Pendragon 02 Pendragon Banner (52 page)

Morgaine remained
beccause she had nowhere else to go, no
one
to go with. She had been born here. Her mother, within a few moments of
clearing the birthing-blood from the tiny body and the mucus from the nose and
mouth, had given the child into the service of the Goddess. The women – there
had been
several other Ladies then – had
welcomed the offering,
twittering
and fussing around her mother, taking her too, as one
with themselves.
But Morgause had always been like that, one willing to sacrifice anything for
her own gain. It had been no
hardship to
give her new-born daughter to the jangling,
colourfully garbed women,
for Morgause had not wanted the babe. Morgaine knew that. Knew it from the
first days of fear and understanding. From the day when, as a child of no more
than five years, she found Morgause suddenly to be
gone
without explanation or word of farewell. Gone, as if she had
never existed – save for the bruising on the child’s
legs, the
scalds to her hands, and the many other, inward, unseen scars.

That had been a
good, most glorious day when Morgaine
discovered
her mother was gone. It had been the day when
there had been a great
excitement down among the complex of Christian buildings, for a man had come,
and found his lost woman. Morgaine would have been punished, had her mother
discovered that she had wandered down into the
holy community;
Morgause was always
punishing her. For being lazy or stupid or
clumsy, all excuses for the real reason, for being born a girl-child.
But Morgaine had often pattered secretly down the
lane to watch
the gentle, kindly, sisters, or to spy on the crowds
gathering to
worship in the Christian
church. That day, she had tiptoed closer
than ever before because there seemed such an excitement in the
air. The man had tossed her a coin after his
marriage service to his
beloved lady.
She had dropped the thing and cried. And the man had stooped and picked it up
and put it in her hand, smiling. No
one
had ever smiled at Morgaine before, or told her not to cry. For
that,
she had loved him, and loved him still. No matter that he was now the Pendragon
and called king.

That was ten years past.
Morgaine was alone now, but at least
the
old Ladies had taught her well. She had learnt eagerly, once Morgause had gone.
She knew how to heal and to mix potions,
she
could chant the ritual verses of the Goddess, knew how to interpret the clouds
and the direction of the wind, the names of
the
stars and the cycle of the moon and planets. Could
understand the
rustlings of nature, and could write in the Latin hand and the old language of
the runes; read the written words in her mind without the need to move her
lips. She knew great magic.

And so she lived alone among the ruins of
what had once
been a shrine to an
increasingly impotent goddess, with only
the birds and beasts for companions, her scrolls and wax tablets for
comfort, knowing nothing of what lay beyond a mile distant
from Yns Witrin. She could see, from the great,
imposing
height of the Tor, across
that spread land of the Summer
Realm,
could see another world beneath the vast stretch of sky,
where men and women loved and laughed, where
children were
born and grew. She could see across to the hills and the
distant glimmer of sun-shimmered sea, all the while wanting to go,
wanting to leave, knowing she would never summon
the
courage to disobey the command of her mother.

Morgaine looked up, disturbed by the frantic
rush of beating wings. Many of the winter birds were still here, the lingering
cold making them reluctant to leave for their nesting sites. She put down her
comb, stood, squinting into the grey sky. No sign of a hawk, what had disturbed
them from their feeing, out on
the lush
water-meadows? Then the geese went up, honking and
calling, their
clamour of wings beating shrill warning of an
intruder.
Someone was approaching her lake. The birds and the grazing geese always warned
her. Many believed she possessed
the Sight, but Morgaine knew it was
simply the alarm of the
birds. She hoped it
would only be a peasant woman coming for a
salve, or a young maid for a
love-potion. More likely it was a
man who
wanted her body. They often came to try for that.
Aye, even the
Christian men.

While she lived within
the solitude of the Goddess’s presence
she
was safe enough, for she, a maiden still, was under the
command of superstitious respect. Here, in the Goddess’s realm
of
Yns Witrin she was protected from their wanting. But only while she stayed. The
power of the Goddess held only here, within the brooding shadow of her Tor.

§ VI

Arthur approached Yns Witrin with unease, for
it was an intimidating place. Yet he was no Christian to be in fear of, or
damn, the Old Ways; even his following of the
Roman soldiers’
god Mithras was not a devout faith. Arthur cursed in the
name
of Mithras, but did not particularly
believe – most certainly did
not worship. In all truth, he embraced the
pagan god because it irked the Christian church to be bloody minded. No one
told Arthur what he could or could not do.

Rising over five hundred
feet, the grass-covered Tor
shadowed its
reflection in the eerie stillness of surrounding floodwater, a parallel world.
There were passages and caverns
beneath, it
was said, a way down into the Underworld kingdom
of the dead. A holy
place, long before the Christians claimed the area as theirs, for the presence
of the Spirit – whichever name he or she went by – was strong among this
cluster of evocative hills that floated within the creeping mist and floodwater
marshes.

Arthur was riding alone, he had sent the
three men of his
escort to the Christian
settlement, where they would find ale
and
shelter from the wind and threatening rain. He drew rein at
the edge of the still lake, looking across the
placid water towards
the sacred hill.
Two swans dibbling in the shallow water further
along regarded him with
hostility, the cob standing, spreading his wings in a threatening gesture of
defiance. The other birds, the geese and the marsh-waders, were still agitated
by his
presence, circling and calling their
alarm. Arthur ignored
them, sat his
horse, looking at a path that wound its
complicated route up from the far shore-line of trees in a mazed
spiral
to the summit of the Tor, its terraces, time-stamped by
the passage of feet from generation following generation. In the
days
of the old gods, the dead had been carried along its ritual
way for burial in the underground chambers, or
the women had
danced along its miz-maze line to honour the Goddess. Few
remembered the sacred track through the spiral now and the
dead were buried in the Christian cemeteries. The
Goddess was
becoming impotent, forgotten.

While he sat, silent and still, the birds had
settled again. Arthur swung his leg over one of the fore-pommel horns and
dismounted, his boots squelching in the boggy ground. He knotted the reins and
hobbled the mare. Leaving her to graze,
he
walked to the edge of the still water. Gwenhwyfar had
walked often on this Tor, she had told him, while
she sought to
come to terms with the
horrors that had come upon her. The
holy
sisters were kind, but the
Tor
has a timeless silence that gives a special healing of
its own.

Two children. Their lives begun by him and
ended by him. The shadows of Amr and Gwydre whispered and muttered constantly
behind his shoulder.

Arthur stepped forward,
his boots sank to the ankles in
sucking
water, but the ground beneath was solid. He took
another
step. Was this the mystery of the Tor? If you crossed
these deceiving shallows, climbed to the summit, if you
managed
those tests, one way or another, did you find peace? He walked another step.

‘
Take one
more step, and you will be up to your neck in
water.’ Arthur spun round,
catching his breath at the voice coming from behind, a little from the left. He
swung so sharply he lost his balance and footing, almost fell, one knee going
into the mud.

‘I have expected you. Welcome, my King,’ the
woman said, coming from the shadow of the alder trees. She was clad in a
muffling cloak, the hood pulled well forward, hiding her face,
but Arthur knew who she was. No other woman could
appear so
silently from nowhere. Only the Lady could do that.

‘
There
are ways across,’ she said, stepping to the right and out
into what
appeared to be lake. ‘Paths of firm, higher ground,
which will take you safe if you know them.’ She began walking,
the marsh-water coming no higher than her ankles.
She
stopped, stood a moment, watching
his uncertainty, then
tossed back the
hood, revealing her face and unbound dark
hair. She extended her hand in invitation for him to follow,
said
simply, ‘Come.’ A sudden image of Morgause had come to Arthur’s mind. Why?
Because she had once been here? ‘A woman I know was once priestess here,’ he
said, standing on the firm ground.

The Lady bowed her head
in acknowledgement. ‘There have
been many priestesses
to the Mother.’ Arthur’s heart was pounding, fear streaking up and down his
spine, tingling his fingers and sending dampness
trickling from
beneath his arms. It was almost as if he were talking to
the
Goddess herself through this startling,
strange creature. She
had a plain, solemn face with a nose too long, but
when she smiled at him, the smile set free a brilliance of sun-dazzling
brightness through her eyes, making the plainness
almost
beautiful. Again she beckoned, the blue-marked patterns of
creatures twisted around and around each other
writhing up her
bare arm as she moved. Again, she said, ‘Come.’ And
Arthur followed, as she knew he would.

The men stood pensive, exchanging nervous
glances. One, holding the reins of their King’s horse, stroked the mare’s soft
muzzle as another removed the hobbles. He straightened, shrugging. ‘Lord
Pendragon would not have intended to leave her here all night.’

‘No more would he spend the night here
himself!’ The third man shivered, nodded at the dark, ominous bulk of the Tor,
black against the darkening evening sky, and crossed himself.

‘Where is he then?’

‘Over there?’

‘Surely not!’

‘
We must find him,’ the man holding the mare said. ‘And
soon. I’ve no wish to be in the shadow
of the Tor come dark.’ Murmurs of agreement.

They called
out, shouting the King’s name. Mocking echoes came back across the black, black
water. Lord
Pendragon .. . Pendragon ...
Pendragon .. .

It was raining, a
steady, chilling drizzle that spattered on
their
faces, dribbled into the lake, making a thousand, tiny
splashing circles that ran and fussed into each other. They
heard
no dip of a coracle’s paddle, or footsteps wading through
water, but there, suddenly, out of the darkness
beneath the
trees stepped a man.
Arthur’s escort started in feared alarm,
with hissing breath drew their
swords. One man swore.

‘How’s this?’ Arthur asked, moving to his
mare to take the reins. ‘Bellowing my name across this silence, then making
ready to kill me when I appear?’

‘My Lord, you startled us!’

‘
So I see.’
Arthur mounted, settled in the saddle, surveyed
the blackness of the Tor
a moment before wheeling and setting for home at a canter.

§ VII

Boots muddied, cloak sodden by the rain which
had deteriorated from drizzle to earnest downfall on his way back, Arthur
burst into his Hall and crossed immediately to
the group of men
who had leapt to their feet beside the hearth-fire. ‘You,’
he
snarled with a mixture of contempt and
rage, his finger stabbing at them, ‘are confined to barracks until such time as
I am able to
consider a more fitting reprimand for your damned
incompetence!’ The men of Gwenhwyfar’s escort said nothing, some hung their
heads, others bit their lips, staring straight ahead.