinked as a wave of shadow passed over him, then danced aside, a little more slowly, from another blow. It was not blood loss, he decided, risking a glance upward, where a dark mist was spreading rapidly across what had been a clear sky.

Caillean and Sianna,
he thought grimly.
They’ll rout them. I have only to hang on.

But he still had five enemies. His sword flared as he swung it around. The legionary he was facing jumped backward, and Gawen laughed. Then, like a bolt from the heavens, something struck him between the shoulder blades. Gawen lurched forward and fell to his knees, wondering what was dragging him down, why it was suddenly so hard to breathe.

Then he looked down and saw the evil head of the
pilum
protruding from his chest. He shook his head, still not believing it. It was growing dark quickly now, but not quickly enough to stop the Roman swords from stabbing into back and legs and shoulders.

And now Gawen could see nothing. The star sword slipped from a nerveless hand. “Sianna-” he whispered, and sank down upon the holy soil of Avalon, sighing as he had the night before, when he had poured out his life in her arms.

Very gently, Caillean laid Gawen’s hand back down. Her inner senses, seeking the life force, could find only a flicker. She had had to search for a pulse to be sure.

“He lives”-her voice cracked-“though only the gods know why.” There was so much blood! The holy earth of the Tor was soaked with it. How many years of rain, she wondered, would be needed to wash it away?

“It is the power of the King that is keeping him alive,” said Riannon.

“Even the courage of a king could not overcome such odds as these,” answered Ambios. He was wounded too, but not badly. Several of his fellows had died. But the Romans had died too, when the sorcerous darkness came and only those with spirit sight could tell friend from foe.

“I should have been here,” whispered Caillean.

“You saved us. You called the shadow…” said Riannon.

“Too late…” Her breath caught. The darkness was gone now. If she could not see it, it was because her eyes were dimmed by tears. “Too late to save
him
…” She had been in her own home when the Romans came, resting to be ready for the celebrations later in the day. There was no guilt in that, they all said so. How could she have known?

But no excuses could change the fact that Eilan had died because Caillean had failed to reach Vernemeton ten years ago. And now Eilan’s son, whom she had learned to love, lay dying because she had not been there when he most needed her.

“Can he be moved?” asked Riannon.

“Perhaps,” answered Marged, the closest thing they had to a healer. “But not far. It would be better to build a shelter above him. If we cut through the spearshaft we can lay him on his back. He will be easier then.”

“Can’t you pull it out?” Ambios said thinly.

“If we do, he will die now.”

Swiftly, and without knowing what is happening to him,
thought Caillean,
instead of later, with greater pain.
She knew how men struck through the lungs died. It would be far kinder to draw out the
pilum
immediately. But, however short the time, Gawen had been the Pendragon, and the deaths of kings, like those of High Priestesses, are not like those of other men.

Sianna must be allowed to say farewell, she told herself, but in her heart Caillean knew that it was her own need for one last word from her fosterling that compelled her decision.

“Lift the shelter of branches you built for him this morning and bring it here. We will cut the shaft of the
pilum
and tend him as best we can.”

Slowly, Caillean walked around the circle. While Gawen fought the Romans, the Nazarene monks had continued their work of destruction. Both pillars were cast down, along with three of the lesser stones, and there was a great crack in the altar stone. Out of long habit she moved sunwise, but the power which should have awakened as she passed, flowing smoothly from stone to stone, now welled sluggishly without force or direction. Like Gawen, the Tor had been wounded, and its power was bleeding away through the shattered stones.

Caillean’s steps slowed, as if her heart no longer had the strength to pump the blood through her veins. She could feel its erratic fluttering.
Perhaps I will die too.
At the moment, the thought was welcome.

Outside the circle, Gawen lay cleansed and bandaged on his makeshift bed, with Sianna watching beside him. They had stopped his other wounds from bleeding, but the spearhead was still in his chest, and his spirit still wandered in the borderland between death and dream. Caillean forbade herself to turn to see if anything had changed. If he woke, someone would call her; she would not take from Sianna whatever comfort the girl might find in being alone with him now.

The last of the daylight veiled the land in gold, glowing in the mists that were beginning to gather around the lower hills. Caillean could see no movement in the reeds or open water, or on the wooden trackways that crossed them. Nothing stirred in the water meadows or on the tree-clad island hills. Everywhere she looked, the countryside was peaceful.
It is an illusion,
she told herself.
The land should be erupting in storm and fire on such a day!

The surge of hatred that shook her as her gaze moved to the wattled huts that circled Father Joseph’s beehive church took her by surprise. Paulus had killed the old man’s dream of two communities living side by side, following their separate paths toward the goal that she and Joseph had shared. But even there, she could see no one. The marsh folk said that they had run away when the darkness came, praying desperately for deliverance from the demons that they themselves had raised.

Beyond the church, the Aquae Sulis road ran away to the north. It was white and empty now, but how long would it be, she wondered, before old Macellius would begin to worry about his soldiers and send another detachment to find out what had become of them?

Gawen had killed five, and when the darkness fell, the wicked little knives of the marsh men had disposed of the remainder. Afterward they had dragged the bodies away and sunk them in the bogs, lest they further pollute the Tor. But the monks were no doubt even now on their way to tell the Romans that the soldiers had come here, and the Army would exact a heavy reckoning.

They will come, and they will finish what was begun with the massacre on the Isle of Mona when I was a child. The Order of Druids and the service of our Goddess will be obliterated at last…,
Caillean thought grimly. At this moment she found it hard to care. She stayed where she was, gazing out across the land as the sun set and the light ebbed out of the world.

It was full dark when a touch on her arm brought Caillean back to awareness. She was no more hopeful, but her abstraction had at least given her a little peace.

“What is it? Is Gawen-”

Riannon shook her head. “He still sleeps. It is the rest of us who need you. Lady, all of the Druids and the initiated priestesses are here. They are frightened; some want to flee before the Romans come again, others to stay and fight. Speak to them-tell us what we must do!”

“Tell you?” Caillean shook her head. “Do you think my magic so great that I have only to whisper an invocation and all will be well? I could not save Gawen-what makes you think I can save you?” In the dim light she saw the hurt in Riannon’s face and bit off any further words.

“You are the Lady of Avalon! You cannot simply withdraw because you have lost hope. We feel the same despair you do, but you have always taught us that we must not allow our feelings to determine our actions, but to seek calm and allow the eternal spirit within us to decide…”

Caillean sighed. She felt as if her own spirit had died when Paulus thrust down the sacred stones, but the actions of the woman she had been still bound her.
It is true,
she thought,
that the strongest chains are those we forge for ourselves.

“Very well,” she said at last. “This decision will affect all our lives. I cannot make it for you, but I will come, and we will talk about what to do.”

One by one, the Druids limped into the shattered circle. Ambios brought Caillean’s chair, and she sank into it, realizing painfully just how long she had been standing. She had learned to ignore the body’s demands, but now she felt every one of her sixty years.

Several oil lamps had been set on the ground. In the flickering light, Caillean saw a reflection of her own anguish and fear.

“We cannot stay here. I do not know much of the Romans,” said Ambios, “but everyone has heard how they punish those who attack their soldiers. If it is in war, their prisoners are sold as slaves, but when members of the civilian population rebel and strike back at their masters, they are crucified…”

“We Britons are not allowed to bear arms, lest they be used against them,” said another.

“Are you surprised?” Riannon asked with bitter pride. “Look how much damage Gawen did with his!” They all turned to gaze for a moment at the still figures in the leafy shelter.

“It is certain that on us they will have no mercy, in any case,” said Eiluned. “I heard the tales of what they did to the women of Mona. The Forest House was founded to protect those who remained. We should never have left it.”

“Vernemeton is in ruins,” said Caillean wearily. “It was only because the old Arch-Druid, Ardanos, had become a personal friend to several prominent Romans that it lasted as long as it did. We have lived in peace since then because the authorities did not realize we were here.”

“If we stay here we will be massacred, or worse. But where can we go?” asked Marged. “Even the mountains of Demetia would not hide us. Shall we ask the folk of the marshes to build us coracles and set sail for the isles beyond the western sea?”

“Alas,” said Riannon, “poor Gawen is likely to reach those isles before we do.”

“We could flee to the north,” said Ambios. “The Caledonians do not bow to Rome.”

“They did in Agricola’s day,” answered Brannos. “Who’s to say that some ambitious emperor might not try it again? And the folk of the north have their own priests. They might not welcome us.”

“Then the Order of Druids in Britannia is ended,” said Riannon heavily. “We must send the children we have taken for training back to their families, and we ourselves must flee separately to make our way as best we can.”

Brannos shook his head. “I am too old for such jaunterings. I will stay here. The Romans are welcome to such sport as they may get from my old bones.”

“And I will stay as well,” said Caillean. “The Lady Eilan set me to serve the Goddess on this holy hill, and I will not betray my oath to her.”

“Mother Caillean!” Lysanda began. “We cannot leave-” But another sound interrupted her. Sianna had half risen and was calling to them.

“Gawen is awake!” she cried. “You must come!”

Strange, thought Caillean, how her weariness had suddenly not gone but become unimportant. She was the first to reach Gawen, kneeling on his other side, moving her hands above his body to sense the life force there. It was steadier than she expected, and she remembered that he had been in the prime of his youth and in good physical condition as well. This body would not easily relinquish the spirit it bore.

“I have told him what happened after he lost consciousness,” Sianna said softly as the others joined them. “But what have you decided to do?”

“There is no refuge for the order,” said Ambios. He looked at Gawen’s white face and quickly away. “We must scatter and hope the Romans will not think us all worth the trouble to hunt down.”

“Gawen cannot be moved and I will not leave him!” Sianna exclaimed.

Caillean saw his convulsive movement and laid her hand over his. “Be still! You must save your strength!”

“For what?” Gawen mouthed the words. Amazingly, there was a spark of humor in his eye. Then his gaze moved to Sianna. “She must not risk danger…for me…”

“You did not desert the sacred stones,” said Caillean.

He tried to take a deep breath and winced. “Then, there was something…to defend. Now I…am done.”

“And what will this world hold for me if you are not in it?” cried Sianna, bending over him again. Her bright hair veiled his wounded body and her shoulders shook with the force of her weeping. Gawen’s face contorted as he realized he had not even the strength to lift his unhurt arm and comfort her.

Caillean, her eyes stinging with tears, lifted his hand and laid it on Sianna’s shoulder. Suddenly she felt her flesh prickle. She looked up and saw the shimmer of displaced air and within it the slim shape of the Faerie Queen.

“If the priestesses cannot protect you, my daughter, then you must return to Faerie, and the man also. He will not die if he is in my keeping in the Otherworld.”

Sianna sat up, hope and despair warring in her eyes. “And will he be healed?”

The fairy woman’s dark gaze turned to Gawen, with an infinite compassion and an infinite sorrow. “I do not know. Perhaps in time-a very long time, as you count such things among men.”

“Ah, Lady,” whispered Gawen, “you have been good to me, but you do not understand what it is you ask. You would offer me the immortality of the Elder kin, but what would it bring me? Unending suffering for my broken body, and suffering for my spirit when I thought of the people of Avalon and the desecrated stones. Sianna, my dear one, our love is great, but it would not survive that. Would you ask it of me?” He coughed, and on the bandaging around his chest the red stain deepened.

Sobbing, she shook her head.

“I could take from you even those memories,” her mother said then.

Gawen stretched out his arm, where the royal dragon spiraled, its sinuous lines shockingly dark against his bloodless skin. “Could you take these?” he asked. “Then I would be dead, for what you would have would no longer be me. I will accept no rescue that does not include the Druids and the sacred stones.”

Did his father have this wisdom at the end?
wondered Caillean.
If so, then Eilan saw more clearly than I did, and I have wronged her judgment all these years.
It was ironic that she should only come to this understanding now.

The Queen surveyed them with a rueful sorrow. “Since before the tall folk came over the sea, I have watched and studied humankind. But still I do not understand you. I sent my daughter to learn your wisdom, and with it she has assumed your frailties. But I see that you are determined, and so I will tell you of a way in which the priestesses and Druids of Avalon might be saved. It will be difficult, even dangerous, and I cannot guarantee what will happen, for I have only ever heard of such a thing being attempted once or twice in my long existence, and then it was not always successful.”