The Forest House (53 page)

“But it is not for the Created to question the ways of the Creator.”

“Why not?” Gaius pursued.

“Is there anything better to do than worship God?” she demanded, raising her eyes to his. Flushed, like this, she looked still more beautiful.

Certainly there is,
Gaius thought,
and I would rather be doing it with you.
If there was a god, he had created women's beauty, and Gaius could not believe he would condemn any man for appreciating it. But it was not yet time to say so.

“Tell me, then, about this Creator.”

“Almost every faith—except perhaps that of Rome who worship only their Emperor who is all evil—speaks of a Creator. It was He who made all things that were made, and He placed us here to worship Him.”

“Properly speaking, it is the
genius
of the Emperor that we honor, the divine spark that guides him, and through him, the Empire, not the man. That is why those who will not burn incense are prosecuted as traitors.”

“There may have been good Emperors, though some of the priests would not believe it,” Senara conceded. “But even you will own that Nero, who burned so many Christians in his arena, was an evil one.”

“I will grant you Nero,” Gaius said, “and Caligula. And there are those in Rome who feel that Domitian in his
hubris
has gone too far. When that happens, those who made a man Emperor have the right to replace him.”
And soon,
he thought, shivering. September was passing quickly.

“You are very proud of being a Roman,” she said then. “I do not know very much about my mother's family and have always wondered what it would have been like to be raised that way. Were you born in Rome?”

He grinned at her. “Indeed not; I am half British, just as you are. My mother was a royal woman of the Silures. She died when I was very young, bearing my little sister.”

“Ah, how sad for you.” Her eyes suddenly overflowed; he had not noticed that they were so blue. “What did you do then?”

“I stayed with my father,” Gaius told her. “I was his only son, so he had me well educated by tutors, and taught to read Latin and Greek; then I went into the Legions. There is really nothing more to tell.”

“And were there no women in your life?”

He could see her fighting this purely worldly curiosity; but he thought it a good sign that she wanted to know.

“My father arranged my marriage with Julia when I was very young,” he said carefully. One day she would have to know about Eilan and their son, but not yet. “And as you may know, my wife has taken a vow of chastity, which means I am alone,” he said sadly. Outside, the thunder crashed.

She said, “I should not say this, and I am certain Father Petros would not approve, but that seems not fair dealing. I know that a vow of chastity is supposed to be the best of all ways to live, but when she has pledged herself to you—”

“If you were married to me, would you take such a vow?”

She flushed again, but said seriously, “I would not. The learned Paulus wrote that those who were married should continue in that state, and those who were not married should not marry.”

“If I had married you, you would have taken your vows more seriously than Julia,” he said softly.

“I could never be untrue to a vow to you.”

“And you have not taken vows in the Forest House?” She was still looking at the floor, but Gaius moved a little closer, feeling the blood run faster beneath his skin.

“I have not,” she said. “They have all been very kind to me, and asked very little, but I cannot serve their Goddess without giving up my Roman heritage. I will have to decide soon.”

“There is another alternative.” His voice grew hoarse as he took in the sweet scent of her hair, but he kept it low. “Julia has forfeited her rights as my wife by her vow of chastity, and we were married by Roman, not by Christian rites. I would marry you, Senara—or Valeria, as your mother called you. Your uncle Valerius is a good man; he would be happy if I were to take you away from here.”

He heard her breath catch. She was like some bright bird hovering almost within reach of his hand, like Eilan when she came to him at Beltane, so many years ago. But Eilan and Julia had rejected him; they were shadows, banished by the living reality of this girl who stood so close to him now.

“If only it could be,” she whispered. “Where would we go?”

“To Londinium, or even to Rome. Great changes are coming. I can tell you no more, but there is nothing we might not do, together, if you would come with me!”

Not to touch her then seemed the hardest thing he had ever done, for he was mad now with uncertainty and need. But he knew that if he did he would lose her. Senara looked up and he faced her, letting the ardor that filled him glow in his eyes.

She did not flee. Trembling, she said softly, “I wish I knew what to do.”

Be mine,
he said silently.
Help me to raise my son!
Surely, she would accept Gawen. That was why he needed her, after all, and not some wealthy Roman maiden who would despise Gawen's British blood. It was for the sake of the boy…

Now, at last, Gaius dared caress her; she did not pull away, but he felt her tremble at his touch. Afraid to frighten her, he lifted his hands.

“Oh, what shall I do? God help me,” she whispered, turning her head so that her cheek lay against his hand.

“I think,” he whispered into her ear, “that it must be your God who has brought us together.”

“God grant you are right.”

“I will go to your uncle and get his authority to take you from the Forest House. Be ready to leave when I come for you,” he said. “By the time the next moon has waned you will be on your way to Londinium with me.”

Once again, with a great effort, he did not touch her. He had his reward when she shyly stood on tiptoe and whispered, “My brother, let us exchange the kiss of peace.”

“Ah, Valeria, it is not the kiss of peace I want from you,” he whispered into her fine-spun hair. “And some day you will know it.”

She broke away from him; and with a new wisdom—or guile—he let her go. Just in time, for in the next moment a step sounded, and the hermit, Father Petros entered. Senara, he was surprised to see, greeted the hermit without a blush. Had all women that trick of hiding their feelings on the instant? He remembered with what swiftness Eilan, too, had been able to conceal her emotions.

She said, “Rejoice, Father. Gaius Macellius has promised to take me from the Druid temple and find me a new home, perhaps even in Rome.”

Father Petros looked sharply at Gaius; he was not as naive as the girl. Gaius said, “Senara has been trying to show me, Good Father, why I ought to become one of your congregation.”

“And will you do so?” The priest regarded him suspiciously.

Gaius said quietly, “She has certainly been most persuasive.”

Father Petros positively glowed. “I will welcome you to my flock as a son,” he said fulsomely. “You will set a fine example for the others of your class.”

Indeed,
thought Gaius,
a Roman nobleman with my connections would be a good catch for this fisher of men.
So much for the idea that Christians were no respecters of persons. But there must be some good in it, to have attracted a girl like Senara.

“E
ilan! Eilan! The Emperor is dead!” Senara burst through the door, then stopped short, trying to assume the dignity with which the High Priestess of Vernemeton should be approached.

Smiling, Eilan set her spindle on the little table beside her and invited the girl to sit down. With Caillean gone, Miellyn suffering from one of her periodic bouts of depression, and Eilidh busy supervising the maidens, she found herself depending more and more on Senara for company. Dieda had not spoken to her since Cynric died. At least they had managed to bury him without arousing comment. Two of the Druids had come by night and taken the body to the ancient mound on the Hill of the Maidens. Perhaps Cynric's death had been without honor, but he had a hero's burial.

“The man that brings us fresh eggs heard the news in Deva,” said Senara, her eyes wide with excitement. “He was assassinated a week ago, just before the equinox, and the world from Caledonia to Parthia is buzzing like an overturned hive! Some say that a senator will be the next Emperor, and others think one of the Legions will elevate their Commander to the purple. More likely still, several will claim it and there will be civil war!”

“What is happening in Deva?” Eilan asked when she could get a word in.

“The men of the Twentieth are uneasy, but so far they have stayed quiet. The Commander has ordered a great feast for them, with unlimited wine and beer. Lady Eilan, what do you think will happen now?”

Eilan sighed. “No doubt the Roman Commander is hoping that they will all get very drunk, and awaken too sick to make trouble for anyone.” If they were lucky that was how it would go. If the drink sent the legionaries fighting mad instead, there was no knowing what they might do.

Senara giggled and shook her head. “I meant about the Emperor. Do you think the senators will take power and Rome will go back to being a Republic again?”

Eilan stared at her, wondering why the child was worrying about events in Rome. Of course she was half Roman,
like Gaius,
but she had never seemed much concerned about that side of her heritage.

“I am a great deal more concerned about what is going to happen in Britannia,” she said grimly. “Cynric was not the only one who would see this as a golden opportunity to raise the tribes, and then we could have a civil war here, too!”

My father, for instance,
she thought with an inner shudder. What in the name of the Goddess was she to do when he began making demands on her with both the power of the Arch-Druid and a father's authority? Once more she wished desperately that she could discuss this with Caillean.

Senara's eyes widened. “What should we do?”

“There is something
you
can do,” Eilan said thoughtfully. “Take the new lengths of linen over to the house of the Druids—you are not under vows yet, and they will not think it odd. Ask, in all innocence, if they have heard the news, and let me know what they say.”

Senara gave her a conspiratorial grin and jumped to her feet. In another moment she was gone, leaving Eilan to envy her energy.

What indeed should I do?
she wondered then. Perhaps she ought to have taken Gaius up on his offer, but from the sound of it, he must have problems of his own by now. The existence of Gawen had been Ardanos's weapon against her. She had thought that with her grandfather dead, she would be free, but though her father did not know her secret, Dieda did. How long, she wondered, before Dieda's hatred gave the new Arch-Druid a power over her he would not hesitate to use? Unless, of course, he killed her out of hand?

She rested her head in her hands, feeling the beginnings of the headache that had troubled her increasingly during the past few days.
How can I deal with this? Goddess help me now!

One day, when they all knew why she had done what she had—when all this land was at peace and there was neither Roman nor Briton—ah, then she might be forgiven! She shook her head in anguish, seeing nowhere to turn.

And at that moment, pain like a bolt from Heaven lanced through her temple. From what seemed a very great distance, the thought came,
But I shall be long dead by then
…Then consciousness fled.

When Eilan came to herself she was slumped over her table. She felt curiously drained and at peace, but with an inner certainty she knew that something had changed. She had always been aware that some of the herbs in the sacred drink she used before giving the Oracle could dangerously thin the blood, and sometimes cause a weakness in the brain. Perhaps that was what was happening now.

“When it comes to you,”
Caillean had told her once,
“you will know.”
A lingering death like Lhiannon's was unusual. Old Latis had said once that most of the High Priestesses died suddenly. But not, Eilan suspected now, without warning.

Is this my warning?
she wondered.
But my work will not be finished.

“It is finished.”
Awareness came once more, as in trance when the Goddess spoke to her.

But who should succeed her at her work, declare the Oracles in her stead? She must not leave matters in confusion as Ardanos had done.

“It does not matter.”
With the words came calm. The Goddess had spoken. What was to come was in Her hands, and not Eilan's concern any more. If she died, it would be a bolt of mercy, not of vengeance, that would strike her down. Caillean had been correct. The Druids had no right to declare how the priestesses should live. What mattered was that she try her best to do the Lady's will.

 

In autumn the mists rose thick above the marshes of the Summer Country and wreathed around the Tor. On such mornings, when Caillean made the climb to the standing stones that crowned it for her morning meditation, it seemed as if the Tor were an island indeed and she was gazing out over a rolling grey sea. But as the year drew on toward Samaine, she found herself thinking quite obsessively of Eilan.

At first, she dismissed these thoughts, knowing it was not good for Eilan to cling to her, nor for herself to be distracted. But as the days darkened, the other woman's face appeared in her visions with a frequency she could not dismiss. Eilan had grave need of her, and it was perilous to ignore such messages.

At last came a morning when she woke with words ringing in her ears:

“Here we stand in darkness and under the shadow of death we call on Thee, O Mother, Sisters and more than Sisters…

And she knew that by oaths which she and Eilan had sworn together, not only as priestesses of the Sacred Grove, but from life to life before that, she was bound to go to her.

But it was not until two weeks before Samaine that she was able to arrange matters so that she could go back to the Forest House. One advantage of her position in the new temple, she thought, was that it was taken for granted that whatever she chose to do was well done; her every act was assumed to be directly inspired by the will of the Goddess, as Eilan's was at Vernemeton. The drawback, of course, was that she was responsible for seeing that all her duties would be taken care of while she was gone.

A scant three days would bring her to Vernemeton. She would much rather have travelled in the simplicity of men's clothing and afoot, but the temple was not yet ready for that; not this year at least. So she resigned herself to travelling with her formal litter and all the regalia of a priestess. An escort of two young priests went with her. They treated her with as much deference as if they had been her grandsons; which was not particularly surprising, Caillean thought, for both were young enough.

As they wound through the marshes below the Tor, it began to rain; Caillean knew that this would slow her progress, and fretted, but there was nothing to be done. It had been raining off and on since the Equinox, as if the heavens were weeping for the dead Emperor, and no one, however gifted with magic, had ever been able to control the British weather.

Two days' journey brought them to Aquae Sulis, and from there a Roman road led northward to Glevum. To her surprise, it was in considerable disrepair; the recent rains had left it pitted and the stones all awry. There were great ruts in the gravel and she was glad they did not have to drive a chariot or even a farm cart with oxen over such a road.

She had almost fallen asleep when, from the depths of the forest which edged the road, a number of men came running, dirty and rough-looking, in tattered and filthy garments.
Bacaudae,
thought Caillean, a rabble of runaway slaves and criminals who plagued many parts of the Empire. She had heard of them, but never encountered any before. The unrest following the death of the Emperor must have encouraged them.

“Stand aside, fellows,” demanded one of her escort. “We bear a great priestess.”

“That ain't nothing to us,” said one of the bandits, jeering. “What can she do? Throw fire at us, maybe? There's a stall at every market with a juggler who can do that same trick.”

Caillean had indeed been regretting that there was no fire within the litter, but these fellows were clearly more sophisticated than the Irish raiders she had once frightened that way. She climbed out of the litter and said to the young priest, “What is the delay?”

He was still sputtering with indignation. “These—these fellows—” he began. Caillean regarded them calmly, then reached into the little pouch at her waist. She still—she realized it only afterwards—had not completely taken in what was happening. For so many years the Romans had kept the roads quiet; the danger did not seem real.

She took out the little purse tied at her waist and said with distant courtesy, “Charity is a duty to the gods. Here, fellow,” and she handed him a denarius. He gazed at it for a moment, then guffawed.

“We don't want your charity, lady,” he remarked, with an odd, exaggerated courtesy. “But you can start by giving us that little purse—”

Then, finally, Caillean realized what they dared to want from her. Amazement gave way to outrage. With suddenly heightened senses, she felt the energy in the clouds above her and its resonance within her. In that moment she knew she had some power over the weather after all. She lifted her hands and saw a blur as the bandit, who had sensed his danger, struck out with his cudgel. Lightning flared, blanking out vision, and as the thunder boomed, the sky fell on her head and the world disappeared.

It was many hours before she became conscious again.

 

In the days that followed that first pain, Eilan tried to accept the will of the gods. But although she could believe that the Goddess would watch over Vernemeton and her people, she still feared for her child. She could have trusted Gawen to Caillean. But Caillean—at her work at the far end of the country—was not there. Dieda was kin to the boy, but since the death of Cynric she was the last person to whom Eilan could entrust him. Lia, she knew, would die for her nursling, but she was only a poor woman with no place to go. Perhaps Mairi might be willing to take the child, but Gawen would not be safe even with her if their father should learn his identity.

If she only knew how long she had…But no matter how Eilan framed the question, the forces that had warned of her own death remained so obstinately silent that if it had not been for the occasional throb of pain in her brow, the whole thing might have been some morbid product of her own imagination. All she could do was to spend as much time as she dared with the boy.

Gawen had just gone off to his dinner when Senara came in to light the lamps. As usual, Huw was a silent presence by the door. For so many years she had thought him about as much protection as an unhatched chicken, but he had been lethal enough. Seeing him reminded her of the unhealed pain of Cynric's death.

“You go too, and get yourself some dinner,” she ordered. “Senara will remain with me until you return.”

Senara moved slowly around the room with flint and steel, and the clay lamps—of Roman make even here—flared into life one by one. It was only when the girl had stood for several minutes staring at the last of them that Eilan asked, “What is it, child. Are you unwell?”

“Oh, Eilan!” Senara caught her breath on a sob.

Eilan took a seat on one of the benches. “Come here, child,” she said gently. As Senara approached, she saw the girl's face was wet. “Why, my love, what is it? You know me well enough to know that whatever it is, you needn't be afraid to tell me.”

Bright drops shone on Senara's cheeks. “You're so good to me, you've always been so good…and I'm not worth it,” she said, choking, and fell at Eilan's feet, crying helplessly.

“Oh, my dear,” Eilan soothed, “you mustn't cry; I'm not strong enough for this. Whatever it is, it can't be that bad.” She reached out and gently pulled the girl to her feet. “Come, sit here beside me.”

Senara's weeping diminished a little, but instead of taking a place at Eilan's side she began to pace the room. At last she said, her voice half choked with weeping, “I hardly know how to tell you.”