Mistress of Legend

Chapter 8-3

When Mass ended, all the candles in the church were extinguished, save one many-armed candelabra, plunging the congregation into near total darkness. I pinched out the wick of my candle as well, wishing to experience the ritual as they did. The sisters’ songs turned to mournful dirges as the priest recited a story about their Lord being betrayed by his closest friend and handed over to the authorities to be tortured and condemned. One by one, the remaining candles were extinguished, until only a lone flame remained.

The church was silent, the crowd seemingly holding its breath in expectation. I scooted closer to my small window, trying to take in everything with heightened senses.

The clear voice of a young boy rang out from the north, intoning “Kyrie Eleison,” a plea to their God for mercy. Then the bell-like voice of a sister responded from the south, “Christe Eleison,” which meant much the same. The blending of their voices into a mournful chant raised goose pimples on my arms as they repeated the invocation.

Swept up in the chant, my prayers turned to pleas of mercy. May the gods of war grant us mercy. Protect our king and his heir from all harm and help them see the senselessness of their battle. May they find a path to peace and spare our people the pain and privations of war.

With two kings pitting the armies of three nations against each other, we needed any help the heavens were willing to provide. Were I there with Arthur, following Mordred’s army north, perhaps I could advise him, but here in this convent, so many miles north and east of them, I could do nothing. Well, not nothing. I could pray, just as I was doing. But it felt like so little. I could not defend Arthur with my sword, or try to make them both see sense. I was powerless, for even my magic could not help them. I could not help Arthur strategize or even read the stones for him. He and Mordred were beyond my reach. All I could do was watch through eyes cursed with the sight as it all played out.

Below, in the chapel, the single flame was extinguished. From the west, the deep rich bass of a man’s voice sang, “Christ is dead,” three times. I shivered, certain to my core that soon a similar elegy would be sung for either the High King or his son.

The rituals did not end each night, but rather they faded into silence before picking up again at the prescribed time, as they would each day until Easter. In the time between, the sisters communicated only as necessary through a series of hand signals similar to those we used during our period of silence just before being consecrated as priestesses in Avalon.

The familiarity made me long for my days on that blessed isle, for the kinship and sisterhood these nuns clearly felt and that I had once known. Though I was surrounded by women, my heart ached with the hollow void of loneliness. I wished I had someone here in whom I could confide about my visions, who would understand the frustration, the utter helplessness of watching something tragic and pointless you could not change. But if I told them, the sisters would surely think me as demonic as that damn bishop Marius had.

The snow and ice prevented me from worshiping outdoors and I could not face being alone in my tiny cell, so on the night of the new moon, I slipped into the back of the chapel, intent on performing my own rituals while the sisters sang and adored the bare cross placed before their altar. I searched the shadows for a place I would go unnoticed. To my right was a small alcove with a statue of the Lady Mary. Normally serene and welcoming, tonight she was an ominous specter with her black shroud.

I could not believe I was even considering confiding in her, the mother of a god in whom I had no faith. But yet, how different was she from the myriad of goddesses to whom I had prayed before? Wasn’t she the same woman, called by a different name? Was she a being like Deichtine, Cú Chulainn’s mother, who, while incarnate on this earth, was singled out by her god for a special purpose?

It was not as if goddesses giving birth to heroes was a new idea, or even one confined to the Christians. Taliau was the mother of Lugh; Dôn had given birth to Arianrhod and Gwydion, all of whom I worshiped, so why could I not pray to Mary? I had no interest in the redemption offered by her son, so I was in no danger of abandoning my faith. I was simply adding another goddess to my pantheon, something my forebears had been doing for hundreds of years.

The previous night at dinner, after the sisters had covered the statues with a thick black cloth—a tradition of their faith I found rather odd—I had asked Mayda about the statue and the woman it represented. “How does she relate to your people’s faith? Did you have trouble accepting her when you were new here?”

Mayda had answered through a mouthful of hard bread, the only daily sustenance until Easter. “No, not really. She is much like our goddess Ostara, who gives fertility to the land and its people. Her feast day is usually close to Easter.” She scooted a little closer to me in her seat. “We would never tell the bishop, but the flowers we lay at her feet on Easter are less to gladden her heart at the resurrection of her son than they are to honor her. We still hold our families’ traditions in our own ways.”

Mayda’s honesty warmed my heart, a comfort I carried with me now as I contemplated Arthur’s conversion to Christianity, and then Morgan’s. Had she found this goddess and accepted her as one and the same as those we’d worshiped as part of the rites of Avalon? Early during my time in Pellinor’s house, I had noted the similarities between his faith—with its Host that so resembled the full moon and its rituals that invoked the elements in incense, water, candles, and bread and wine—and my own. Even some of this Christ’s teachings were like those of the Druids. And now there was this Mother goddess. Had Morgan been able to look beyond the names and see enough of Avalon in this new faith?

If so, she was indeed a wiser woman than I, for there were aspects of this Christian world I could not accept. No matter what Mayda and her sisters may believe in secret, their faith still forbade the ancient gods, who were in so many ways our tie to the land and to our ancestors. Pious bastards like Marius made certain women had little place in or influence on the faith—and that they would never be worshiped in any proper way. Plus, I would never be able to believe we needed to be saved, much less that the death of one man could achieve such a monumental task. I believed in right and wrong and had seen both tremendous good and horrific evil, but the idea that one man’s sin, brought about by a woman—of course—so long ago could be the reason why we did wrong today was hard enough to believe and then to tell me that the torture of one man, god or not, undid all of that and made it tolerable for me to do wrong, so long as I asked forgiveness for it, was simply too much. Father Dyfadd and I had had many rounds of debate on these points when I sought to understand Arthur’s faith, but to no avail.

I gently removed the material that covered the statue, setting it aside so I could recover it before any of the sisters knew of my transgression. There she stood in blue robes so much like my own as a priestess, beckoning me to know her as another Lady of Avalon. I lit a candle with the flint and fire steel I’d brought from my room. Setting the candle before the statue, I gave the sign of Avalon and looked into the Lady’s hollow stone eyes.

“Great Mother, called by many names, hear this priestess who requests your aid. Safeguard our king, he whom my heart holds so dear—” My words stopped as the sight took over.

I was riding with Arthur, Kay, and the Combrogi at a hard pace, still giving chase to Mordred. The land there was flat, grazing pastures and farmland as far as the eye could see. We were about a day or two’s ride from Cadbury, in the heart of Salisbury. We rode for what felt like hours and the land subtly changed, sprouting trees at intervals, until we were once again in forested land. Somewhere nearby, a river or brook trickled.

“We need to rest the mounts soon, or they will falter,” Kay advised.

“Agreed. I wish I’d known that little cur was going to lead us on a hunting expedition. I could have sent word to Powys to prepare new mounts, extra soldiers, anything.” Frustration colored Arthur’s voice over the pounding of the hooves.

Where was Mordred leading them and why?

“We’ll find him, Arthur, and when we do—” Bedivere never got to finish his thought, because he was slammed sideways off his horse.

“Ambush!”

The cry went up from the head of the line and was quickly echoed to those at the rear, but not before Mordred’s army descended, larger and more heavily Saxon this time, if the weaponry was any indication.

Arthur hacked a line through the onslaught, laying low man and woman alike. I didn’t need the sight to know he was on a mission to get to his son and end the violence once and for all. But if Mordred was in the fray, he was well hidden. No doubt this attack had been orchestrated to inflict maximum damage on Arthur’s army while keeping Mordred at a safe distance. For all anyone on the battlefield knew, Mordred had already retreated to some hideaway and was watching the battle unfold through his mother’s second sight, just as I was doing now.

One member of the Combrogi fell, then another. Owain was badly wounded, but fighting on. Gareth and Garheis were not so fortunate, brothers to the bitter end. Gareth perished defending his younger sibling, their limbs tangled in death, eyes glassy and staring, their souls fleeing to the safety of the Otherworld.

As blood spurted from hacked away limbs and the agony of death throes filled the air, I had a moment of lucidity where I was grateful to be only witnessing this horror. Yet my hand involuntarily reached for the sword that slept on the cold floor beneath my pallet in my room above, my warrior’s instinct aiming to protect those I held dear.

For several moments, the chanting sisters filled my ears with the lamentations of their God. “I led you out of Egypt, from slavery to freedom, but you led your Savior to the cross.”

And then the visions and sorrowful voices mixed.

My attention was drawn not to Arthur but to Aggrivane, who was battling a large Saxon wielding a spear and a sword simultaneously. Aggrivane was on the defensive, backing away as the Saxon poked his spear at Aggrivane’s guard, then sought an opening with his sword. Even without a shield, the Saxon evaded all of Aggrivane’s attempts to wound him, only snarling in pain when a Combrogi saw the situation and stabbed the Saxon’s sword arm from behind, severing the main muscle in his shoulder.

“For forty years, I led you safely through the desert. I fed you with manna from heaven, and brought you to a land of plenty; but you led your Savior to the cross.”

Aggrivane took advantage of the Saxon’s pain to s***h out, tearing the Saxon’s leather chest plate, but otherwise inflicting no damage. If he could repeat the move, the Saxon would be dead. Aggrivane circled around, seeking another moment of inattention as he and his ally took on the ox of a man now snorting like a raging bull. Aggrivane lunged, burying his sword in the soft part of the Saxon’s side, just above his hip bone.