CHAPTER 14

The setting sun dipped down toward the horizon, gildng the buildings outlined against the sky. Soon it would kiss the water and lose itself in the broad bosom of the Thames. But even at night, London had a haunting ower. The solitary figure in the shadow of the church ooked out over the city he had come to love, and felt the gnawing tooth of sharp regret.

Pacing the familiar churchyard where his sandaled feet knew every step, the Father Abbot clasped his hands in prayer and wrestled with his soul. Must I leave London, Lord, is that Your will? And go to York? From there, it is only one step to Canterbury itself. And I do not seek these great offices, I have been happy enough doing Your will here.

He raised unseeing eyes to the evening sky. Lord, Lord! he cried in silence, you sent me to these islands when the pagans still loved their Goddess with a passion that put all Christian lives at risk. We were a handful of young brothers, armed with nothing but our faith in Christ. With Your love, we built a church here in London, and now we have a foot in many towns. In time you made me the Father of our abbey here, and I have toiled night and day in Your name.

And now this!

His long lean face knotted as he strode around and around the well-trodden square. In the heat of summer, the rough wool of his habit fretted his skin, and he tugged unhappily at the fastening at his neck. Yet this torment too, he had found the way to turn to the love of God. Always drafty and cold in winter and hot in summer, the coarse black gown was the perfect garment for mortifying the flesh. And with the emissary from Rome waiting for him in the abbey guest house, the sooner he mastered his own desires and submitted himself to the will of God, the better it would be.

He paused in his pacing, and raised his eyes to the sky. Overhead small clouds rode like ships at anchor in a perfect watery blue. The Abbot’s tensions relaxed as he took it in. He had detested London for a long time, both the place itself and the people who called it theirs. His bones would never forget the heat and light of Rome, his beloved birthplace and spiritual home. Yet now he found much to be enjoyed in these seagirt islands, with their sweet springtimes and soft summer days.

Of course, it was not Rome. There was nowhere in the world like Mother Rome, no place so fitted to be the center of the faith. A young monk in the City of God truly understood the fight against sin, with Rome’s feast of flesh available every day. Full-bodied girls with eyes like the backs of beetles, lissome pouting youths halfway between boy and girl, tanned and sweating bodies of either sex, endowed with the swell and bloom of peaches and the cleft of ripe plums, yes, Lord, any one of these was temptation enough for a saint.

Rome.

Oh, that glorious, riotous carnival of the flesh!

With a reflexive self-discipline, the Father Abbot put away sensual thoughts and returned to the matter in hand. His soul sank into something like despair. Lord God, Father of mankind, is this your trial of me? On this summer evening, myself lost to the world, working peacefully in my study, and the message comes that a legate from Rome has arrived?

But he was not surprised. As the Holy See advanced its forward march, old hands like himself were vital in building the faith. Where once their task was simply to spread the Word, now they were called on to be architects of the Church Triumphant throughout the isles. The great See of Canterbury was the cornerstone of the faith. York was its younger brother, and men of strength and vision were needed to shape them into what they had to be.

“So you were thought of, Father, even as far as Rome.”

The Abbot suppressed a dry smile. He might have known that an embassy from Rome would not wait tamely in the guest lodgings for the summons to meet. Well, he was as ready as he would ever be. He turned to greet his interlocutor.

He saw a small man of indeterminate age standing in the sunset, wearing an innocent smile. He was dressed in the habit of a simple monk, but the rope round his waist was of silk, and his sandals were made of fine leather, intricately tooled. The pitiless sun of Rome had wrinkled his face like a walnut, and his short body was somewhat stooped, though he held himself like a much taller man. His tonsured head sported a sparse fringe of hair, and the hands protruding from his black habit were sun-shriveled too. Only his eyes had stood the test of time. As clear as the sky, they conveyed both wisdom and wit, and a hint of something else behind it all.

“Forgive me if I intrude on your prayers,” said the little man. “I am Domenico of Tuscany at your service, the emissary from Rome.”

The Father Abbot bowed deeply. “The service and the honor are both mine.” He gestured toward the abbey guest house across the open space. “They made you comfortable, I trust? Is there anything I can get for you now?”

The old man’s laugh reminded the Abbot of a fountain playing in a Roman square. “I am not here for my comfort, brother in Christ. Like our Lord himself, I am a fisher of souls.” He fixed the Abbot with his innocent blue eyes. “And in Rome they are asking of you, what bait, what hook?”

The Father Abbot closed his eyes. Dear Lord, he prayed steadily, You who made the supreme sacrifice, show me the way. He opened his eyes to see Domenico still regarding him closely.

“I have done much here,” he said abruptly, staring back.

“You have, you have,” Domenico agreed amiably, spreading his hands. “Above all in bringing Arthur Pendragon to Christ. The Holy Father himself took note of that.” He cocked his head to one side, and looked around. “Here in this very churchyard, was it not?”

“Even here.” The Father Abbot’s heart swelled with what he knew was the sin of pride. But he pointed firmly straight ahead. To the side of the path just inside the churchyard gates squatted a huge block of stone covered in moss. A trail of green lichen sprouted from an aperture in the top.

The Abbot nodded. “The old Druid Merlin came to ask if he could use our churchyard to proclaim Arthur King. Not only as the heir to the Middle Kingdom, but High King of all the Britons, no less.” He gave an embarrassed laugh. “I did not know the old fraud was planning to fake a miracle. I only thought that if we helped Arthur, he’d be bound to support us in return.”

“And you were right,” Domenico chirped. “Arthur was proclaimed, he won back the Middle Kingdom, and he has favored our faith ever since.” He nodded approvingly. “You did well, brother.” Then his impish twinkle broke out again. “Tell me, how did they do it? The sword in the stone, I mean?”

The Abbot shook his head. “The young men here do it all the time. It’s their way of testing their swords for battle, to try them on stones, trees, anything. The strongest can find the vein of weakness in a stone, to drive the sword in. Then because they alone know how they put it in, only they can pull it out. Merlin had Arthur practice the trick in Gore before he brought him here. The lad did it for his prowess many times.”

The little man lit up with mirth. “No miracle, then?” he chortled almost to himself.

“Not unless you think a broad body and a powerful right arm are a miracle, rather than a simple gift of God. And Arthur has those in abundance, as well as a true heart and a trusting soul.”

There was a pause. “So, brother?” Domenico resumed gently after a while. “I think we all know that you have done well here.”

“But there is more, much more!” The Abbot was startled to hear the passion in his own tone. “I have been nurturing a house of holy women, but its future is far from secure. The Mother Abbess . . . ”

He paused. How to do justice to the Abbess Placida’s puffed-up pride, her joy in cruelty, her meager soul? “Sadly, she is not one of the gifted of God. A great evil grew up there in her time, when one of the sisters proved to be in league with the powers of darkness, and the Mother Abbess was blind to it till too late. I am considering how to relieve her of her post. And I have to oversee the progress of her successor, whenever that may be.”

From the understanding silence, he knew that the legate must have read the reports that he had sent to Rome. Emboldened, he pressed on. “There are many such projects I have in hand. But the greatest has hardly begun. And for that I am ready to lay down my life here.”

“Avalon.”

The word dropped between them like a stone. The old bile rose again in the Father Abbot’s throat.

“Avalon, yes,” he forced out with unconstrained disgust. “The so-called Sacred Isle, source and site of Goddess worship in this land. And the home of that great whore who calls herself the Lady of the Lake, and encourages other women to spurn the control of men.”

All the light had left Domenico’s eyes, and the blue gaze now held nothing but ice.

“The Great Mother,” he said, nodding slowly, weighing every word. “Yes, the great enemy. We have hunted her down from the fringes of the frozen wastes to the Holy Land itself. Country by country, shrine by shrine, we have destroyed her worship to bring these pagans to the love of the one true God. Yet still they hold out.”

“Yes!” cried the Abbot furiously. “And if we can root out their so-called Lady of the Lake from the haunt of the Great Mother, we can set Christian worship in its place!” His eyes misted, and his voice took on a sacral tone. “I see a church rising on Avalon. I see the Cross of Christ surmounting the very Tor. I pray for the time when our rituals have so supplanted theirs throughout the world, when no man remembers that the great Goddess-Whore ever reigned there, ever existed at all!”

Domenico could see the Abbot’s purpose flaming in his eyes. “You reported that the assault had begun. You sent two monks, I think, to treat with the whore of Avalon. How are your soldiers faring against the foe?”

“Boniface and Giorgio, yes.” The Abbot drew a deep breath. “As well as two untried young monks can do. For our first overture, it was vital to send the gentlest souls we had.” And the best-looking too, he could have added, to play upon the old whore’s weakness for male flesh. But he did not have to say this to a man from Rome. “We sent them to ask if they could stay on the isle, and add to the worship there with their own prayers.”

Domenico raised his eyebrows admiringly. “Such a simple thing. How could she refuse?”

“She could not. They were accepted. And living there on the island, along with the Goddess followers and worshipers, they have learned much.” He paused. “Much that will be vital in our struggle to wrest their rituals and relics to Christian use.”

“Their relics, yes.” The eyes of the visitor darkened with desire. “The objects of their worship are fine, I hear.”

The Abbot gave a bitter smile. “Finer than anything we could dream of. They have a great loving cup, a massive plate, a sword of power, and a spear of defense. And all are made of solid gold, studded with jewels and gemstones too. I have made a vow to turn them to the service of our Lord.”

“Yes,” murmured Domenico thoughtfully. “We need gold, to dazzle and win the pagan soul. And we need regalia too, to celebrate the high moments of our faith.”

The Abbot fixed him in his gaze. “From the cup, the pagans claim, their Goddess succors all who come to her. At the Last Supper, our Lord also succored the disciples from His own cup.”

Domenico looked at him inquiringly. “The blessed Holy Grail?”

“The very same. How if—”

He broke off, and steadied his soul for the great leap.

“How if God in His mystery has sent us the Grail here, in this pagan form? How would it be for our faith, if we could get these vessels from the pagans, and make them our own?”

The setting sun flushed all the sky with red. The silence lengthened between the two men. “It would be very good,” Domenico said softly at last. “It would break the power of the Goddess, and draw countless new believers to our side.” A look of naked calculation filled his eyes. “Can you do it?”

“I can if I stay here. Translated to York or Canterbury, I am in another country, another world.”

“Yes, I see that. The fight against the Great Whore is here.”

“And Avalon is not the only battle I have to fight.” The Abbot sighed. “For all our efforts, I still have not won Arthur’s soul. And our dearest enemy lies nearest to his heart.”

“His Druid Merlin?”

The Abbot shook his head. “No, the old madman is no real threat. He comes and goes with the seasons, he wanders with the wind. Our foe is one who whispers in Arthur’s ear, and sways his mind. One who cares for his body, and sleeps in his bed.” A spasm of raw anger knotted his veins. “Guenevere the Queen.”

“Ah, yes.”

“Queen, Arthur calls her! She’s no more than his concubine, the pagan daughter of a line of pagan queens. Sent to Avalon by her mother as a child, to sit at the feet of the Lady and learn her whorish ways. The mother herself was a warrior and a whore. She led her own troops in battle, then pleasured herself with the finest of her knights.” He gave a sardonic laugh. “Their Goddess teaches them that women have the right of thigh-freedom with any man.”

“So the Goddess worship supports the rule of queens,” mused Domenico. His eyes narrowed. “Root out the one, then, and the other must go.”

“And then we know we are doing the will of God,” the Abbot burst out triumphantly, “who does not permit women to rule over men!” He paused, breathing heavily, and his voice took on a deep, imploring tone. “In the name of Christ, let me renew the assault on Avalon.”

“So be it, Father.” The little envoy hitched up his robe. “You have persuaded me. And I shall persuade Rome. You shall stay here.” He smiled, but there was a warning in his stare. “For the time being, at least. There are great changes afoot. If Arthur dies—”

“What?”

Domenico broke off, watching the Abbot’s shocked face. “You did not know?” he went on. “No, I suppose news travels slowly in these watery isles. It happened deep in the forest, near that convent of yours. They say that Arthur was attacked by one of his own knights. He killed the rogue, but he’s hovering between life and death himself.”

“A knight of the Round Table?” the Abbot interrupted furiously. “That cannot be! They are all sworn to defend the King to the death. I myself drew up their order of knighthood, when I persuaded Arthur to regulate his old band of war companions in the Christian way.”

The little man shrugged. “Whoever he was, the rogue knight almost cost Arthur his life. And for sure he’s deprived him of the enjoyment of life, if he survives.” His smile grew even thinner. “Our Lord is with you in your fight against the pagan Queen, it seems.”

“Queen Guenevere? What has she to do with this?”

“They are giving it out that he was wounded in the thigh.” Domenico’s grin was frankly cruel now. “But rumor and gossip tell another tale, one to make all men wince. If the Queen does delight in a man’s flesh as you say, she may be left with half a man, or less. They were nursing him at the convent, but he demanded to die in Caerleon, his kingdom and his home. They’ll be moving him now, if he’s not already gone.”

The Abbot could have wept. Curse that fool Abbess Placida— King Arthur dying under her roof and she had not sent him word? His anger against her hardened like stone. This was the end. Her rule was over; he would send to the convent tonight. No, he would wait till Domenico had departed, and go there himself. Then he would press on to Caerleon, if the King was still alive. That way he would see Arthur, offer him spiritual comfort, renew the bond—

Domenico was still speaking. “Of course, a man so badly injured should never have been moved. But they had to leave the convent after the evil there.”

The Abbot caught his breath. “What?”

“A horror beyond words. Another topic you and I must discuss. And one we shall not solve as easily, I fear, as we have agreed that you will stay on here.”