VENTA Belgarum sprawled out from the protective wall of the new citadel like a spiderweb. Uther had reoccupied the abandoned Roman town, shoring up crumbling defenses and building new ones. He had chosen to make a stand against Saxon incursion at the closest defensible point to the growing Saxon Shore. The town’s population had grown considerably since I’d last been here, five years ago. People gravitated to the Ardh Rhi’s protection, swelling the town and straining its resources. On South Hill, outside the riverside town, the old earthwork fortress and ritual maze lay crumbling and abandoned.
Belgaera, home of the Belgae, as we used to call the fortress, had been a trade center on the River Itchen from before the time Roman merchants began the invasion of Britain. Their army finished the invasion. Romans had destroyed the fortress, buried the turf maze, and forced the Belgae to live on the riverbanks.
They’d also done their best to eliminate tribal identity and memory of revered customs.
The trading village of Venta Belgarum was now a city, with a city’s false sense of urgency and crowds.
From the river and the land Uther could launch lightning raids and prepare for invasions originating on the Saxon Shore, south and east from here. Why hadn’t Uther advanced and destroyed the marauders approaching from the rear?
The war against the Saxon invaders consumed the energy of all Britain. And yet the army had defended only a few square leagues around the capital this campaign season. By rights, they should have gone home if Uther’s call to arms proved false.
People bustled along the streets of the city, hawking fresh food, chatting with neighbors, trading livestock. I’d never seen so many people gathered together in one place. Nor smelled anything like it. So many feet churning the mud of the byways, so many slop pots emptied in the gutters, so many unwashed bodies pressed against each other. Was this any better than the devastation I had seen in the North? It didn’t smell any sweeter.
We paused at the junction of several streets. In the center of the intersection, a gaggle of women gathered around the well. The only familiar sight I’d seen in this sprawling ugliness. Women always timed their trips to the wells so they’d meet friends and neighbors. The celebration of sharing the life-giving Dwfr of the Goddess became a social event, an enjoyable moment to relieve the hard work of the day, a way of keeping up on local news. Sometimes the gossip at the well provided me more accurate information than listening to men counsel each other.
I scanned the women, hoping for a greeting or a friendly face inviting me to join them. None noticed anything but the gossip they shared. I hadn’t had the company of women since leaving the Ladies of Avalon, and I missed them.
Da directed me deeper into the maze of streets, always following the Roman road — the only pathway that wasn’t overflowing with mud and debris. Still longing to linger with the women at the well, I didn’t follow immediately.
Men bumped against me, never apologizing in their haste. Traders by their clothes and fat purses. I stared at their retreating backs, stunned by their rudeness.
“’Tis unnatural, Da. How can they honor Dana when they are more concerned with getting where they are going than how they get there?”
“This whole city saddens me, Wren. But the Ardh Rhi keeps his hall and court here. The presence of the army camp swells the numbers who live here. We must report to Uther without delay.” The webbing of worry lines deepened as he squinted his eyes and touched his torc. His frown deepened. He looked long and hard into the distance. I wondered if he looked into the past or the future. He hadn’t laughed in weeks, mad laughter of prophecy or mundane laughter of joy.
A hand stole into my pocket. “Ungrateful bitch!” cursed a ragged man who leaned upon a crutch and peered at me with one malevolent eye.
I glared back at him, daring the thief to comment further about the emptiness of my pockets.
Then he spotted the harp upon Da’s back. His hand clenched, little and index finger pointed outward — a ward against Cernunnos, the horned god of the Underworld and patron of witchcraft.
“Sorry, Father Bard. Didn’t mean no offense.” The thief bowed and tugged his forelock in subservience. “But a man’s got to eat, can’t eat in the city without coin to buy food.” He continued bowing and apologizing with every muscle in his decrepit body. Each bow took him another step backward.
“May Dana feed you when the hearts of men ignore our tradition of hospitality and charity.” Da nodded his own apology for having nothing to share with the thief.
“Ain’t no Goddess ever fed me. Only me — what I could earn or steal. Even the Christian monks only give to the likes of me three times. Then I gots to earn my keep by praying to their God. No thanks. I’ll take me chances on the street.” He turned and hobbled away, his right fist still clenched in the ward against Cernunnos and his followers.
“The Saxons should raze this city so we could start anew,” I whispered.
“Hush, Wren. Keep your thoughts to yourself. Who knows which ears listen. You of all people should know how listeners hide while they gather their crop.” Da turned and led me to a bulky pile of stone full of unnatural straight lines and sharp corners that could only be the Roman Citadel beside the Roman garrison.
Troopers stood at each of the Citadel gates. Beyond them sprawled a courtyard and more armed men. They appeared more interested in polishing their weapons than using them on the Saxons. No one acknowledged us or questioned our entrance.
“Such laxness does not speak well for the discipline of their supervisors,” Da said as soon as we were out of earshot. “We aren’t even trying to remain unseen.”
“Where is the army, Da?” I searched every corner for a glimpse of Curyll and spotted only a few common soldiers.
“Their camp is a league east of here at Cheesefoot Head. We approached from the north. And, yes, they should have marched to meet the enemy many months ago. I fear the kings keep their warbands close for more sinister reasons than to guard the capital from enemy invasion.”
We passed numerous outbuildings, stables, storerooms, and barracks on our way to the central stone tower. A small round structure of carefully dressed stone stood in sharp contrast to the ugly squareness of the Roman garrison that Uther now called home.
“What is that?” I pointed to the elegant little building. Power emanated from the stones and drew me toward it like lodestone to iron. The building sat astride a well rising from a sacred spring. I hadn’t realized I was thirsty, physically and spiritually, until I smelled the clean water. I knew that if I stepped beneath the low lintel into that Power, I would be bathed in beauty and peace.
I knew that if the well were not confined to a building, the power would spread throughout the region. All would be fruitful and peaceful once more. The crippled thief wouldn’t have to steal to eat. Hospitality would come from prosperous farms throughout Britain. The Saxons, and their gods, wouldn’t be able to land on shores dedicated to the Goddess in all Her personae.
“’Tis the chapel of the White Christ, built by the Romans,” Da said simply and turned his back on the pulsing and glowing stones.
The Goddess didn’t need buildings to define a place of worship. Her blessing was dispensed to all, not just those who gathered within a chapel to pray.
I remembered Father Thomas at Lord Ector’s fortress. He, too, had radiated the same sense of Power. But he’d expanded his magic to include all of the believers present, not contained it within himself. Why the difference?
My simple spell with the cat seemed very weak and childish in comparison to the faith in the one god that clung to the priest and the Roman Chapel in nearly visible layers of magic power. Power that excluded Da and me because we did not believe.
o0o
“Ho, Father Merlin!” A tall, dark-haired man stopped us in one of the innumerable corridors of the Citadel. He wore the half mail tunic of a marchog, one of Uther’s elite mounted warriors. An immense sword lay sheathed across his back. His hood of mail was thrown back and no helm protected his head, as was appropriate for indoors.
The fact he wore armor inside the Ardh Rhi’s caer told me that peace rested uneasily within and without these walls.
The darkness within the marchog’s gray-blue eyes beneath his prominent brow made me wonder what secrets lurked there. He carried his bulky muscles and large bones with an aggressive assurance that told me I didn’t want to probe deeper for those secrets without permission.
“Lord Carradoc.” Da raised his right palm in the Roman greeting of peace.
Startled by the distant gesture when our people habitually met with a kiss of peace, I slipped behind Da. Over his shoulder, I watched the interplay between the two men.
“Up to your old tricks I see, Father Bard. Appearing out of nowhere when we least expect you, with knowledge far beyond the ken of mortals.” Lord Carradoc slapped Da heartily on the shoulder.
Da stood unflinching, despite the blow that must have hurt. He captured Lord Carradoc’s hand and turned it to read the palm. “What is knowledge but observation and long memory?” he asked. Delicately, he traced the lifeline of the lord’s palm.
“And what do you observe in the calluses and creases of a simple warrior’s hand?” Carradoc’s shoulder muscles tightened as if Da’s touch burned and Carradoc must prove his courage with this test of pain.
He stood half a head taller than my tall father. Broader at the shoulder and just as narrow in the hip, he carried himself with the self-assurance of a natural leader. Only a few traces of silver glistened in his black hair, giving evidence of his maturity. His posture reminded me of Curyll, but this man was much older, nearly as old as Da. A seasoned warrior.
A false note rang through his voice and gestures. I could find no specific thing about the man to make me wary. Yet my senses suddenly came alert, looking for danger — or lies.
Few of his class lived to see their third decade complete. He must be very powerful or very lucky.
Would Curyll be wily and strong enough to live to this man’s advanced age? Only if I found him soon and helped in whatever task the faeries thought he needed. Perhaps this big man, who stood squarely in our path, could help me find my friend.
Distrust rang in the back of my head. I hesitated to become obligated to Carradoc for anything.
“I see a life that is troubled but long,” Da said, still tracing the lines of Carradoc’s palm. “A life that endures beyond the grave. You have many triumphs ahead of you, Lord Carradoc. But pain and betrayal follow you every step of the way.” Da dropped the lord’s hand.
“Superstitious nonsense.” Carradoc rubbed his palm against his metal-studded leather tunic as if it truly burned — or were dirty. “The trouble part I believe. Saxons encroaching on all sides, three demanding daughters with tongues so sharp no man will have them, and Uther — I make my own destiny, Father Merlin. Now, let me escort you to your quarters. You must be tired and hungry after your long journey.” He gestured us back along the corridor we had just traversed.
“Da,” I whispered as I tugged his sleeve. “Ask him about Curyll.”
“Ask yourself, Wren.” Da drew me from my hiding place behind him.
“Wren? Can this be the little girl I bounced on my knee when first you brought the tot to court, Merlin?” Carradoc’s eyes widened. A glint of an emotion I couldn’t read brightened his gaze.
“Forgive me, for I have no recollection of meeting you, sir. I must have been very young.” I ducked my head away from his penetrating stare.
“I find you well grown and lovely, little Wren. Allow me to escort you to the women’s bower. After you have rested, perhaps you will allow me to show you Venta Belgarum. Some of us still honor the Old Gods. The eve of Samhain, three days hence, is occasion for bonfires and dancing and other pleasant diversions. It would please me to escort you through the labyrinth dance.” His outstretched arm curved to gather me into an embrace.
One step sideways put me out of reach. “Samhain is more appropriately celebrated with prayers and fasting behind stout doors where the dead and the dwellers of the Other-worlds can’t lure us to our doom.” I scowled at the lord.
“My daughter will stay by my side, Lord Carradoc. When we have reported to the Ardh Rhi, I will escort her to the women’s bower where she will be safe from unwanted attention of men.” Da placed himself between the warrior and me.
“A virgin, eh? Place her brideprice high, Father Merlin. You’ll be a wealthy man by Samhain and a grandfather by the feast of Lleu.”
“My daughter’s destiny lies elsewhere. My duty is to protect her at all costs.” Da continued to stare at Carradoc until the big man squirmed in discomfort.
He forced his gaze away from my father’s eyes. Da touched his torc with one hand and captured Lord Carradoc’s chin with the other. Then the lord’s vision turned glassy and unblinking. His body grew very still, halted in mid-word, mid-gesture.
“Allow us to pass. The Ardh Rhi has need of us,” Da said firmly.
Carradoc continued to stare straight ahead, unresponsive.
Da waved a hand before the man’s face. Carradoc did not blink or move. His gray-blue eyes glazed over. His mouth froze, half open as if about to speak.
We slid around his big body.
“You must teach me that spell, Da.” I stared over my shoulder at the warrior, wondering how long the trance would last. When Da had tried it on Curyll, it lasted only a few moments.
“No spell, Wren. Merely a trick you can teach yourself if you put your mind to it.” He tapped his temple and smiled knowingly. “Carradoc only believes himself asleep. He will awaken with no memory of our conversation or his lust for you.”
A light snore escaped our recent obstacle.
If he believed himself asleep, then wouldn’t he be asleep? I asked myself. No use putting the question to Da. He’d merely tell me to think it through.
“Why did he divert us away from the Ardh Rhi?” I asked instead.
“Why indeed, Wren? We shall soon find out. And perhaps we will also find out why the army remains idle here rather than protecting all of Britain as they should. This way.” We turned down another corridor.
“I believe we have found Uther Pendragon’s lair,” Da said quietly, halting our progress.
Tall double doors marked the end of the passage. Four alert and heavily armed men guarded the portal. Spears snapped as two guards crossed them, blocking our way. Beside them, two more soldiers put hands to sword hilts and stepped forward.