Mistress of Legend

Chapter 8-1

Chapter Eight

Sleet stung my skin as I approached the convent grounds, a small tract of land on the banks of the river Ouse. From behind a wooden fence, a small chapel rose with a forlorn frozen garden on one side, its long-dormant plants unresponsive to the gray light of dawn. Opposite, a long building attached itself to the church like a barnacle. Some distance behind, smoke rose from the open chimney of a kitchen.

The haunting melody of chanted prayer greeted me as the porter opened the gate in response to my ringing the guest bell. Without a word, the bent old woman motioned me inside and I followed her to the church door, the nuns’ song growing louder with each step. Shielding my face from the biting wind, I gratefully stepped inside the nave.

Where I had expected darkness to rival the dreary day outside, I was greeted by light. Though the church wasn’t large—five pairs of small pews each held three gray-clad sisters—and had only two small windows, one set high in each long wall, iron pillars filled with slender beeswax candles illumined each corner, filling the room with the subtle, sweet scent of honey. All attention was focused on the altar, which held a length of switch, its ruby thorns glowing bloody in the soft light, and a small equal-armed stone cross. Two fat candles held vigil on either side.

It was Lent, the Christian season for repentance. This austerity likely was symbolic of the shriving of sins and the penance each sister undertook this time of year. I had seen Arthur undertake the privations of Lent many times.

Though I did not share their faith, the beauty of their ritual stirred my heart. It had been a long time since my prayers were made out of anything other than desperation and fear. But here, with my body safe and warm, my spirit cried out for nourishment. As the sisters sang, I sank to my knees on the cold, hard floor, adopting the posture of submissive prayer used on Avalon, arms crossed over my heart, head bowed to the ground. Abandoning my bag of provisions at my side, I touched my right thumb to my forehead, lips, and heart, and prayed.

My thoughts were no better than a jumble of yarn, tying itself ever tighter with each passing thought. I had to start over several times before my mind produced anything intelligible. But I was able to offer a quick word of thanks to the goddess Ellen for a safe journey and a supplication that Morrigan would keep Arthur and Lancelot safe before my mind went galloping off again.

Nevertheless, the Goddess seemed to understand my heart, and as if in response to my prayers, a vision flashed before my eyes. Arthur and Lancelot were safely back in Britain. But Arthur was not in Lothian, nor was he heading for Camelot. He stood in the courtyard of Cadbury, watching Lancelot train a group of men on how to use the saddle with the stirrup in the nearby stables. That could only mean Arthur intended to mass his supporters at Cadbury and lead a march on Mordred.

Gods, preserve us from an attack on Camelot. Do not allow this foolish quarrel over power to further destroy what we worked so hard to build.

I raised my head only when the chanting came to an end. The sisters, their faces obscured by heavy black veils, filed solemnly out a side door and soon, only one woman remained. Even before she turned, her plump shape and the strands of curly blond hair peeking out from the bottom of her veil gave away her identity.

The years had been kind to Mayda, revealing her to be a beautiful woman who would always retain a hint of her childhood innocence. Her face, covered in Lenten ashes, was still round, but it had gained sleek angles from simple living, along with the ghost of lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth. Away from the cares of her tribe and dedicated to God in a place of safety, she now appeared far younger and healthier than her battle-worn sister. Clad in the black robes of the abbess, she radiated gentle power and confidence, much like the Lady of the Lake.

I rushed to embrace her. “Mayda! The gods be praised you are well.”

Forewarned I would be arriving, she was not surprised but radiated joy at our reunion. She clasped me with great affection. “Thanks to you and your husband. You gave me a great gift the day you assigned me here. I only wish I could have seen it at the time.”

I pulled back, regarding her from head to toe but not letting go of her shoulders. “How are you? I see you have done much with your time here.” I gestured to her robes.

Her smile was as radiant as I remembered. “I took your advice to heart. When I was young, my family tirelessly reminded Elga and me that we were meant to lead. They thought we would oversee our husbands’ tribes, but here I have found a different kind of family to lead. It can be difficult, but it is all worth it when done in His service.” She flicked her gaze meaningfully to the cross on the altar. “Truly, you and Arthur gave me the most loving, loyal spouse I could ever ask for. He may be invisible, but He treats me much better than any earthly man ever would.”

Having seen the brutality of the Saxons, especially those who clawed their way into power, it wasn’t difficult to believe she was right.

Mayda put an arm around my shoulders, directing me toward the altar. “Come, let me show you our dearest treasure.” When we stood directly in front of the altar, she lifted the stone cross off its base. Only then did I see the center was adorned with a shield of glass. Behind it, small yellowed bits of what appeared to be bone and hair rattled with her movements. “These are the bones of the blessed St. Peter and the hair of the missionaries who died protecting them. We hold them in our prayers every day, asking that their blood make us stronger in our faith.” Her eyes gleamed with pride.

Bishop Marius had told us of the veneration which Christians paid to the bodily remains and sometimes possessions of their saints, especially those who’d given their lives for their faith. It was a popular practice on the Continent, but I had no idea it had spread here.

“How did you come upon these? Did not your St. Peter die in Rome? If so, they are far from their home.”

Mayda’s cheeks colored under the soot. “You are correct. They were a gift.” She studied the rushes at her feet. “From my sister.” Then looking at me, she continued. “The missionaries who brought these here from Rome had the misfortune of setting foot in our kingdom. This was only a short time after Badon. Our people were hungry to exact revenge, so they took it out on those who sought to change their ways. Relics such as these mean nothing to my people. But Elga was well aware of why the Christians so vigorously defended them. She saw an opportunity to gain sway over the convent and took it. After stripping the relics from their gold container, Elga sent these to us as a sign so I would know she was aware of my fate. She is now considered a great patroness, a protector, because they are a source of income from pilgrims, in addition to providing spiritual grace.”

I wrinkled my brow, trying to piece together her story. “How did Elga know you were here? We were so very careful.” Apology lay heavy in my voice, making it unsteady.

Mayda shook her head. “It was nothing you did. Elga is far more intelligent than anyone would think. A convent known to take in Saxon women was certainly not the first place she looked for me, but it was not low on her list either. How she figured it out matters little. When I was elected abbess, I think she believed she could control the convent, and with us, the whole of York. I told her I would rather meet the same fate as the martyrs she’d created than help her gain control of the country, even just this small part. We pose no threat to her, so for now, she does nothing, lest she appear as a tyrant.” Mayda took a deep breath. “I have no doubt the day will come when she is queen and I will fall to her blade, just as she always intended, but at least now it will be for a greater cause. I will be defending my faith and my home and I will be certain the others are safe. I have made my peace with my fate.”

I swallowed hard, my throat constricting with guilt. All Arthur and I had wanted to do was keep her safe, yet it looked as though we’d inadvertently condemned her to a martyr’s death. “I pray it does not come to that.”

She smiled. “So do I. But until that day, it is my duty to keep my sisters safe and help them grow in faith.” She glanced over her shoulder toward the side door. “Speaking of which, we should probably join them in the refectory. No one may begin eating until the abbess is present.”

I followed her into the gloom, already missing the brightness of the church. A handful of sisters were standing around the frozen well, chipping at the surface with a rock. When Mayda approached, they backed away respectfully to allow her access. She dipped her hands into the cold water and splashed it on her face, washing away the ashes, before drying her face with the hem of her gown. I did the same, starting at the shock of cold but relieved to remove some of the grime of the road, even if it meant my cheeks went numb in the process.

Inside the refectory, the sisters had removed their veils. The ashes were gone too, having served their ritual purpose. Mayda led me to the head of a long table, where she sat with great ceremony. She whispered to one of the sisters at her side, who promptly offered me her seat. There were no others open, so she sat on the floor.

“Please,” I said to the sister, “that is not necessary—”

Mayda silenced me with a look. “They know who you are and welcome the humility of giving up what they can to the queen.”

The sisters spoke little during the simple meal of bread, cheese, and thin broth, and when they did, it was in their native language. The mulled wine served to me by Mayda and the elder sisters warmed my heart and spread through my veins, leaving me feeling fuzzy and more loved than I had in months. The younger ones, who I guessed from the color of their habits were still in training, much as we had been in Avalon, had to make do with watered ale. Many of the sisters glanced at me curiously, and I smiled in response. To a one, they dropped their eyes to their plates.

Mayda noticed and whispered to me, “They will protect you in any way needed. Have no fear.”

After the meal finished and they recited a Latin prayer, a small bell chimed. Chairs scraped noisily as the sisters hurried to their various duties.

Mayda took my hand. “Come, I will show you to your room.” She gestured to the sister who had given up her seat. “Sister Magdalena will serve you. Do not hesitate to tell her of anything you may need.”

I glanced from sister to abbess. “That is not necessary. I can fend for myself.”

“Nonsense,” Mayda replied, her tone indicating the subject was closed.

Sister Magdalena bowed. “It is my great honor, my queen, Mother Abbess.”

I leaned in close to Mayda. “Am I to address you as such? I wish to pay you due respect.”

“No, you may call me Mother Mayda. You are under no vows and need not make obeisance to me.”

From the refectory, which was attached to the kitchen, we trudged through the increasing sleet, careful not to slip on the ice forming underfoot. Once inside the long building attached to the chapel, Mayda led us down a long main hallway to a room near the main church.

“These are our guest rooms,” she said. “They are far enough away we should not disturb you with our routine, but close enough should you wish to join us.”

When we entered the room to which I was assigned, Sister Magdalena watched me expectantly, eyeing the small pack of belongings I set on the bed.