The Dragon Queen (37 page)

Morgana was as Igrane. Sovereignty of her people, the Silures, was to be found between her legs. But there was no king. Uther was high king, and she initiated the chieftains of the wild, the rulers of it—the warrior societies. They passed through her bed, a sought after honor. She was known so long as a mighty sorceress that even churchmen were afraid of her curses.

When they reached her estates, that’s what the Saxons would call them,
Ena thought. None of these wild people seemed to know anything about cities. Ena was more frightened than she had ever been in her life.

She reflected that she’d only thought she was frightened when she had to face Uther and tell him his son was gone. She hadn’t known what fear was until they entered this oak forest. Never had she seen such trees. They were monstrous, and the road wove in and out among them for miles. Huge, stark, squat oaks with sprawling branches that blocked the sun.

They had left level ground behind long ago, and the road not only went in and out among the giant trees, it moved up and down disconcertingly. Sometimes they would top a rise and see the massed green shining clouds of treetops and perhaps an emerald and gold water meadow surrounding an azure lake.

Someone always seemed to live on the lakes. Natural and artificial islands abounded, and they held the round houses Cai’s people built. They were much more comfortable within than the Saxons gave them credit for being. But it made her uneasy that they simply incorporated the massive trees that grew hereabouts. And the tree’s well being was as carefully looked after as that of the livestock. It received, in addition to water and sacrifices, feedings of compost, usually buried among the roots and covered by river cobbles that formed the floors near the roots. The house roofs served as kitchen gardens. Vegetables, herbs, onions, and greens were grown on the still green turf that covered them.

At the first stop, the king’s oath men began leaving. “Most of their families live nearby,” Cai explained. “And some…” His speech slowed. “I can’t… I’m not sure… how can I tell you?”

“Tell me what?” she asked.

He saw how dilated her pupils were. They were standing just inside the door of the first house, where they planned to spend the night. And he saw her eyes had drifted to the rafters. He took the heads for granted. All established families of every rank had them. But the custom of taking heads was new to her.

“They don’t have any odor,” she said. But he could see she was upset.

“No. They are treated with cedar oil,” he said.

This household was headed by a woman with five sons. She was tattooed in the fashion of an owl and wore a silver chain headdress that suggested owl feathers. But it was the richness of the place that impressed Ena. The richness and the rank—to her—barbarity of the inhabitants.

The tables were, as usual, put up around the circular hearth. They were, as at Tintigal, beautifully carved and polished to a high gloss. But then they were covered with a cloth decorated with owl’s wings done in some sort of cut lace embroidery. The tableware was silver, beautifully trimmed with gold filigree.

The maidens who attended her wore soft, white linen. They poured warm water over her hands and helped her scrub her face. She was seated next to Cai.

She glanced up at the heads in the rafters once or twice, then decided to solve her problem by pretending not to see them. The entire household was seated in two concentric rings around the tables, which in turn surrounded the fire pit. After a few moments, she found herself yawning, so weary was she.

The night after the summer king had been found to be a semblance, they had camped in the forest. It wasn’t quiet, and Uther’s oath men built large fires and kept everyone close to them. Ena woke in the night. Cai’s arms were around her, but she was sure she had heard the scream of a panther.

She nudged Cai with her elbow and he awakened.

“There aren’t any panthers hereabouts, are there?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “There are.”

“I think I heard one scream.”

“It’s very possible that you did,” he said. “Arthur and I have killed them.”

“What will I do when I have to pee? I can’t go all night without… the baby is pressing down…” She began to pant.

“Stop that,” Cai said. “Wake me when you have to go.”

She was reassured.

“Then it can eat both of us,” he said.

She tried to slap his face, but couldn’t reach him and only waved her arms.

“Hush. Go to sleep,” he said.

She did, but true to her word, she woke him three times—twice was more usual, but panther screams made her nervous.

Now tonight, after a restless night and a long day in the saddle, she was very tired.
Unusually tired,
she thought. But then she remembered she had never been pregnant before.

Uther had a slightly higher chair than the rest. The sons of the house came and bowed before him, one asking to become one of his oath men.

To Ena’s surprise, the king asked the owl woman—that was how Ena thought of her—for her permission. She gave it very graciously. Ena felt that everything had probably been arranged beforehand.

The feast went forward. The king received the champion’s portion. He shared it with his new oath man and his more prominent followers, Cai included.

Ena’s eyes roamed the hall. The supper was a quiet one. The drunkenness and boasts Ena was used to in her father’s hall didn’t happen here. What impressed Ena most was the staggering amount of food. There were four kinds of roast meats: pork, mutton, beef, and venison. Fowl were not absent: there were goose, duck, and even swan. There were roast vegetables: leeks with butter and cream, onions, greens of all kinds—cress, a cabbage sort of thing cooked with bacon, and some sort of thistle cleaned of its prickles and steamed with cooked barley. Wine, mead, and beer finished off the list.

A pregnant woman, when she is not vomiting, is an eating machine. After she mopped up the pork with some sort of apple bread and then cleaned the bones of half a duck cooked with preserved quince and started on a large slice of venison with bread and gravy, Cai asked if she was sure there was only one baby in her womb.

She gazed at him, a searing look, and was about to give him a scolding when her hostess appeared in front of her. The owl woman was walking along, offering each of her guests a drink from one of the most impressive vessels Ena had ever seen.

She paused in front of Cai. “My sweet one,” she addressed him very intimately. “Who is your friend?”

“Her name is Ena,” Cai replied.

“A Saxon by her looks,” the owl woman said.

“Yes,” Cai answered.

“She is pregnant with your child?”

“Yes,” Cai said.

Ena blushed. “What are you doing? We’re not married. I disgraced myself…”

“Hush,” the owl woman said, looking around quickly. “Be quiet. What you have done is not a disgrace among us. Don’t mark yourself as a foolish foreigner among your beloved’s people by letting your mouth rattle like an empty gourd.”

Ena gulped and glanced at Cai, who was grinning.

“Now,” she said. “Tell Niamh, owl warrior priestess, how you came to lie with the Seal. But first, take a sip from my cup.”

For the first time, Cai looked alarmed. “Niamh, she doesn’t know…”

“You hush also. Don’t mark yourself as a fool before your own people! Here, take a sip.”

She presented the cup to Ena. Ena rolled her eyes, then looked at Cai, then back to Niamh.

“It’s not poison, Ena,” Cai said. “Here, I will drink first.” He took the cup from Niamh, sipped, and swallowed, then placed the cup in Ena’s hands.

“Only a sip, mind,” he cautioned as he directed a glare at Niamh.

Ena first touched the liquid with her lips, then licked them. The liquid was fragrant but not unpleasant, rather like strong wine with herbs steeped in it.

Ena sipped and felt the heat spread through her body, followed by a curious relaxation. She could feel the child in her womb. It moved, its first movement—quickening, it is called. And for the first time she sensed it would become another person, a being like her, from her, but not her, with hopes, loves, experiences, loyalties, and finally memories of its own. She felt guilt because it was not conceived in love but out of her own desperate need.

“Now!” Niamh said. “Tell me!”

“We were seven. Ten, if you count the ones who died. Five boys. There was enough for them. My sister had property through my grandmother. No man will look at a woman without property. Not as a wife. I became afraid they would dedicate me to the gods. So I kept my legs crossed tight. They can’t do that to a virgin.”

“Yes,” Niamh said, “they can’t hang a virgin.”

Ena felt an icy cold course through her at the word
hang
. She shivered.

Niamh handed her the cup again. At the first touch of its contents to her lips, she felt the cold being driven out of her body by something like a warm wind.

“But,” she continued, “they sent me to the queen.”

“Igrane?” Niamh asked.

“Yes. It didn’t take me long to…”

“Fear her?” Niamh asked. “Or hate her?”

“Fear, fear, fear,” Ena said. “I was afraid of her and her lover by day, by night, under the sun, moon, and stars.”

“That bad?” Niamh asked.

“That bad,” Ena echoed.

“And Cai?” Niamh asked.

“No!” the boy said firmly. “No!” He pushed the cup away. “No more! I will not hear it, Niamh. Certainly not here, in front of the guests.”

“Yes,” Niamh said. Then handed the cup to an attendant and clapped her hands.

A lady hurried over to her, and she spoke a few words into her ear. Ena was with her child again, feeling a deep communion no man ever knows. A full awareness of the life within her, a sense of an existence without thought or emotion yet but coming into being. And simple being is pleasure.

1 am, I was, I will
… I
love,
Ena thought,
in return. Ride my love into the light.
Then she opened her eyes and Niamh was placing a chain of golden flowers around her neck. They smelled like linden.

Ena lifted the chain with one finger. “From the tree,” Ena said, “the other tree.”

Everyone within earshot looked mystified, except Niamh. Yes, the hall had the usual tree to the right of the firepit, but there were no others.

“You are aware of the other tree?” Niamh asked.

“Yes,” Ena said.

Niamh nodded. “Good, but say no more about it.”

“No. The chain is very beautiful. Thank you,” Ena said.

Then Niamh passed on to the next guest.

Cai put his arm around Ena. “Ready for bed?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” Ena said, or rather sighed.

Cai helped her to her feet and led her away.

The king was seated nearby. “I’m sure they wouldn’t have—” he began.

“And I’m sure they would,” Niamh said. “We expected to find calculation, but not such pain. She’s talented. Dangerously talented. She doesn’t know it yet, but she is. Get her to Morgana as soon as possible. I cannot think how she escaped Igrane, but I suppose all she and her lover felt was fear from the girl. She sensed their evil and it frightened her. You said she touched the semblance of Arthur and it collapsed?”

“Yes,” Uther said.

Niamh nodded. “Power such as hers would dissolve most minor spells. She radiates it. You have her to thank that you did not continue long in ignorance of the true state of affairs. They would, you know, have destroyed the semblance in such a way as to make you think Arthur died. Or at least, that’s what I would have done. That little regarded girl put a period to their plotting, my king. Watch her closely and keep her safe.”

Uther’s eyes widened in amazement. “I hadn’t thought of that at all.” “No? I did. So did Gawain. He rode through here last night. The summer king! This is war, my lord! War!”

Ena woke in the night thirsty. Cai was sleeping beside her, one arm thrown protectively over her. She wiggled herself out from under it and rose to her feet.

The sleeping rooms were off the big, ceremonial hall. It was a semicircle, with its own fire. They used the Roman method, a double wall that carried smells and smoke up through a grate set in the first wall, into the hollow created by the second. The floor was warm, covered by clean animal hides.

She rose and walked past the fire, toward a carved lattice that opened into the central hall. She blinked as her hand stretched out to touch it, because the writhing dragons that formed it seemed to bear human faces.

She blinked again, and her vision cleared. She pushed the lattice aside and entered the hall.

Some of Uther’s oath men and a few of the dinner guests who didn’t care to make the trip home had settled for the night on the floor. They all seemed to be sleeping deeply.

She could see well in the dark always, and she threaded her way among the prone sleepers as softly as a vagrant wisp of mist. The central fireplace glowed under its veil of white ash. She circled it, looking for a jug with water and a dipper. No luck.

Outside, she could hear the faint whisper and slap of water on the lake. But there was nothing in here to assuage her thirst.

Then her attention was drawn by the other tree. It stood well beyond the giant oak—at the edge of the building. And it looked as though it might once have been coppiced, that is, the trunk taken and used for timber but the stump allowed to sprout out into multiple trunks. The bark was fair and pale.
Not oak,
she thought,
linden.

So that was where the necklace Niamh had given her drew its odor— the oil recovered from the flowers. It seemed she saw light creeping in among the multiple trunks of the giant tree.

Thinking it must be later than she thought at first, she hurried toward it. And found herself walking on a riverbed, smooth pebbles at the foot of the tree. And then felt a wetness at her toes.

The linden was planted among giant moss covered rocks, and the water trickled from among them, down into a pool at the foot, deep enough to reflect the star road, the Milky Way, that threw a scarf of light across the night sky. There was a clay cup nearby, resting casually on its side on the gravel near the spring.