Arthur dreams...

Storms blasted the Citadel of Camelot as Queen Igraine lay in childbed, her sheets soaked in sweat. The court physician was kept busy laying damp cloths on the queen's brow. From without came the wind moaning as if in torment, the rumble of thunder, and the relentless beating of raindrops.

The chamber was small and sparsely furnished, and illuminated by the muted glow of beeswax candles. Apart from the bed there was a diminutive bookshelf, some embroidered hangings to keep out the cold, a couple of padded chairs, and a table holding the instruments of the physician's craft.

"Where is my lord?" said Igraine thickly, her eyes closed.

"He rides for the Citadel, my queen," said Gaius, from his seat at her bedside. "His men would have him remain on the frontlines, but he has drawn closer to Camelot these past months as you have waxed greater. He is not far now. I sent him word two days prior."

"It were better he stayed where he was," said Igraine. "What do they say, Master Gaius? Men spill their blood on the battlefield, women in the birthing bed?"

"Speak not of spilling blood," said Gaius. "That day is far off for both you and the king, I trust."

"I have not lost my wits," said Igraine. "You sent my serving women away, such as they were. I have seen physicians enough at sickbeds to know the look in your eyes."

"My lady," said Gaius, "be not concerned. I am here because the king would have the best care for his queen. At his command I have often served in place of a midwife for the highborn."

"Yes," said Igraine. "I remember. When my beloved sister Vivian and Gorlois were married, you delivered their daughters. Do you remember, Gaius?"

"You misremember, lady," said Gaius. "Lady Vivian has but one daughter."

Igraine laughed, then made a grimace of pain. "Of course she does. Morgana… so beautiful and dark, like Vivian, like our own mother. Poor Morgana. Without father or mother, and soon to be without an aunt… It is a hard thing to be without kin, especially for a girl child. Promise me, Gaius. If Uther or his Nazarin priest should mean ill for Morgana, plead for her life. Tell Uther, if he bore me or Vivian any love at all, he must cherish the girl as his own breath… she is the last thing I have of my sister. You have already saved the life of her daughter once before..."

"My queen," said Gaius, "this is the fever speaking. I pray you, do not be so morbid. Morgana will have an aunt for many years to come."

Igraine lay back, breathing heavily. "My mother died in childbirth, as did my sister. There are things which run in the blood, and they cannot be changed, Gaius, for all your skill. I would have my mind distracted… will you read to me?"

"Gladly. What would you hear?"

The queen twined an ivory rosary between her fingers, sometimes squeezing so hard the beads bit into the white skin of her hands. She answered between gasps. "Something from… the Lives of the Saints. The Annunciation of Our Lady… "

Gaius went to the small bookshelf, supplied at the queen's request. There were bound volumes in Saxon, Frankish, Cambric, Italic and even Grecian. Not for the first time, Gaius wondered at the queen's learning, which would have been extravagant in a churchman or man of letters, let alone in a young noblewoman. He thought it a pity that Uther had been enchanted by Igraine's face and form, rather than her peculiarly intense mind. Perhaps one had to be a scholar to recognise how uncommon she was.

Gaius found the book Igraine wanted, resumed his seat, and turned to the right page.

"The feast of this day," he read aloud, "is called the Annunciation of Our Lady, for on this day the angel Gabriel showed to the glorious Virgin the coming of the Blessed Son of God. And the angel said to the glorious Virgin: 'I salute thee, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.' There is not found in scripture in no part such a saluing. And the angel said to her after: 'Thou shalt be blessed above all other women, for thou shalt escape the malediction that all other women have in childing in sin and in sorrow.'

"Our Lady was afeared of the salutation of the angel, and said: 'In what manner may this be? How shall I conceive a child against the course of nature and, and may abide a virgin?' Yet of this conception which is against nature, the angel said to her this example: 'Lo! Elizabeth thy cousin, which is barren, hath conceived a child in her age, for there is nothing impossible to God, which is almighty.'

"Then said the glorious Virgin to the angel the answer for which he was come: 'Lo! The handmaid of God, he do to me that he hath ordained after thy words.' She hath given to us example to be humble when prosperity of high riches cometh to us, for the first word that she spake when she was made mother of God and queen of Heaven, was that she called herself ancille or handmaid, and not lady. Much people is humble in low estate and but few in high estate, and therefore is humility more praised in them that be great in estate…"

The physician looked up and saw, to his dismay, that tears were streaming down Igraine's face.

"My lady," he said, starting up, "does the pain worsen?"

"Yes, Gaius," she replied, "but it is not one you have a remedy for. It is a malady of the soul that afflicts me. Would that I could be like Our Lady, and produce a child without ever knowing a man. But pain and death in childbirth is the lot of womankind, beginning with Eve. 'Tis my own sin that I am being punished for… I lay with a man not my lord husband. Uther came to me wearing the face of Gorlois - my own dead husband - and I knew him not, but I still committed the sin."

"My lady," said Gaius. "Please, don't distress yourself. Childbirth is cruel to many women. You are young and healthy-"

"I will die tonight, Gaius," said Igraine shortly. "At times I see and hear things beyond my power to explain. I know she is nearby, that terrible woman from my dreams. The Saxons call her banshee, but in our speech, she is the ben sidhe, a Faery woman, and I saw her the night my sister Vivian died. I knew the ill tidings before the raven brought the message to my uncle's castle. I wished to go into the convent, and study, and my uncle permitted it, for I was the younger sister. But when Vivian died without giving her husband a male heir, my uncle bade me marry Gorlois in her place, so that I might give Gorlois the son he expected, and the next Duke of Tintagel should be of the blood of Dubois...

"I remember that night well. My elder brother Tristan was away serving in King Henry's army, but Agravaine had come to visit us. Little Agravaine, so different from Tristan, always so slender and elegant. He was never strong enough to fight the other boys, but he was clever and charming, and he learnt to get his own way with words, not fists. I had always thought Agravaine hated me. He had been closest to my mother, who had died birthing me. He didn't speak to me at all when I was small, just looked at me coldly out of his clever black eyes. But that night, he told my Uncle Riet that one of his sisters had already died in wedlock to Gorlois, and he would not have the second bartered away like a breeding mare. How fiercely he stood up to my uncle. Riet had been a powerful old knight, still mighty in sinew, and he beat Agravaine til I begged him to stop, and told him I would gladly go as bride in my sister's place, only he must stop striking Agravaine…"

The queen fell suddenly silent, her strained face paling even further. She put out a hand and grasped Gaius' sleeve. "Hark!" she said. "Do you hear it, Gaius? Is that her wailing from afar?"

"'Tis nothing, my queen," said Gaius, "only the sighing of the wind. You are overwrought. You must calm yourself, it will ease things for you and the babe." He patted Igraine's hand reassuringly, but she pulled away, clasping the string of ivory in her fingers and telling her beads.

"Salve, Regina," said the queen feverishly, "Mater misericordiæ. Intercede for me, Holy Virgin, though I am unworthy. I have sinned greatly in thought, word and deed. Cleanse my impure heart, make me fit to receive your Son's grace. Angels of the Lord attended you at your birthing bed, but I have no angels watching over my child, only the cruel fairies of the Old Religion…"

"My lady," said Gaius, "do not vex yourself for naught. There is nothing watching us. No one is in this chamber besides myself."

"I see further than you know, Gaius," replied the queen. "The shadow of death falls upon this very chamber. My father, Lord Dubois, was a devout Nazarin. He turned his back on the Old Ways, and had us baptised and raised by religious Sisters. But on my mother's side, the Old Blood runs strong… I heard it whispered that many sorceresses had sprung from our bloodline. Our father sought to protect us from the High Priestesses. He would not have his daughters stolen away and bound to the service of the Goddess. I never studied the Old Religion. The nuns said the practice of sorcery was forbidden. But the Old Blood is strong in me yet, and I sometimes see and know things I should not..."

"My lady," said Gaius, "even if what you say is true, even if you have some trace of magic, you have never been trained. And even in the most powerful sorcerers, prophecy is the most unreliable science. Interpreting the future is a subtle art-"

Igraine turned her head and fixed him with a look. "Why did Uther send you to the Isle of the Blest?"

Gaius fell silent.

"This is the arrogance of Uther Pendragon. He thinks he can bend all to his will, even the Old Religion. Even the forces of life and death. I tell you now, Gaius, when you traded away a life in exchange for a son for Uther, you condemned me to die."

Gaius fell back into his chair, his face white as a sheet.

"I do not blame you. You fear Uther as much as I do." The queen put a hand on her swollen belly. "I felt something was wrong soon after my courses stopped. As time went on, I saw visions, such as I'd never beheld before. Dreams of death, and carnage, and Uther's hands stained with blood. I feared this thing growing inside me. When I realised it was unnatural, I thought the child a monster. When I saw the comet in the sky, I knew something terrible was coming. I do not fear to die myself. I only fear what this child means for Uther and his kingdom. And for the kin I leave behind..."

There was silence for a while then, except for the sounds of the storm buffeting the castle walls.

"Gaius," said Igraine suddenly. "I would not die unshriven and wholly without grace. There is a young religious sister in this castle, one Flavia. Please bring her to me."

Gaius hesitated. "I must assure you once again, my lady, that you are not in any immediate peril. However, I will gladly fetch a priest if it will ease your mind. I do not think a sister is empowered to hear your confession, nor to administer rites. Surely the bishop-"

"No," said the queen sharply. "I do not want any of these strange priests. I mislike them, Gaius. A priest cannot flourish at court unless he is wily as a serpent. Uther did not allow me to bring any priests or servants from my own household… as for the bishop De Croismere, he chills me. I would not put my soul in the care of such a man, for it would surely be safer with the Fiend himself… Please bring me the Sister. The trials in my life are such that only a woman can understand them, even if her vow of chastity has spared her from carnal sin. And if I die unconfessed, and must suffer evermore, well, if nothing else, life has taught me to bear suffering without complaint."

Gaius was reluctant to leave the queen's side, but she commanded him to go with all her authority, and at last, she was left alone in the chamber. When the physician had quitted the room, the queen laboriously raised her hand to her brow and made the sign of the cross, before turning her head to gaze at a place near the window.

"So," she said in a trembling voice. "It is you. His Majesty's great enchantress."

Nimueh stepped forward, her brilliant blue eyes wide. "You perceive me?" she asked.

"Does that surprise you?" said Igraine. "You know my family comes of the Old Blood, as does Uther's. Isn't that why you snatched away my niece Morgause to foster her? I knew Vivian had something of the Curse in her, though she concealed it from everyone else. She wrote me when she foresaw her own death, begging me to keep her daughters safe."

"I did know of your blood," said Nimueh. "Though I am surprised any trace of sorcery still lives in one who spends all her time in church… pleasantly surprised. It is no wonder Morgause progresses so quickly in her craft. The women of your line have ever been gifted. Such great power could have been yours, had you embraced the Old Religion."

"I have learnt," said Igraine, "to mistrust religion. Priest or priestess, Old Faith or New, you each seek power, and you claim to serve God or Goddess as it suits your purposes. I have never sought power, lady."

"And that is why," said Nimueh, "you were snatched from your home by a man who ravished you, and you lie sickening and alone with no friends or helpers. Your House is fallen, your kin scattered to the four winds - but you never sought power! Let your weakness, which you flaunt as a strength, console you as you meditate on your wasted life. What a lie the New God told when he taught you the meek would inherit the earth. Your inheritance is the void, dust and ashes."

"As is yours," said Igraine. "Death is the great equaliser, and it comes to us all."

Nimueh laughed, and shook her head. "Perhaps to all mortals, but I have been baptised in the waters of the Blessed Isle. I have outlived empires, and will outlive many more."

"Then it is a shame," said Igraine. "You priestesses live so long, and grow so close to the gods in power, that you have forgotten what it was to be truly human. To care about transient things, to be fragile, and weak, and frightened of death. Perhaps that makes it easier for you to use us as pawns, for our lives must look like worthless little things to you, toys to play with and discard. Is that not how the Fey see us, also?"

"Oh, but Queen Igraine!" said Nimueh breathlessly. "No creature of the Old Religion sees you as worthless! Truly you are exalted among women, for you are the vessel through which the King of Ages shall enter this world!"

"To what purpose?" said Igraine. "That you can use him in your schemes, as you took my sister's daughter to bind her magic in service to your Goddess? No, you shall not have my son, nor Morgana, as you took Morgause."

"And what is the alternative?" said Nimueh. "That Uther and Balinor should raise this prince instead? Uther, who would put a sword in your son's hand, and turn him against every kingdom on earth? Has your warlike husband shown himself wiser and better than the Goddess' servants?"

"You shall not have them," repeated Igraine, breathing with great effort. She fumbled under her bedclothes and brought out a circular wreath woven of slender twigs.

Sudden alarm flashed in Nimueh's eyes, and she said, "Who taught you to craft that?"

"I have loved reading tales of the ancient kings since childhood. For one with knowledge of the old tongues, it was not difficult to learn how to fashion this. This cursed art is in my bones, for all that I deny it...

"I make this threefold charm of protection by the rule of threes. By the three woods of oak, ash and thorn, I weave protection for my firstborn son. Let him be safe from the influence of all magics. Let the evil eye pass over him. Let sorcerers' spells rebound from him upon their caster, and let the Enemy of Mankind never find him. Dicet Domino, susceptor meus es tu et refugium meum: Deus meus; sperabo in eum. I shed my blood for his." And the queen placed her fingertip on a thorn in the wreath, and pressed it until a drop of her blood appeared and oozed onto the charm, like a garnet prayer-bead.

"You fool!" said Nimueh. "Do you know what you have done by cutting your son off from sorcerers? He would have been a champion of the High Priestesses of the Blessed Isle!"

"I know," said Igraine, "that I have thwarted your plans for him, and that is enough."

Nimueh shook her head. "This magic is old, but you are untrained, and your grasp of the lore is faulty. Any protection you make for your child will last but until his manhood. You have only delayed our plans until your son reaches the age of majority, Igraine."

"Then let it be so," said Igraine. "He will be old enough to choose his own path then."

"In the absence of the Old Religion," said Nimueh, "he will be raised by Uther and his zealous bishops. You have saved him from the priestesses only to have him enslaved by the priests. You are a fool, Igraine, a weak-minded incompetent. You could have been a queen of men and magic, but you wasted your life, and you would waste your son's as well. Savour your triumph, for I am patient, and may wait two decades to have this prince. But as for you, Igraine... I shall have you for eternity! I will torment your shade and blight your kin and never let you rest… you will pay for defying me..."

And the High Priestess was gone, as suddenly as she had appeared. Queen Igraine was left with the sounds of the raging storm, and her own thoughts.

A stabbing pain in Hunith's belly caused her to start suddenly. The basket fell from her hands and hit the ground, scattering precious grains of rye across the freshly turned soil. She crouched quickly and began to scoop up fistfuls of seeds, dropping them in the basket and hoping no one would notice her moment of weakness. As she did so, she felt the pain in her bowels stab again, and a horrible liquid feeling spread through her underclothes.

"Hunith!" Bertrade shouted, dropping the hand harrow she was wielding and running to her friend's side. "You damn fool! I told you that bairn might come at any time! Get inside now!"

"I'm fine," Hunith said through gritted teeth, though in truth she wasn't. They had all warned her against working the fields this late in bearing, but how could she listen to them? She had spent every waking minute of her life busy, and she was still young and strong. She couldn't sit indoors with the old wives and spin, not when the Baron had increased their rents and taxes every month this year to pay for his constant wars with Camelot. There had been the grain they'd lost to bandits last summer, and the extra taxes imposed to fight off raiding parties from Erin. There had been the season the crop had failed and they'd almost starved, and the Baron's men had caught old Manfred hoarding grain to feed his children, and then the Baron had cut off Manfred's hand and banished him to the woods, and fined the whole village for harbouring him.

And there had been the most recent raid, from supposed bandits in plain cloaks, claiming to be on the hunt for fugitive sorcerers. These men-at-arms had ransacked their houses and scorched their fields and destroyed everything with military precision. Hunith had witnessed many raids, but she had never seen bandits so well armed, all moving with the discipline of soldiers, all speaking with a touch of the liquid accents of the south. That was the night Balinor had disappeared. Balinor had never spoken of his past, but he'd had the southern flavour in his gruff voice as well, the accent of Camelot...

Next year's crop had to succeed now. They could not spare a single hand, for they were all in debt to the Baron, and if they didn't starve, they could be punished for defaulting on payment to their lord. Hunith had no choice but to work, and work she did, until there was no feeling in her white hands. The wind numbed her face and lips, and the cold scoured every sensation from her.

But then the baby had kicked, warm and alive, reminding her that she still had a body, and she had neglected to care for it.

Bertrade and a couple of the other women made a makeshift sling out of their cloaks and bore Hunith in their arms, carrying her back to the village. She felt guilty as she saw the wind stinging their bare limbs. They brought her to the house Bertrade shared with her son and her mother, old Guthild. The beldame was on a rough wooden stool by the fire, spinning wool, but when she saw Hunith's condition, she leapt up at once and began issuing commands. Bundles of fresh straw were brought and laid before the hearth, and some old linens were spread on top, making a pallet for Hunith. When Hunith was laid gently on the ground, she cried out in pain.

"Bertie," said old Guthild urgently. "There's a stranger in the village, that wanderin' healer what come up from the south a couple days back. She said she'd see to our sick for her food and board. Find her and bring her here."

Bertrade deputed this task to young Godrun, who hurried away, while Winfrith ran to fetch clean water. Bertrade knelt by Hunith's side and held her hand, stroking it and murmuring words of reassurance.

"I'm afraid, Bertie," said Hunith, with tears squeezing from her eyes. "People are saying Balinor was the reason those bandits came and reaved us. They know I took up with him. Rendel's been sore with me ever since I turned him down, and he's looking for any excuse to turn people against me. I know he's been saying my child is a bastard… what if people mean my child ill?"

"Nothin' will happen to your bairn," said Bertrade firmly. "Anyone in this village with their head on right has seen how hard you work for us all. They've seen you toilin' for us with a child the size of a foal in you. Listen, how can they blame you for anythin'? If anyone wants your child they'll have to come through me and half the village. And the Devil take Rendel."

"But Bertie… Balinor was different from other men. What if my child is like him? I don't want people to hate my child..."

Bertrade considered for a few moments, then said, "It doesn't matter how different a man is. Do you think Balinor was a good man?"

"I do."

"Then you could do a lot worse than have your child take after the father, and that's the end of it."

"Rendel said… I might have a son, and he would go astray without a father. That I should find a man quickly, or it'll be my fault if the boy goes wrong."

"For God's sake, Hunith! I thought you had sense in you! When did you start listenin' to that awful man? Listen, a boy would be better off havin' no father at all than a man like Rendel! And my William's Da died fightin' for the Baron, and I'm not takin' up with a lech like Rendel just to give Will someone to look up to! Do you know how many lasses have had to rear children alone? Men are always dyin', or goin' to war, or seekin' their fortune, or runnin' off with some hussy… every old wife in this village has had to bring up a child while her husband was gone, for a month or a decade… there's nothin' you can't do for this child if you put your mind to it, and stop mindin' folk who mean you ill. You're the most capable woman I know, and I won't hear any more of this."

Winfrith returned with two large pails of water, which she dumped into a copper basin. She disappeared and reappeared several more times, filling the basin to the brim, and then placed the tub on the fire to warm.

Old Guthild shifted her stool closer to the fire, and resumed spinning wool with her hard, leathery old hands. There was something soothing about watching the beldame as she worked with the assurance of decades, her fingers expertly twirling the spindle, drawing the wool fibres into a long, unbroken thread. Hunith, for a moment, saw the face of the Goddess in the old crone, drawing out the thread of her child's life. Let it be a long one, she prayed, free from fraying, from snags and tangles. Unlike Balinor's…

"Ah," said old Guthild knowingly, in a cracked voice, "the girl is carryin' low. It's to be a son," and it was like the pronouncement of an oracle. Hunith felt the truth of the statement in her bones.

At that moment, Godrun returned with the healer, a woman just past middle age with a kind face, whose striking beauty had only just begun to fade. The healer wore a simple robe and cloak, but they were of better quality than anything the villagers could afford. The clearness of her complexion and regularity of her features told of a life free from starvation and harsh toil. Perhaps she had been born to a physician's household; it was less common for girls to follow their fathers' professions than boys, but it did happen, especially in families without sons.

"God... save ye," the woman said, lingering on the word God, as if it were unfamiliar to her. "Your friend found me on the village outskirts. I had not thought to tarry here overlong, but something told me I was needed. I am glad." The woman had a voice like her garments: plain, but of fine quality. She was clearly more educated than a village healer, and she hailed from the south.

The healer moved to Hunith's side and knelt beside her. "But this woman has just come in from the fields!" she exclaimed. "She should have been lying in long before today!"

Hunith felt a surge of irritation. Why did everyone keep treating her like an invalid? "Some of us have to work the land, or we'll go hungry," she said, with reproach in her voice that surprised even her. She did not mean to upbraid this woman, who had come to her aid, although her skills must command a price far beyond the means of anyone in Ealdor.

"Of course," said the healer. "How thoughtless of me. I only meant you should look after yourself. This child is precious…"

"What do you mean?" said Hunith sharply, searching the woman's face.

"I mean, my dear," said the healer easily, "that none but a physician understands how valuable life is."

Hunith went on trying to read the woman's expression, for she thought she had heard something more in the healer's voice.

The woman smiled. "I see you are wary, for I am a stranger. Let me tell you something of myself. My name is Alice, and I come from Camelot, as I see you have already guessed. I am a healer, and I know something of the Old Religion, for which reason I have fled Uther's Purge. I will not stay in this village overlong, for I know my presence exposes you to danger. Once this child is born, you will not see me again… you have nothing to fear from me. Not all sorcerers are dangerous. People understood this truth once, though there are times when simple falsehoods are preferred to nuanced truths. We live in such times…"

"What is your fee?" said Hunith.

"I will charge nothing. It is a physician's duty to preserve life, and your hospitality has been payment enough."

At the healer's direction, the women assisted Hunith to disrobe, leaving her in her undershirt, with a blanket across her lower half for modesty.

The healer said, "The times immediately before and after a birth are times of especial power and danger. In earlier days, a woman would be bade lie in at these times, for she stands at the threshold of life and death. Any time these forces are so closely bound, a person may attract the attention of the Fair Folk. It is a difficult thing to stand at the gateway to new life, but all our mothers did it. Beasts of the field do it. It is the most natural thing, though the most gruelling…"

The healer rose to her feet, and took a curious contraption from within her robes, a string net woven with crystals, feathers and wicker effigies. She suspended it from the ceiling, and said something quietly, under her breath.

Hunith watched the objects gliding above her. They drew her eye, her thoughts seeming to go into the pale violet of the crystals, and reposing there.

All of a sudden, the child kicked her belly hard, and she exhaled sharply in pain. A gust of wind rattled the window-coverings and blasted the door open, and the fire rose in response, spitting a tongue of flame, which curled into strange shapes, looking to Hunith's mind like a dragon of light.

Alice knelt hurriedly and laid a hand on Hunith's brow. "Rest now, girl," she said soothingly. "Calm yourself. Sleep in the arms of the Goddess…"

Hunith's eyelids became heavy, dragging themselves closed. She found herself falling, falling through stars, the centre of her body blazing with a sphere of light. The light opened, and fire streamed out, leaping from her womb, a dragon of light spreading its wings as it flew into the night, piercing the very heavens...