Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn (16 page)

The Gods have left circles of upright stones all over Britain, but none are more sacred than the one known as Stonehenge. The huge, rough pillars stand three times the height of a man, and those that form the outer ring are topped by equally large lintels which bind them together to make an enormous circle. The Greeks assumed it was a temple to their sun god, Apollo, but we Britons know it as the Giant’s Dance, and have no thought that it was the work of one God alone: even the most powerful of deities could not have erected such a structure without help.

In his youth Merlin had been commissioned to replace several of the stones that had fallen, and he made the place a monument to past Celtic heroes. But by the time the Magician had completed the task, his own father lay dead and buried beneath the Altar Stone. Years later Arthur’s father was buried there as well, making it a kind of crypt for High Kings. Someday Arthur himself would be interred within the inner Sanctuary.

As we rounded the last gentle rise, the ragged stones came into view, looming stark above us against the evening sky. The majesty of the scene was breathtaking, but I stopped dead still at the sight of the whole panorama, for the entire circle of Stonehenge was ringed by campfires. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of pilgrims were gathered around communal pots, sharing bowls of bubbling stew and filling the twilight with the sounds of laughter and dancing. It was a far bigger gathering than I had expected, and a chill of apprehension ran across my shoulders.

Pulling my hood well forward so that it hid my face, I trailed along beside Griflet, letting him do the talking for both of us. He greeted everyone affably, occasionally mentioning that we were brothers come up from the country to celebrate midsummer’s dawn and see what miracle the Lady would perform. His story was readily accepted since everyone else had come for the same reasons.

There was much speculation as to what was going to happen, and quick glances flitted frequently toward the torchbearers Morgan had stationed at every arch of the outer circle. Whether they were there to keep the rabble out or to hold unspeakable powers within, they would stand in stony silence throughout the night. Some of our companions made the sign against evil, while others nodded reverently toward the Sanctuary, but I noticed that none made the sign of the cross. Perhaps the Christians had no desire to confront Morgan in her terrible rite.

Neither Griflet nor I wanted to join the revelry that would go on all night long, so we spread our bedrolls within the shadow of one of the monoliths and got what sleep we could.

In the coldest hour just before dawn we were wakened by a deep, somber tolling, as of a massive bell. Everyone began to run toward the great stones and as Griflet and I scrambled to our feet, the crowd surged past, carrying us with it. Somehow we became separated, and I found myself in the front row of observers, who were swept into the inner circle. The torchbearers had regrouped around the central precinct to keep the audience from advancing too close. They were big men, perhaps part of the cadre of bodyguards Morgan took everywhere, and my neighbors jostled for position in order to stare around them, trying to see through the horseshoe of rough pillars that surround the Altar Stone.

A pair of flambeaux had been placed at either end of the altar, and in the center of their light a dwarf was slowly and rhythmically swinging a two-handed hammer against a gong that stood taller than he was.

The sight made me shiver. Morgan’s lieutenant had the powerful upper body of a smith, broad-shouldered and bull-necked, but his legs were so short that he only came up as high as the average man’s ribs. Grim and determined, he accompanied the Lady of the Lake everywhere, and some said he loved her with a deep, if hopeless, passion.

When all the faithful had gathered, the dwarf let the last note of the gong fade out into the night. In spite of his size, he had an immense voice and shortly announced the arrival of Morgan le Fey, High Priestess of the Goddess and Lady of the Lake. The crowd hushed, straining forward to see, and murmured in wonder when my sister-in-law swept out of the shadows and leapt onto the flat table of the Altar Stone.

Always beautiful and petite, she stood still as a statue while the torchlight flickered over her long white robe. The wild, nightblack cloud of hair that surrounded her face was unbound like a girl’s, and a massive golden torc ringed her neck. Slowly she turned to address the whole circle, her arms extended in the traditional blessing, and once she had commanded all attention, she raised her hands to the starry sky in silent salute to the Goddess. As the sleeves of her gown fell back, I saw the golden serpent she had twined around one arm, and the flash of heavy enameled armbands on the other.

Standing there, taut as a bowstring, the High Priestess waited for the coming of the deity. I thought of the single purpose that binds priest and monarch together: both must be willing to offer their life as a bridge between the Gods and their people. In return we expect both loyalty and cooperation, readily given. Here the crowd responded fully, sending wave after wave of respect and love toward the Lady. At last she brought her arms down with a grand, sweeping gesture and, after calling the Goddess from every quarter of the horizon, began her prayers.

Morgan’s voice was pure magic, swooping and soaring on the air around us, reaching from the heights of heaven to the depths of earth as she called forth the Mother. Spellbound, the crowd followed her ritual as she paced about the altar, now sprinkling it with water from a special caldron, now flinging bits of incense into the embers of a thurible. For more than an hour she purified the holy precinct, built up walls of mystic protection, and prepared for the coming of the dawn.

As the eastern sky lightened, the giant stones seemed to coalesce into faint, pale mists that took silent shape in the darkness. Above them the great lintels hung in space, suspended between silvering heaven and darkling earth. We mortals in the middle drew together within their arc, trembling with hope and fear.

The High Priestess moved into a dance, turning in a slow, pulsing pattern to a music only she could hear. Her green eyes glazed as the trance took hold, guiding her feet, moving her faster and faster. She gave herself over to it until she became a whirling, spinning dervish, skin dripping with sweat and wild hair whipping out in strands like a head full of snakes.

“Send us Your blessing, O Matrix of Life,” she panted. “Extend to us Your compassion, Your power, Your forgiveness!” She tossed her head back and forth, surrendering totally to the force of the Great One, and her voice grew in power as both body and spirit built to a crescendo. “Forgive Your son, Your poor blemished son who, in a moment of despair, took the life of her who bore him. Purge him of the Furies, make him whole and clean and new again. Raise him up, O Mother, raise him as You raise the sun!”

With a great sob she flung herself flat on the Altar Stone, her arms outstretched toward the entrance of the Hanging Stones. All eyes followed her gesture. There to the east, silhouetted against the midsummer sun that peeked over the horizon, the Heel Stone stood pointing like a black finger to heaven. Slowly, inexorably, the blinding silver disk lifted skyward, casting the long shadow of the outlier straight toward the High Priestess. An immense silence surrounded us as though the whole world held its breath while we waited, watching the shadow shrink as the sun climbed. And then the miracle occurred—uncoiling himself from the dark earth at the base of the Heel Stone, a man came slowly erect until he, too, stood black against the glory of flooding light.

“Agravain!” Morgan cried, and the crowd let out a long-drawn sigh as high overhead a lark began to sing. “Come forth and meet your brothers, who embrace you once again and forgive you the death of their mother.”

Morgause’s son paced slowly along the Avenue from Heel Stone to Altar, and the murmur that welled up from the assemblage grew into a chant.

“Agravain, Agravain!” they called, all attention riveted on the penitent. In that moment I cast a surreptitious glance at the High Priestess, and ice poured through my veins. Gareth, Gaheris, and Mordred had joined her on the Altar Stone.

I stifled a cry of disbelief. Had I not expressly forbidden the boy to come? Or had he thought only Cynric was denied? How long had Mordred and his brothers been with Morgan, and what had she revealed to them? The prospect of the crowd hearing of Arthur’s having lain with his sister brought tears to my eyes and pain to my stomach…incest is the most ancient of taboos, and who knew what punishment the people might demand?

By now Agravain had reached the Altar and knelt with abject humility before his siblings. Gareth reached out to him first, and between the two of them he and Mordred lifted the penitent to his feet. Bathed in the light of a new day, it was clear that all three faces were wet with tears.

When they came together in a familial embrace, a roar went up from the congregation. Relief and joy poured from every throat, swelling to a cry of triumph that filled the air. People were falling to their knees in grateful homage to the Goddess and I sank down as well, bowing my head forward until the hood completely covered my face. I dared not look up for fear one of the Orcadians would recognize me, so I waited, staring at the dark earth, sick with fear of what Morgan was about to unleash.

The crowd grew calmer, then silent with expectation, and Morgan sent a declaration ringing out over our heads.

“Would that your Queen were here! As your High Priestess I represent the Gods, but Gwenhwyvaer”—she let the ancient form of my name hang on the air—“Gwenhwyvaer represents you, the people. She should be here for you. She was invited, but chose not to come.”

The crowd began to mutter, and my stomach tied itself in knots. In my concern for Arthur I had not foreseen that Morgan would use this as an excuse to turn the people against me.

The voices around me were growing ugly, and I hunkered down farther, until my forehead touched my knees. I had heard the dreadful rumble of the mob when my father almost died, heard them crying for his life, knew the blood-lust mobs could feel.

Finally the wave of discontent crested and as it began to ebb, the Lady signaled for silence.

“At least we are fortunate to have the scions of the House of Lot before us. All, that is, save one.”

Now she will lay bare the truth, I thought, feeling my gorge rise.

“And he, Gawain of the Bright Hair, heir apparent for the High King’s position—he is off confronting the barbarians in France!”

A fine shout of approval spun above me as I lay, fists clenched and body drenched with sweat. I couldn’t believe Morgan was calling the crowd’s attention to Gawain, not Mordred. What possible reason could she have to meander through simple things when Mordred was her greatest weapon?

I swallowed hard against the bile in my throat. Was it possible she didn’t know of Mordred’s paternity? Or was she playing a longer, more vicious game, wherein she would set up the son to challenge the father later on?

Finally, when the congregation had had their fill of applauding the sons of Lot, the crowd began to stir restlessly, wanting to disperse. So Morgan gave them a final blessing and sent them on their way.

The people began to mill around me, but I lay crumpled in a heap, wrung out and exhausted by what might have been. Griflet came to my side almost immediately and dragged me, weak and wobbly, to my feet. “Told you to leave off that wineskin,” he bellowed as he slung my arm over his shoulder. “What sort of fellow are you, getting drunk at a holy celebration? Why, if you weren’t my brother…”

I hung my head and let him carry me along, staggering now and then as though I’d been trampled physically as well as mentally, and when we got the horses from the stable, Griflet insisted we go directly to Brigit’s convent.

“Lord help us, what have you been doing to yourself?” my foster sister cried when she saw me. “Queen or no Queen, you can’t be any use to anyone when you’re this unstrung.” With a flurry of efficiency she had me undressed and put to bed immediately, and told Griflet I was not to consider traveling until the next day.

So I lay back on the pillows in the guest bed, grateful for the familiar, gentle bossing of the woman who was the closest thing I had to mother or sister. How many times she’d come to my aid—whether bandaging up childhood cuts or keeping me alive during my illness after the rape, it was Brigit who had always known what to do and done it well.

Once I was settled and my foster sister sat down beside me, I related the whole adventure, though without mentioning that Mordred was Arthur’s son.

When I finished, Brigit’s face folded into a frown. “Morgan has always resented you—at least since the moment you married Arthur. How it must have rankled to see her mother favor you above either of her own daughters! Oh,” she added when I started to protest, “I know they had been estranged for years, and you did nothing to cause the rift. But what with her anger over that and the fact that if it hadn’t been for Arthur, her own husband might have become High King, Morgan no doubt still thinks she has ample reason to wish you ill.”

The Irish girl looked down at me and softly shook her head. “Between your own willfulness and the moira the Gods gave you, it seems you’ll always be tempting fate.”

I managed a grin of sorts, wondering if she’d forgotten that as a Christian she wasn’t supposed to believe in the Old Gods. A wisp of bright red hair had strayed from under her veil, and I reached up to brush it back, teasing that she was forever seeing boggarts and hobgoblins lurking in the shadows.