The Forest House (51 page)

Kyrie eleison, Criste eleison.
She had heard that this was how the Christians addressed their lord; this must be the community of refugees the Arch-Druid had given leave to settle here. These days all sorts of strange religions were breaking out all over the Empire.

Presently the sound faded, and she saw a little old man, stooped as if with great old age, regarding her. She blinked, for she had not seen him approach, and that was unusual for a priestess of her training. As she looked at him, he dropped his eyes. He must be one of the Christian priests indeed; she had heard that many of their priests would not look upon a strange woman.

But apparently he was allowed to talk to her. He said, in the market-Latin that served as a dialect all over the Empire, “A good day to you, my sister. May I ask your name? I know that you surely are not one of our catechumens, for we have not for many years had any women among us except the venerable ladies who came with us long ago, and you are young.”

Caillean smiled a little at the thought that anyone could consider her young, but the priest was white-haired and frail as a fallen leaf. At least in years, he might have been her grandsire.

“I am not,” she said. “I am one of those who worship the forest god. I am called Caillean.”

“Is it so?” he asked her politely. “I know something of the brothers among the Druids, and I knew not they had women among them.”

“Those who dwell here have not,” she replied, “or at least not until now. I was sent here from the Forest House in the North, to establish a House of Maidens. I came up the hill to see to what place the gods had led me.”

“You speak as one who holds some acquaintance with the truth, my sister. Surely then you know that all the gods are one God…” He paused, and Caillean completed, “…And all the goddesses one Goddess.”

His ancient face was altogether kindly. “It is so. Those to whom our Lord came as God's Divine Son would not see the Godhead in anything female, so to them we speak not of the Goddess, but of Sophia, the Holy Wisdom. But we understand that the Truth is One. So, my sister, to me it seems very fitting that you should establish here, a shrine to the Holy Wisdom after the manner of your people.”

Caillean bowed. His face was very deeply wrinkled, but it no longer seemed ugly, for it positively glowed with benevolence.

“What a splendid work to which to devote the remainder of this incarnation, my sister.” He smiled, then his gaze went inward. “It feels right for you to be here, for it seems to me that we have served at the same altars before…”

Not for the first time in this strange encounter, Caillean was amazed. “I had heard that the brothers of your faith denied the truth of incarnations,” she volunteered. But what he had said was true. She did recognize him, with the kind of certainty she had felt when she met Eilan.

“It is written that the Master himself believed,” said the ancient priest, “for He said of the Way-shower, whom men called Jochanan, that he was Elijah reborn. It is written as well that he said there was milk for babes and meat for strong men. Many of the babes among us, new in faith, are given such food as is right for spiritual infants, lest they neglect to amend their lives, in the belief that indeed the Earth shall abide forever. Yet the Master said that this generation shall not pass away before the Son of Man cometh; therefore am I here, that even the folk at the end of the world shall hear and know the Truth.”

Caillean said quietly, “May the truth prevail.”

“Success to your mission, sister,” the old man replied. “There are many here who would welcome a pious sisterhood.” He turned as if to go.

“Is it permitted to ask your name, my brother?”

“I am called Joseph, and I was a merchant of Arimathea. There are holy ladies still living among us who looked upon the Master's face in life. They will welcome the company of enlightened women among us.”

Caillean bowed once more. She found it a strange but good omen that she should find, among these Christians who did not readily embrace women, a better welcome than her Druid brethren had offered.
Servant of the Light
…The title rang in her awareness from some place before memory. As the ancient priest moved down the hill, her hands moved in a gesture of reverence more ancient even than the Druids. If such a soul could ally himself to the Christians, there must be some hope for them after all.

As he disappeared inside the little beehive church, Caillean found herself smiling. She knew now that the Goddess would favor her work and that she had indeed been sent here with good reason. She would begin this very day.

 

As Caillean breakfasted with the other women it occurred to her that in this new home, where they were all far from every familiar thing, she could not quite maintain the aloofness that Lhiannon and then Eilan had observed within the Forest House. She made her first decision: they were not to be served by outsiders. It was the first step in determining just how much contact they would have with the male priesthood. An easier decision was to appoint one of the tallest and strongest of the young novices to locate a site suitable for a garden and to sow it as quickly as might be done with as many vegetables as practicable. Some food would, of course, be provided by the local population, but she wished it clear from the very beginning that they would not be in any way dependent upon the Druid priests. The priests would have not the shadow of an excuse for claiming control over the lives of the women there.

She chose another young woman—probably the least intelligent of her subordinates—to be in charge of the cooking and serving of the food, promising her as much assistance as she desired. Later that day she spoke with one of the priests, and established that a building should be completed before the winter snow grew deep that could house four or five times their original number. Politely, but adamantly she discarded the old priest's suggestion that their present accommodations might suffice at least through the present winter.

When she finally dismissed him he looked rather stunned. She suspected that he was probably feeling like someone who had been rolled over by a team of big horses, and felt that for the first time she could have her own will done. It was not at all an unwelcome feeling. The Goddess was at work here indeed, for the Lady could now make use of her talents to their fullest, and that had never been true before.

She missed Dieda; she could have used the younger woman's help with the maidens and in teaching them singing. But, she thought, she was better off without hostility among her associates, especially since they would have been thrown into such close contact. Here there was no one to protest whatever rules she might make. She resolved to choose the woman most experienced in singing or chanting to learn to play upon her own harp, and perhaps even teach her the art of fashioning such instruments.

When she finally laid herself down to sleep, after an evening spent grouping the women together for their first lesson in memorizing the unwritten lore of the Goddess, she could hear the sweet sound of chanting coming once more from the distant church. It was to the renewed chant of “Kyrie eleison” that she fell into sleep, more content with the spot to which the Goddess had led her than she had ever imagined she could be. That night she dreamed of a shrine served by maidens, of courts and halls upon the holy Tor, which might one day rise here. It might not be in her own lifetime; but it would come.

T
he days waxed longer after Beltane; the cattle were driven to the hill pastures, and in the fields men tended the grain. Midsummer came, and for the first time Ardanos did not try to instruct Eilan before the ritual regarding the Oracle. When she saw him at the ritual, he seemed very frail. They told her afterward that the Goddess had foretold a time of disasters and changes, but promised peace to follow. Indeed, the whole land was full of rumors, but no one could say from what direction the danger might come.

Eilan had meant to visit the Arch-Druid after recovering from her own part in the ritual, but at this time of year there was much to do in the Forest House. The days went by and still she did not find the time. In high summer, even the maidens of the Forest House went into the fields of Vernemeton to help with the haying. Eilan supervised those who wove linen for the priests, and worked over the dye pots, preparing fabric for new robes, but it was Caillean who was missed most sorely, for she had always been the most skillful of the women at dyeing cloth. No law required Eilan to take her turn at this menial work but it seemed to her that as long as she had a responsibility for their little community, it was up to her to participate in it.

She was in the dye sheds, her sleeves rolled above the elbow and her forearms splattered with blue dye when a shadow fell across the doorway. A ripple of scandalized excitement ran through the women as they realized it was one of the young Druids, flushed and perspiring in his white robe. For though the shed was not within the sacred precinct inside the walls, where only the highest of the priests might enter, they were not used to seeing men.

“The High Priestess,” he gasped. “Is the Lady Eilan here?” All the women turned to look at Eilan, and as the boy's flush deepened she realized that he had never seen her without her veil. He swallowed. “Please, Lady—the Arch-Druid has been taken ill. You must come!”

 

Eilan stopped in the doorway of Ardanos's chamber, shocked in spite of having been warned. She heard a little gasp from Miellyn, who was attending her, and motioned her to stand with Huw at the door. Then she sat down beside the bed of the dying man. And indeed there could be no doubt that he was dying. At each breath air rattled and sucked in Ardanos's chest, and she could see the skull beneath the sallow skin. With a pang she remembered how he had sat with Lhiannon during her illness. Even though at times she had hated him, she hoped that his passage would be an easy one.

“He collapsed at dinner and lay unconscious until a little while ago,” said Garic, one of the older priests. “We have sent for Bendeigid.”

She put back her veil and reached out to take his hand. “Ardanos,” she said softly. “Ardanos, can you hear me?”

The papery eyelids fluttered and after a moment of confusion, he focused on her face. “Dieda,” he whispered.

“Grandfather, do you not know me even now? Dieda is in the South, testing maidens who wish to join us as priestesses. I am Eilan.” She was bitterly amused that he should still be confusing them after all these years.

His gaze focused on the ornaments she had taken the time to put on and he sighed. “You were the right one…after all.”

“Ardanos,” she said firmly, “as High Priestess it is my duty to tell you that you are dying. You must not depart without naming your successor. Tell us, Arch-Druid, who shall bear the golden sickle when you are gone?”

His eyes fixed on her face. “Goddess, I did the best…I could,” he whispered. “The Merlin knows…”

“But
we
must know!” said the Druid who was attending him. “Who will you choose?”

“Peace!” Ardanos said with sudden strength, as if he were ordering them to be silent. “Peace…” The word whispered away on a dying gasp; the breath rattled in the old man's throat, and then he was still.

For a moment no one moved. Then Garic reached down to take Ardanos's pulse, waited, counting, and let the limp hand fall.

“He is gone!” he said accusingly.

“I am sorry,” said Eilan. “What will you do?”

“We must summon the other members of our order,” said one of the others, already taking charge. “Go now, Lady. Your part is done. We will inform you when the gods have led us to a decision, since they did not see fit to inspire Ardanos with their word.”

 

As the fifteenth summer of the Emperor Domitian's reign passed, the weather stayed close and still, as if a storm were brewing somewhere just over the horizon. Gaius, riding through the streets of Deva, found himself constantly listening, waiting for thunder. And he was not the only one. The voices of the vendors in the town grew shrill and angry; there were more fights in the barracks and wine shops, and rumors of risings or mutinies abounded. Even his horse seemed to have picked up the tension, prancing and sidling nervously.

The ides of September…the ides of September…
The words beat at his awareness every time his mount's hoofs struck the hard ground. Since Macellius had told him the date set for the rising, sleep had eluded him. His father believed that the tribes would support them, but Gaius was not so sure. If the Eagles of Rome fought each other, the only victor might be the Ravens. Was it worth the risk of a general insurrection even to unseat Domitian?

When this is over I will be happy to spend the rest of my life running my farm,
he thought as he rubbed his eyes.
I was not cut out to be a conspirator.

And this was the moment that the Arch-Druid, who in his way had been a force for stability, had chosen to die. If Gaius had believed in the Christian hell of which Julia spoke, he would have cursed the old man to its flames for his timing. Mithras alone knew who the Druids would choose to succeed him, but even if his successor was friendly, it would take time to establish the kind of understanding Ardanos had had with Macellius. But at least the news had brought Gaius to a decision. The question of adoption no longer mattered. If the country was about to explode in revolution he had to make sure that his son was safe. His father's informants had confirmed that the current High Priestess was still Eilan. Armed with an official message of condolence from the Legate, he was going to see her.

He had dressed carefully for the occasion, in the Roman style but with a Celtic sense of display, in a tunic of saffron linen embroidered with acanthus leaves at the hem over dark red doeskin breeches, and a mantle of light-weight maroon wool held by a golden brooch. At least no one could expect him to wear a toga when he was riding. But despite his fine clothes, as he turned his mount up the avenue of trees leading to the Forest House Gaius realized that he was nervous. He had just pulled out the first grey hairs at his temples. Would Eilan still find him handsome?

They led him into a garden where someone shrouded in a blue veil waited beneath a shady arbor covered with eglantine. He knew she must be the High Priestess because the same dolt of a bodyguard who had fainted when the cattle stampeded at Beltane all those years ago was standing near by, glaring at him. But he found it hard to believe that this erect, veiled figure was Eilan.

“My Lady…” He paused, and compelled by something he did not understand, bowed. “I have come to offer the condolences of the Legate at Deva on the death of the Arch-Druid, your grandfather. He will be greatly missed. He was…” he thought for a moment, “a remarkable man.”

“Our loss is great indeed,” she answered, and though her tone was colorless, his pulse quickened. “Will you take some refreshment?”

In a few moments a maiden in the drab garb of a novice was setting down a tray with honey cakes and a flagon of some drink made with herbs and berries and water, he supposed, from the Sacred Well. He drank, trying to think of something else to say and, looking down, saw that the fabric of her veil was trembling.

“Eilan,” he said in a low voice, “let me see your face. It has been too long.”

She gave a little laugh. “I was a fool. I thought it would be safe to see you again.” She shrugged then and pulled back the veil, and he saw that her eyes were wet with tears.

Gaius blinked, for Eilan looked not older so much as more like herself, as if the girl he had known had been only a blurred sketch of the woman she was to become. Despite the tears and the neck that seemed too slender for the weight of the golden torque, she looked strong.
And why not?
he thought then.
In her own sphere she has wielded as much power as any legionary commander, these past years.
This woman could not be the Fury who had so frightened him. His vision blurred with old memories. He wanted to throw himself at her feet and declare his love for her, but that lout with the spear would be on him in a minute if he moved.

“Listen, for I do not know how long I can stay here,” he said quickly. “War is coming—not because of your grandfather's death, but because of events in Rome. I can tell you no more, except that there will be a rising against the Emperor. Macellius hopes the British will support us, but there is no telling which way things will go. I must get you to a place of safety, Eilan, you and the boy.”

Eilan looked at him, and her changeable eyes went flat and hard. “Let me be sure I understand you. Now, when the Imperium is about to tear itself apart, you want to offer me Roman protection. After all these years! Isn't it rather more likely that if there should be trouble during the coming weeks I will be safer here”—she indicated the walls and the hulking figure of Huw with a graceful wave of her hand—“than you and yours are likely to be?”

Gaius flushed. “Are you so sure your own people will never turn on you? Your Oracles have been a force for peace with Rome—and now that your grandfather is not here, whom do you think people like Cynric will blame if things go wrong? Can't you see that you must come with me?”

“I
must
…?” Her eyes flashed. “And what does your Roman wife say to this fine plan? Has she tired of you after twelve years?”

“Julia has become a Christian and sworn an oath of chastity. That is grounds enough for divorce in Roman law. I could marry you, Eilan, and we could be together. If you will not, I can formally adopt our son!”

“So kind of you!” Eilan's face was now as red as it had been pale. She rose to her feet suddenly and started down the path, her skirts sweeping the gravel behind her. Gaius and Huw jumped up, both of them, it seemed to him, equally taken aback, and followed.

At the end of the garden was a hedge, just low enough for Gaius to see over it to a flat space between the buildings and the outer walls where several children were playing with a sewn leather ball. After a few moments it became clear to Gaius that one boy was the leader, a lad as leggy as a young colt who was just beginning to grow into his bones. His curls were tawny on top from a summer in the sun, but underneath they were dark, and as he turned to shout to one of his team-mates, there was something so like Macellius in his expression that it stopped Gaius's breath.

Eilan had begun to speak again, but Gaius's gaze was on the boy. His heart was hammering so hard he thought they must hear it in Deva, but the child, intent on his game, never looked around.

“When I bore him in that hut in the forest, where were you?” Her voice, low and furious, was pitched for his ears. “And when I fought to keep him with me, and all these years when I watched over him in secret, never daring to admit he was my own? He does not know I am his mother, but I have kept him safely. Now, when he is almost come to manhood, you would step in and take him away? I think not Gaius Macellius Severus Siluricus!” she hissed. “Gawen knows nothing of Rome!”

“Eilan!” he whispered. Gaius had thought what he felt for this child the one time he had held him had been some fancy; but he could feel it again, a longing that shook his bones. “Please!”

She turned her back and began to move back down the path. “My thanks to you, Roman, for your sympathy,” she said loudly and clearly. “It was kind of you to come. As you say, the death of Ardanos has been a great loss. Do take our respectful greetings back to the Legate and to your father.”

Gaius saw Huw looming towards him and, still looking over his shoulder, started to follow her. For a moment Gawen turned towards him, head tipped back, watching the ball. Then he dashed away. Gaius let the big man shepherd him back down the path, feeling as if all the light had gone out of the world.

Eilan had pulled her veil back down. His last sight of her was a shadow disappearing into a dark doorway. As Gaius let his horse choose its own way back down to the road he wondered how it could all have gone so wrong. He had been so relieved to find Eilan was unchanged, and he had meant to tell her he still loved her; but he realized now that she was something worse than a Fury: a woman like the old Empresses, or Boudicca, a woman warped by pride and power.

Abruptly a vision of Senara as he had last seen her gazing up at him overlaid his memory of Eilan's rage. She was so good, and so innocent—as Eilan had been when first he knew her. Eilan had never truly understood him, but Senara was half Roman, as he was, and torn by the same conflicts and uncertainties. If he could win her, it seemed to Gaius he would be whole once more.