Mistress of Legend

Chapter 8-4

But he was too late. The Saxon had seen an opening too.

“What more could I have done for you? I planted you as my fairest vine, but you yielded only bitterness: when I was thirsty you gave me vinegar to drink, and you pierced your Savior with a lance.”

Aggrivane’s eyes went wide and his mouth twisted into a wicked grimace. The Saxon’s spear had caught him low, probably in the belly, and the wound forced him to the muddy ground. Men blocked my view, so I only saw flashes of his face as he grimaced and twitched in pain, hands wrapped around the shaft of the spear as his lifeblood poured onto the unforgiving ground. The next time I caught sight of him, his head had lolled to the side and his hands were slack, chest no longer heaving.

“I raised you to the height of majesty, but you have raised me high on a cross. My people, what have I done to you? How have I offended you? Answer me!”

My scream ripped through the worlds, and for a moment, the battle ceased. Each soldier stood frozen, heads and eyes turning to locate the source of the unearthly sound. Some crossed themselves, while others made the sign of Avalon, and a few ran away in terror. For three breaths, everyone was silent and motionless, paying respect to a pain that rattled through the core of each man. Then the battle began again as though nothing untoward had taken place.

Back in the chapel, my body crumpled, reacting to the trauma of what I had seen before my fragile mind caught up. I clawed at the statue’s feet as though she could save him, as though by hanging on to her, I could will Aggrivane back to life.

Her serene face was the last thing I saw before my sight shattered into a blinding field of stars, their white heat painful to behold in the blackness that sought to consume me. I grasped my head, unable to see, crippled by the pain turning my blood to ice. I was crying, I had to be, for the neck of my sleeping gown was wet and my chest muscles were spasming in time with my heart. How it still beat, I did not know. I could barely draw breath.

Mayda’s strong arms gripped me beneath the shoulders as she and Sister Magdalena lifted me from the floor and carried me past the faces of startled sisters. I gave into the pain, senseless.

I woke in my cell, retching before I was even fully conscious, but Mayda was there, holding a bowl beneath my mouth, supporting my shoulders and holding back my hair. When I was finished, stomach muscles cramping, too weak even to lift my head, she placed a cool cloth on my forehead and squeezed my hand. That small gesture was all that kept me from giving up completely. I wanted to sleep and never wake, to join Aggrivane in the Otherworld. I had been there once; the transition was easy. All I had to do was will it. But the warm reassurance of her hand was like a cord tying me to this world.

Weary, I looked at her. Mayda’s lips moved in whispered prayer.

When she noticed I was awake, she smiled. “I will be with you as long as you need me. No matter how long it takes for the pain to stop.” She wrapped me in her arms, holding me like a child.

“How did you know I would need you?” I asked weakly.

“Do you think the Britons are the only ones gifted with the sight?”

I had never considered the possibility of Saxon women having it too.

“I do not have the gift, but I have seen it many times, so I knew what to expect. I know you are tired, so I will not trouble you with questions, save one. The rest you can tell me when you are ready.” Her gaze met my eyes, which hadn’t stopped pouring since the visions ended, making certain I understood her. “Does our king live?”

I nodded weakly.

She breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. Then we will redouble our prayers. Our good Lord cannot fail to hear us in this holy season.”

I envied her confidence, her faith. My Goddess had abandoned me, never to return, or so said the impenetrable cloud in my heart. I knew little of Mayda’s god, but if he made Arthur’s victory possible, I would seriously consider following him.

Two days later, thanks to Mayda’s expert ministrations, I was strong enough to be on my feet, though I did not leave my cell. Mayda had been called away to the visitor’s parlor for a meeting with King Cuncar, ruler over York since its capture by the Saxons decades before, and his archbishop. Why were they here? Could they possibly know Elga had sent me here? When I’d voiced my concerns to Mayda, she assured me they simply wished to make certain everything was in place for the town’s celebration of the Holy Week, in which the convent played a large role.

With Mayda occupied and the other sisters wrapped up in preparations for the upcoming solemnity, I had a stretch of much-needed time to myself to think through all that had happened. I sat on the small bed, elbows on my knees, head in my hands. What had happened to Arthur after my visions ended? Surely he could not be dead. If the Goddess had chosen to show me Aggrivane’s last moments, she likely would have done the same for Arthur, so he had to be alive. If he had been defeated, Mayda would know by now. Surely word would have come and the Saxons would be rejoicing.

I sighed, flopping back on the bed, eyes on the sloping timber ceiling, willing myself to think through the situation as I had been trained. There had been heavy losses on Arthur’s side. That much was certain. Many of his best men had died. I forced the image of Aggrivane lying still amid the c*****e out of my mind. Those who had survived would have taken shelter somewhere nearby—wherever that was.

Would Morgan have chosen Arthur or backed her son? How does one make such a choice? I shook my head. I’d been down that line of thought before, and it had no clear answer. Only she could say where her loyalties truly lay. Even without her, chances were good the army had picked up some camp women. Hopefully some of them were priestesses and could help aid the wounded.

And what of Mordred? Surely his army had suffered losses as well. But then how had they gained in number since their attack near Cadbury? Mordred had to have back-up units supplying fresh men and horses. That meant he wasn’t fleeing from Arthur; he was leading him on a predefined course, one he knew he could reach before his father and set the next phase of his plan in motion.

Damn Morgan and her influence on her son. She was never one for battle strategy, but that wouldn’t have stopped her from teaching Mordred to think through every possibility, to turn every situation to his greatest advantage, just as she had been doing her whole life. Damn Lot for teaching his fosterling battle strategy. He’d thought he was preparing the heir to the kingdom. Little did he know he was arming a tyrant.

My blood went cold. Damn me too. I had taught him to read the Holy Stones, the one weapon of war neither Lot nor Morgan could or would pass on. I had armed him with a conduit to the gods. Damn my ignorance.

I tapped my thumb against my leg, turning a thought over in my mind. Two could play at that game, and I had more experience. No one was likely to have a set of stones in a house of the Christian god, but that never stopped the poor children on the streets who thought it only a game to be played with whatever pebbles littered the ground.

Standing, I touched the wall, fighting a wave of dizziness as my mind leapt ahead of my body. Most of the things I needed would be easy enough to procure. I still had the platter from my dinner; it would do as a board. While the sisters were attending to their prayers tonight, I could read the stones. But where would I get the stones themselves? Several feet of snow on the ground outside made it unlikely I could simply pluck them from the garden. Plus, I needed stones of pure quality to ensure the accuracy of my visions. Thanks to my hasty departure from Camelot, the only stones of any value I had with me were set in the ring Arthur had given me. I was not about to take it apart, but it gave me an idea.

Quietly opening my door, I peered down the hall, finding it deserted. I made my way toward the sisters’ work area. They embroidered and affixed jewels to robes for the bishop in one of these rooms, or so Mayda had told me when she gave me a tour. I didn’t expect them to leave such valuables out in the open, but I was willing to bet they’d be easy enough to find.

As I neared the end of the hall, a small, clear bell tolled twice, calling the sisters to prayer. I stopped, flattening myself against the wall as they passed. Some of them smiled in greeting, while others ignored me. A few looked at me askance, no doubt wondering why I was in their hallway when no one had seen me since I fainted in the chapel, but no one could question me as they were currently under the commandment of silence.

Once they had all passed out of sight and the soft murmur of their prayers filled the air, I slipped in and out of small workrooms until I found the one I was seeking. Light filtered in from a bank of windows on the west wall, illuminating two spinning wheels, three looms, and a few benches laden with silks and delicate thread in a rainbow of colors. I approached the latter, hoping to find a stole or other garment I could take and rip out the jewels—I could always sew them back in later. But after rummaging through all of them, I found Fortuna was not with me.

Mayda must have kept the jewels in her office. My skin prickled at the thought of invading her private space. That would be wrong. I did not want to betray her trust, but this was something I needed to do. Surely she would understand, and she needn’t know if I returned them quickly.

I skittered down the long hall lined with rows of cells until I came to the largest. I tried the handle, but the door was locked. No matter. I had borrowed a long needle and thin metal implement used in affixing jewels to fabric from the workroom. They would work to spring this lock, as well as any that secured the stones. With a snick, I was inside.

Mayda’s room was comprised of an outer office and what I guessed was her bedroom beyond a closed door. The office was only slightly bigger than my cell, so it didn’t take long to locate a small wooden box with a heavy iron lock inside one of the chests behind her desk. This had to be it.

I carried the box over to the light. Pausing for a heartbeat, I closed my eyes and said a prayer of thanks to Isolde for teaching me this forbidden skill. When the lock popped open, I turned over the box, letting its contents fall into my palm like raindrops. I counted the glittering jewels. Exactly forty waited at my command, enough to represent both armies. But I was still missing the queens.

After running back to my room, box ill-concealed beneath the folds of my robe, I dove under the bed and withdrew my pack. Rummaging through its contents, my fingertips touched brooches, parchment, a bone comb, and an old wooden dog figurine I carried for protection. The stones were not there. Running my hands over the gowns hanging on pegs on the wall, tears pricked at my eyes as I traced one empty skirt after another. Just when I was about to give up, my fingertips met a reassuring lump in the seam of one hem. Reaching in, I retrieved the two red stones Isolde and I had won, lost, and won back again so many times over the years.