Marcus Cunomorus had disappeared after his wife rode out from Tintagel with him. Seeking the village healer, it was agreed, for medicinal herbs she did not herself possess to cure his bad leg.
She had come back, a day later, the scaffolds dragging empty from the flanks of the horse she rode. She had been half dead from the cold and refusing to utter a word. She just looked at them all like they were strangers to her.
An accident must have happened. But she would not say how or where. She groaned like an animal, and then had collapsed in the arms of the Sarmatian giant, her grey eyes staring wildly up into his as he called her name, Ysolde, Lady Ysolde. And then she had just fainted, on her own doorstep.
The Priestess had taken over and so it had remained for yet one more day, until the mistress had awoken.
She waited until the snow melted, which it did within a couple of more days.
Then she sent away all the servants, save Branwain and Damh. Or at least, that was how her violent ushering of them all was interpreted. She still had not said a word.
The few guards protested, dutifully. But secretly they were glad to go. One of their comrades had been cut and his palm was still throbbing with the angry wound. The Lady Ysolde, it was felt, were too erratic. And Marcus was not there anymore.
They let her have her way. They went to Londinium in stead, and there told of the death of the old Cunomorus, and how his wife had gone mad.
Mad from the grief, of course, and I am not one to talk, leave gossip to the province of women, but you know, look at this wound here. I got it when she rode out with Marcus behind the horse. Yes, she cut me. NO, I kid you not!
He was quite helpless, you know... but who am I to say anything, it is for each to decide for themselves, of course it is... though I swear he was looking bad when she rode off with him... and now she sits alone on Tintagel...
And speculations turn into rumors. And rumors, abruptly, turn into hushed whispers. Of the word 'Murder'.
And finally, this word reaches Constantinus Pius Cunomorus. And he listens.
He listens intently, and he smiles.
/\/\/
Bors relates :
"I did not know old Cunomorus had a son," I philosophed, to no one in particular, as I spurred on Hülye to catch up with Dagonet, his mount dawdling along the path in front of me, looking every bit as lazy and presently uninterested as its rider. Some fifty yards or so in front of us, Tristran and his dappled one were zigzagging a bit, making short sidetracks into the forest on either side, checking that everything looked like it did the last time we went this way.
It always did. Sometimes, scouting must be the most mindnumbingly boring job in the world.
Dagonet shrugged. I was not going to let him off the hook so easily though. Dags habit of shutting up often made people draw the somewhat dense conclusion that since he was mute, he was also deaf. He often procured information that way, the nature of which could surprise even Vanora. And this oh-so-uninterested routine of his, which he was pulling off right now, had not fooled me for years. The man knew something interesting, and he was bloody well going to let me in on it.
Dag sighed then, as if suddenly realizing (rightly so) that I would not stop pestering him until he gave up.
"Muirgeirn has told me some of it." He admitted, at lenght. "It was not something that was talked about a great deal. The two of them were estranged, I think. Constantinus lives in Londinium. Apparently, Marcus had him by his first wife – not the one that is widowed after him now. Her, he married, very shortly after the first ones death. I even think the son is older than she is, which means older than all of us, except possibly you." Dagonets smile was sly. I ignored the quip, keeping the pressure even.
"Well?"
He gave up again. " Well, The mother, I reckoned from what Muirgeirn said, was apparently very christian. It was her who reformed old Marcus in his day, and the son was raised strictly within the Church. He is a man of Bishop Germanus, or so I heard, even being called Constantinus Pius by some. But he got a girl of the pagan Irish clans for stepmother. Evidently, he felt that this kind of cramped his style." Dag smiled wryly. "He never forgave his father of course."
I laughed, seeing the irony in his observation. They always elaborate so, on the great mercy and forgiveness of their God in that strange cult, yet they never seem especially keen on following his example. Romans...
The low growl of Tristran surprisingly entered the conversation then. He had been circling around in the forest, and sneaking up on us from behind. On horseback. How does he do that? I questioned myself wildly.
"You two," he commented tersely, "are a worse gossip than Gawain and Galahad. No, worse than the woman of Bors. The road ahead is clear," he ended, and took off at a lazy gallop, the casual arrogance in his back egging us on for the chase.
I cursed at that back, before spurring on Hülye."Quite a lengthy speech for one usually so bloody taciturn. But I'll teach him to talk about my Vanora like that!" I rose my voice purposefully at the end, hearing the low, soft laughter of Dag somewhere to my left.
"At least," came the dry reply, "I didn't name my poor horse 'Fool' in the Hunnic tongue." And he pressed his left leg to his own mount (which I don't even think has any other name than 'Horse'), making it skit to the side so me and Hülye raced past, missing the mark.
We let the horses run free, the rest of the way home.
Artorius awaited us there, with the news from Muirgeirn, that Marcus Cunomorus was dead. He had been so, apparently, for some weeks. There had been no notice, until now, arriving with his sister, and even she seemed unusually taciturn in her explanation. As for Dag, I didn't even bother to get insulted by his having concealed the matter. It was amazing that he had told me as much as he had.
Artorius seemed surprised, and slightly worried. He would not say why, but Lancelot, ever the sharp mind, figured he might be afraid of losing now the connections with Tintagel which had become so strong the last few years.
From what Dag had just told me of that Pius guy, I did not fully understand, at first. It was a man of Germanus', and Germanus was a friend of Pelagius, the mentor of Artorius.
But who understands the schemes of the Romans?
Muirgeirn relates :
I did not stay long at Camlann. I came to see that my son was allright, and in order that Artorius would hear the news from me rather than from the gossiping legionnaires when the next shift came up from Londinium. And Ysolde had sent me away, had pushed everyone away from her.
I am no fool. I knew what had happened to Marcus, even if she would not tell me. It was obvious, and I cannot say I disagreed with her decision. Or theirs, because I suspected that Marcus had been very much aware of what she was going to do. And he had not tried to resist.
All this I did not tell Artorius of course. He would likely as not have become shocked by it. His naïve view of the world leaves little space for any imagination of the harrowing choices a human being must sometimes make. In Artorius' world, everything is black or white.
I envy him. It must be easy.
Yes, harrowing choices. I knew her enough, loved her enough, to know by now that her silence and her granite eyes were only halfway a defense. The other half most certainly was real grief.
She had lived with this man, a man who had been forced upon her, for all these long years, and she had managed it and found some measure of peace with it, and through it all, she had grown to love him. It mattered little that it was the love of getting used to something. Of loyalty, hard work and tough decisions, and that she had never come to see him as a desirable mate.
And this would not be the end of her pain. The son of her husband, one Constantinus Pius, would be heir to Tintagel now. She had told me. Roman laws does not grant women sovereignity, except on the express demands of the testament of the Pater Familias, if such a document exists, which, to the best of her knowledge, it didn't.
Constantinus hated Ysolde, and would likely as not throw her at the gate. Tintagel, who was now her only home, would be taken from her.
And there would be no going back to Eire, not after Marhaus' death. I also doubted she would have anyway. She seemed to have disowned the clans as family, which was rightly not to be sneered at. It was, after all, the same clans who had sold her and abandoned her first. Never, in all her years of marriage to Rome, had they supported her.
And Ysolde was proud.
There was, however, an even worse possibility than that of eviction, namely that Constantinus should decide to marry his fathers widow. This was done often, though why he would want to marry a woman whom he loathed would be beyond me.
And it was then that it occured to me, how wrong it was that I had left. How wrong it was that I was here, even if the sad eyes of Dagonet seemed to plead me to stay, just this one time, with my son.
But it was wrong, all so horribly wrong.
Disempowered or not, degraded to a mere wandering priestess or not, I was still the Lady of the Lake. And I still held influence in the hearts of many men. At least I hoped I did, even if official Rome would not heed any word of mine now.
She needs me. I should have stayed.
I need to go back!
I surprised myself. I managed, somehow, to convince Artorius that he had to spare one of his knights to send with me. It wasn't really that hard. At least it put to good use my baby brother's insulting habit of treating me like I was made of porcelain.
I even got the permission to pick whom I wanted. That choice, also, was not really that hard.
I could not ask Dag to come, for I could not take Mordred to Tintagel now, and I would not abandon him all alone here. As if that is not what you have done all the same, a disdainful voice whispered at me, and I cringed from shame. But no, I could not take Dagonet from him as well. I just couldn't.
So there was only one other obvious choice.
Tristran is not one to give anything away, of course. But he surely did not seem at all dissatisfied when I ordered him to accompany me. He would find the way blindfolded by now, I was sure.
I told him of Marcus' death as we were riding down the road south. He listened carefully, and without answering, as was his habit.
He did not inquire as to why I told him these things, and I did not hint at why I had made him come with me. He was one of my brothers soldiers, a man half-enslaved and with absolutely no power in the Roman world, but right now I just needed those around me who I knew I could trust, and who cared for Ysolde. And I knew he did.
. It occured to me then, with painful clarity, how much I myself had grown to care for her.
It would be only a question of time, I knew, before the authorities of Londinium would stand at her door, possibly to evict her, at which point I wanted to be in place beside her. If not because I could do anything to help her, then to let her know she was not alone. Because I needed to be there for her.
"Make haste," I hissed at my knight.
He did. Hawk circled over our heads, shrieking imploringly. Then she shot off, racing ahead, turning into a small dot against the sky. He looked after her, and took off.
Had it not been for the sake of the health of our steeds, I doubt I would have been able to keep up all the way to Tintagel.
Constantinus Pius is enraged. The bitch! The scheming, ungodly harlot! It must be her doing. There is no other possibility. It must be her having talked Marcus into this.
Yet there it lies, the document written by his own fathers hand, and she seems as surprised by its existence as he. A good actress indeed!
"What sort of witchery is this?!" And he advances upon her, stopping short when his face is an inch from hers. She looks at him inscrutably. Always that inscrutability, which drove him nuts even as he lived here, having to witness this Eve, this little temptress turn his father into a fool. So young she was back then, but already a whore. Had he not felt the pull of her wicked powers on himself, so that he had to flee to Londinium and even Rome, to be safe?
And now, upon his return she stands there still, as if mocking him.
And she won't talk! Out of grief, they say, but he knows better, oh he knows.
She looks at the document, pondering. Then she shrugs and looks at the notarius. The man looks from her and back to Constantinus, helplessly. There is nothing he can do. It is there by the hand of Marcus. Forgery is out of the question. Tintagel belongs to the Lady Ysolde in the event of Marcus Cunomorus' death. Should she have offspring, it will pass on to them.
The old coot has cheated him! Has cheated his son of what is rightfully his!
"I am afraid this is what was your fathers will," the notarius says apologetically. "It is not illegal, and what with the laws of the people living here...this is not Rome..."
And Constantinus grabs hold of the table and turns it over, a roar escaping him in spite of himself. This is not Rome?! Has not Rome built the great wall in the north? Are the British not paying their taxes to Her?!
He turns towards the harlot. She has moved, while the notarius spoke. Now she stands at the fire, beside her spinning wheel, an apple in her hand. He sees the hint of a smile as she bites it. She stops chewing when he glares at her and just looks back. Her thoughts are sealed off from him. Her entire being sealed off, as it always were.
He will have to marry her then. An unbidden surge of lust seems to inflame his loins at the thought, while the hatred makes his mouth taste of bile.
And she throws the apple. Reflexively, he catches it. She smiles then, a joyless smile. And lays her hand on her belly, looking as a cat who has not only drunk all the cream, but also eaten the chicken you had fancied yourself having for lunch.
He goes outside for a time, the notarius following him meekly.
"She is pregnant," the ridiculous little man says. "If she is pregnant, she is carrying your brother. You cannot marry her then. It would be incest. They might allow it in Rome, but here it is frowned upon, I am afraid."
That pitiful little creature, Constantinus frowns. 'I am afraid, I am afraid'.
As if any true man of God has anything to be afraid of, against an Irish whore! He snorts in disgust.
"Haven't you been wondering?"
"What?"
"Well... we're past equinox now."
"Yes."
"So that means that..." Constantinus stops to count on his fingers, " Marcus would have to have done it as he lay dying... How can she be carrying his child?"
Silence. The other looks uncomfortable.
"Pack up," orders Constantinus Pius. "I will be right back. Then we'll leave."
And he enters the house again, ignoring the nervous pleas of the notarius.
Muirgeirn relates :
We ride into the courtyard just as he comes striding out, a protesting, quite obviously very distraught Roman clerk at his side. He ignores me utterly, but seems to take short notice of Tristran. Then he mounts what seems to be his horse and rides off, his waiting entourage following him.
A heavy feeling of dread lodges itself in my solar plexus. I dismount and run up the stairs, nearly falling in my skirts.
I find her in her own hall, curled up in pain, gasping for breath. She crawls along the floor trying to get up. The fabric of her dress is white. I see the dirt-print of numerous kicks on top of it. She is cradling her belly in pain.
Rage seizes me. I turn and run out again, screaming at the back of Constantinus, though he ignores me utterly. I feel ridiculously powerless, venting my anger to the sky. But Lady of the Lake I am still, whether Rome is foolish enough to ignore me or not. The Goddess is in me. I tower over them all, and even though the pitiful Roman does not turn and see it, the sky seem to grow dark. Clouds gather.
"I curse you, Constantinus Pius! May the arrows of my people find you, may the heavens punish you for hurting a priestess of the Mother! May your soul belong ever to the once-born, so that you shall seek Her through a thousand lives, and never find Her! I curse you!"
Tristran is still outside. When he hears my words I see something in his eyes I have never seen there before.
We reach her at the same time. Strange throat-sounds escaping her. I look at the white dress again and see it then, flowing from where the divide between her legs must be.
Blood.
Behind me, I think I can feel Tristran scream without a sound. There is no other way to express it. Not a sound crosses his lips, but he is screaming, silently.
A wordless curse, and for whatever reason, some reason I cannot figure out, it is stronger than mine. Stronger than any curse even the Lady of the Lake can bestow.
Author's note :
Hülye [Hee'ya] : hungarian, 'fool'.
