For King & Country (38 page)

The tour was thorough, with Elidor himself serving as guide, joined by half a dozen of the senior monks, who made notes as Myrddin made specific suggestions, often sketching out the defense works to be added to the labyrinth's existing walls.

"Anything to slow them down will help," Myrddin explained, pointing out places in the looping approaches where thorny branches could be piled atop walls—leaving Covianna to wonder whether a single stand of hawthorne would be left in the south of Britain by the time this war had ended—or where pitfalls could be rigged at strategic points to send invaders plunging down onto sharpened stakes.

Elidor was frowning. "Won't wooden stakes be useless against armor?"

"One thing Artorius has gained experience of is the strength of Saxon arms and armor. Most of the soldiers they send to battle have nothing but a bit of quilted leather. Even amongst their nobility,
thegns,
they call them, armor is usually of limited quality and quantity. They are not wealthy, these Saxons, and their chieftains make gifts of weapons and mail shirts to their favorites, to be returned to the 'king' when the
thegn
dies, for such gifts are mere loans, wealth returning to the leader whenever he demands it.

"A Saxon
thegn
cannot pass on to his sons his armor and weapons, for they are not his. Nothing is his, except what his king lends him for a while. And since most of their wealth has been taken from others, and most of those others have resisted vigorously, there is not a great store of weapons or armor in the Saxons' camps. A narrow, sharpened stake set into the ground in a deadfall can pierce virtually any ring shirt made or punch through legs and arms, rendering a man helpless, or at least, unable to fight effectively. Either will suffice for our present needs."

"Indeed," Elidor nodded. "I am twice enlightened. We had begun to fear these Saxon dogs were unstoppable, the way they've gobbled up the southern kingdoms of Britain and seek constantly to expand their borders."

"Oh, they're quite stoppable," Myrddin assured him with a nasty grin. "You would have enjoyed seeing that verminous little Cutha knocked flat on his backside by Ancelotis of Gododdin. He put to rest a fair number of unfounded rumors of just that sort. Bested him with bare hands, sent him skulking out of Caerleul like a scalded dog. The realization these bandits
can
be defeated, coupled with Cutha's ill-tempered slaughter afterward, showing us precisely what we may expect with Saxons to rule us, has sent the entire northern half of the Britons rushing to take up arms to stop these beasts for good."

The monks duly added notations on where to dig pits, to be lined with narrow, sharp-ended pole stakes. When their journey through the grounds led past well after holy well, springs gushing up from the depths of the Tor, Myrddin frowned thoughtfully. "There seems to be an immense amount of water pouring out of this hill."

"Oh, yes," Father Elidor nodded, "they flow like this year round. I've never seen them run dry, not even during a drought." He cupped his hand into the well they had paused beside, dipping up a palmful to sip, scattering droplets that lost themselves amongst the spatters of rain falling.

"A pity we can't harness it, somehow," Myrddin murmured.

Covianna began to laugh. "Oh, Myrddin, I don't think the Saxons will fall into that particular trap twice in one war."

He grimaced, then gave her a rueful smile. "No, I don't suppose they would. Has anyone ever tried to find the source of the Glastenning springs? Might there be caverns under the Tor where people could shelter?"

Covianna glanced at her mother, who was watching Myrddin through narrowed eyes, a look he missed, as Myrddin was gazing at the abbot. Elidor hesitated, clearly taken by surprise on a subject he'd obviously never considered, then dredged up an answer. "Well, we've the cold cellars, of course, beneath the abbey, where we store wines and smoked meats and other foodstuffs, and the cellars were built into a natural cavern, such as it is. It's very small and shallow. So far as I know, there's no connection with any other caverns."

Covianna's mother glanced warningly at Covianna, then said smoothly, "There are legends in our family lore, stories that the first smithies on the Tor were built by a race of dark dwarves, magical beings worshiped in the old days. The stories say the dark ones of the Tor lived in fantastical caverns deep in the hill and sold their magical weapons to men in exchange for what the dwarves wanted most: firstborn children. But these are very old stories, mere legends. If such caverns did exist, we've never found any trace of them. And our children find their way into the most amazing nooks and corners you could imagine. If the caverns were real, someone among us would have found them. Years ago, no doubt."

The abbot was smiling. "Vivienna doesn't exaggerate the children's curiosity. They do get into everything and manage to slip in everywhere."

Vivienna turned a mortified glance on the aging abbot. "Oh, dear, they've not been trouble, have they?"

"No, no," he laughed, "nothing serious. Just playing games, hiding and seeking, treasure hunts, exploring in the dead of night with a guttering candle, daring one another, all the typical games we played as children ourselves."

Covianna chuckled. "I remember my cousins teasing me mercilessly until I gave in and tiptoed into the abbey's root cellar one midnight. There was a new moon and everything was black as pitch. My horrid cousins sneaked in behind me and barred the cellar door, leaving me stranded in the midst of the carrots and onions and turnips. I didn't sleep all night. Poor Father Gildas found me next morning, stiff with fright and wrapped up in some old sacking I found on a shelf before my candle went out. And there was absolutely no trace of another cave. Believe me, I
looked.
"

They shared a laugh, then the fitful gusts turned to a steady downpour, effectively ending the excursion. The labyrinth's walls cast long shadows down the flanks of the hill as they hurried toward shelter.

"You may wish to impose upon Father Elidor for a bed tonight," Vivienna offered as they returned to the hillcrest, "as most of us have children who would have to be shifted, but the village would never forgive me if I didn't insist that you share our supper. We'll make a real feast of it, open up the meeting hall for dancing and music."

"I am honored," Myrddin inclined his head graciously.

"You are most welcome as well, Elidor."

The abbot smiled. "I, too, would be honored. Myrddin, I'll show you where to find your room tonight, in case I retire earlier than you choose."

They parted, with Myrddin and the abbot kissing both Vivienna's and Covianna's cheeks, and disappeared into the abbey while mother and daughter descended the hill together, heads bent against the stinging cold of the rain. And as she walked, Covianna dreamed of the revenge which would be hers during this lovely, wild night.

The moon was perfectly poised above the tallest of the Lochmaben Stones, balanced on its very edge, when Father Auliffe, abbot of Caer-Birrenswark Abbey, and Riona Damhnait, Druidess of Dalriada, jointly spoke the words uniting Medraut and Keelin in marriage.

"We are gathered to unite this couple..." Auliffe began, "in the sight of God..."

"With the blessings of the Daghda, Father of the Irish Celts," Riona added, "to join together our two great kingdoms."

Auliffe turned to Medraut, whose knees quaked visibly in the moonlight. "Do you, Medraut, King of Galwyddel and nephew to Morgana, Queen of Ynys Manaw, vow in the sight of God to love, cherish, keep, and protect your bride, Princess Keelin of Dalriada, who will be your sovereign queen, seeking no other?"

"I do so vow," the boy said, with only a slight quaver in his voice.

"And you, Keelin ni Dallan mac Dalriada," Riona spoke by turn, "agree and vow before the gods of your ancestors to honor, love, and help your husband all the days of your life, seeking no comfort, no bed but his?"

Her fingers tightened on Medraut's. "I do so vow," she whispered.

"Then," Father Auliffe said quietly, eyes bright with hope and wonder, "I declare before God the Father, God the Son, God the Holy Spirit, that the two of you are joined as one. Let no man come between thee."

"Blessings on thy heads," Riona added, "and may many happy, healthy children play at your hearth."

Keelin blushed furiously, then Medraut turned and lifted trembling hands to her face, bending to kiss her gently. Morgana found it necessary to brush wetness from her eyes and Dallan mac Dalriada blinked a little too rapidly, as well. Young Cleary came forward with the official marriage documents and the new king and queen of Galwyddel signed, laughing nervously over the trembling of their hands. Then it was done and nothing could undo it. Before she could give in to the shakes threatening her own knees, she smiled brightly and kissed her nephew and niece by turn. Dallan mac Dalriada hugged his daughter tightly, then clasped Medraut's arm in the greeting of equals.

"Take wondrous care of my child," Riona translated, "for she is all that is precious to me."

"I will do my best," Medraut vowed, voice cracking slightly, "to give you grandchildren who may be equally precious."

Lailoken, who had stayed back in the shadows during the proceedings, stepped forward with a small wine cask. "A token of my esteem for the king of Dalriada and promise of things to come. Perhaps we might drink a toast to bride and groom?"

Dallan mac Dalriada accepted it gravely, then handed it to one of his men. Father Auliffe said heartily, "Cleary, lad, fetch out the holy communion wine I brought along, nothing but the finest from Rome will do on such an occasion. And the cups, lad."

Something about the glint of Lailoken's eyes caught Morgana's attention for just an instant, then Dallan mac Dalriada was giving orders that the wedding gift be carried back to the ship and Cleary was pouring cups and handing them round and Father Auliffe was making the first toast.

"Long and happy lives, children."

"Long and happy lives," they chorused back.

When the toasts had been made, Morgana said, "Tradition for many generations has seen couples married at this circle led to the caverns below the bluff, sacred caverns, once, and full of auspicious portents, holding as they do the happy moments of union of so many generations of Britons. I have ordered a bridal bower prepared, with a fine bed, oil lamps for lighting the grotto, and plenty of food and wine. Dallan mac Dalriada, you are graciously welcome to ride with us to Caer-Birrenswark upon the dawn, to see your child safely upon the throne of Galwyddel."

"I will stay until dawn," Dallan agreed, "but only to greet my daughter as queen. I must return to my own throne, afterward, for winter is soon upon us and many preparations have yet to be made."

"Of course," Morgana nodded, even as Keelin's lips quivered—despite her attempt to show a brave countenance. "Shall we, then, lead our heirs to their marriage bed?"

When Riona translated, Dallan mac Dalriada smiled and offered his arm. They descended once more to the shingle and Morgana led them down past the high bluff, where the sea and countless millennia of rainwater seeping through the soil had carved caves in the limestone. They paused at the entrance to the nuptial cavern long enough for Dallan mac Dalriada to pull his daughter close for one final hug. When Riona took the trembling young bride into the cavern first, to prepare her, Dallan mac Dalriada strode briskly back down the strand toward his ship.

Morgana said quietly, "See to it, Medraut, that your bride knows pleasure before you allow yourself to taste it and you will have begun your marriage wisely. Hands, lips, whispers, and all of it exceedingly gentle and patient."

He gulped. "I will try, Aunt."

"See that you do." She embraced him warmly. "I am deeply proud in you, Medraut. I will ride to the cottage nearest Lochmaben circle, where the captain of your fine fishing sloop has invited us to spend the night, and will see you again in the morning. Send Riona after me and we'll go there together."

As she turned to leave, glancing back over one shoulder, she prayed that she had done the right thing, in this. Whatever the outcome, she had acted for the best. There was nothing else to be done—except lie awake and wonder what Artorius truly would say.

The night was waning its way toward dawn when Covianna slipped into the abbey. She had not come by the normal route, up the path through the labyrinth, but rather through a narrow fissure which was concealed behind the main hearth of her mother's forge house, a fissure hidden by the enormous bellows and a panel of rock placed as a door to further close off the opening to those not permitted to know the full secrets of Glastenning Tor. Her mother's forge house stood at the base of the hill, with no other buildings between its rear wall and the beginning of the labyrinth—and the beginning of the secret passage Covianna followed, lifting her skirts clear of the dampness and trickling water underfoot.

The passage led upwards along the selfsame path as the labyrinth's walls, having been cut beneath them. The lowest stone of the walls served as ceiling for the passageway. It was cramped and narrow, forcing her to bend nearly double most of the way, but led her steadily upwards in safety, an escape route her remote ancestors had built centuries before the coming of the Romans, so the legends of her family said.

Whoever had built it, near the summit, the underground path divided, one branch to her left leading down toward the deep caverns of the Tor, used for centuries as shelter in time of siege; the other path led upward, toward the hidden exit inside the abbey itself, whose builders and architects had come from Covianna's own ancestors, intent on preserving their secrets intact from any and all comers, including the priests of the new religion.

Particularly
from the priests of the new religion.

When at last she emerged, taking the right-hand, upward-sloping turn, Covianna found herself in the lovely Mary Chapel, situated in the very center of the Great Mother's Holy Vulva, a placement that made Covianna smile in wry humor. The fools who ran the abbey had not the faintest idea that their "Mary Chapel," devoted to Mary Queen of Heaven and Mother of the Christ Child, concealed a passage down the very birth canal of the far older Holy Brigit, Goddess of the Tor.

Covianna shook out her skirts and straightened her back, which ached from the long, bent-over climb. The oil lamp she carried sent golden light splashing across the altar, behind which was the ancient eggstone of the old shrine. Intricately carved, the eggstone was topped by a hollow where ancient priestesses had sat, menstruating lifeblood onto the stone while uttering oracular prophecies.

She set her lamp in the hollow of the stone, no longer needing its light to make her way and not wishing to waken anyone except Myrddin. She smiled in anticipation. This was not the first trip she had made, tonight, along the secret pathway. Her previous three trips had served to transport everything she would need to spring the trap on her chosen victim. It waited, patiently, below the earth for his arrival.

Covianna whispered along the corridor leading past the monks' pitiful little cells, the silence broken only by the mouse-soft hush of her skirts and the occasional shattering snore from some overfed inhabitant. Emrys Myrddin had been given the guest chamber beside the abbot's room, reserved for visiting dignitaries. The door was only partially closed, allowing her to slide inside without a betraying creak of iron hinges.

A trickle of light from a high, narrow window fell like a sword blade across the bed. She could see the soft rise and fall of the woolen blanket across Myrddin's chest. For just a moment, she regretted the necessity of destroying such a brilliant mind, not to mention the most skilled lover she'd ever lain with; but only for a moment. Marguase's shade cried out for justice and this man's death was the first step in obtaining it. Pulse thundering, Covianna tiptoed across and used a long strand of her hair to tickle Myrddin awake.

Myrddin's eyelids flickered, then he focused on her face. A tiny furrow appeared between his brows. "Trouble?" he breathed.

She smiled reassuringly. "Not a bit. I've something to show you."

He leaned up on one elbow, so that the blanket slid to his waist. "Show me? In the middle of the night?"

" 'Tis the safest time."

Myrddin's eyes widened. "You've found the caverns beneath the Tor? I
knew
they must exist!"

Covianna breathed out a chuckle. "Oh, aye, they exist, all right. I've known for years how to reach them. So have all the clan heads of my family line. We're just chary of those we share the secret with, as I'm sure you must understand, given your own training."

The corners of his eyes crinkled. "Indeed. Let me get my boots and cloak."

A moment later, she was leading him through the silent abbey, down to the Mary Chapel, and through the opening, rescuing her lamp from the eggstone. "This way," she murmured, waiting for him to pass before closing the hidden exit. "The tunnels have existed for centuries, so far as we know. It's a bit cramped."

They bent low, following the passageway down to the split, then turning downward for the journey to the first of the caverns. Lamplight flickered across dressed stone, casting distorted shadows as they crept ever downward into the earth. A glow of light from ahead beckoned them forward. "I've been into the cavern already," she murmured by way of explanation when he commented on the fact, "to set everything up. It's far more spectacular when you can see everything in the first instant." Within moments, the walls and ceiling opened out into a magnificent stone chamber nearly thirty feet high. Myrddin gasped.

Glittering stalactites dripped from the ceiling in thousands of points like the teeth of dragons, mirrored by the sharp points of stalagmites reaching toward the roof of the cave. Rock glittered in blood-red and golden hues, glistening with ever-present water which poured and splashed down massive columns of rock. Shimmers of white crystal like hoarfrost surrounded deep, black pools along the floor. The roar of underground torrents vibrated the floor and the very air of the room, from deeper within the hill; at the far end of the cavern, a spectacular waterfall plunged from the ceiling and vanished into the bowels of the deeper caves, adding its volume to the water which gushed to the surface in the Tor's sacred springs. Lit torches burned every few feet, thrust into iron brackets some ancestor had driven into the walls.

"There's a path into the deeper caverns," she breathed softly, hardly able to speak in a less reverential tone. This was one spot where familiarity did not breed casual disregard. "Come, I'll show you."

She led the way across the cave, pointing out the black opening where the cavern descended along the edge of a bottomless sink. Myrddin peered into the hole, down which the roar of water could be heard. "Does the cavern ever flood?"

"Not this high, so far as anyone has ever recorded. Of course, most of what we know about the history of these caves is preserved only in our family's most secret lore and we've lost bits and pieces through untimely deaths, over the centuries. The deeper parts of the cave flood with the seasons, of course, but most of these upper chambers are relatively dry."

"And the monks know nothing of this?" He swept an awed gesture at the glittering beauty of the cave.

"Not a thing," she said cheerfully. "We made certain the cave used for the abbey's cold storage was closed off when the abbey was built. By my ancestors, I might add," she chuckled.

"Is the chapel the only way in?"

"No, there's a passage just beneath the walls of the labyrinth, which opens out at the bottom of the hill."

"Inside one of the forge houses?" he guessed. "It would be the only place you could hide the entrance from the youngsters."

Oh, yes, he was far too clever, was Emrys Myrddin. She had little doubt that, left to his own devices and with no more clue than the existence of the springs, he would have poked and prodded until discovering the way down. She smiled. "Indeed. In a true emergency, of course, we could shelter everyone from the abbey and the village. Which my people have done before, in times of great peril. I wanted to put your mind at ease, before you leave in the morning."

"I only regret I can't stay longer."

"Yes. A pity," she agreed. "I also wanted to show you where we forge our most sacred blades. Artorius' sword, Caliburn, was forged here."

"In the belly of the dragon," Myrddin murmured, glancing at the dragons' teeth stalactites overhead. "How symbolically fitting."

"We put great store by symbolism in my family."

They made a sharp turn where the walls narrowed down to a passage a mere three feet wide, then emerged in the showplace of Covianna's ancestral clan. Myrddin let go a shocked sound.

"It is impressive, isn't it?" she asked smugly.

He simply stared, mouth coming adrift. Before them stretched a black river, into which thundered the cataract from the chamber above. Water spilled out of the ceiling in an endless roar, catching the light of torches she'd carried down and lit earlier, gleaming like a thousand fireflies in the starlight. Ribbons of stone flowed along the edges of the ceiling, looking like so many long, curling strips of bacon hung for smoking. Near the center of the cavern, the river widened out into a black lake some fifty or sixty feet across. In the center of the lake stood a stone island, ringed by glittering white crystalline walls some three quarters of an inch high. On the island stood a forge, its hearth glowing like balefire where she had patiently stoked the coals in preparation for Myrddin's visit.