The
long wooden boat, its sails lowered, glided along the marshy shoals at
the inlet from the mist-shrouded sea.
Standing at the boat’s prow, a cloaked figure guided the boatman
between the rocks, toward the strand, as if knowing the place by
heart.
2
These
were the days after the fall of the kingdoms of Arthur, King of the
Britons, whose sovereignty had run from Cornwall to Wales to the west of Gaul called by some Armorica, by others, Britannia. The
Romans threatened battle to the east; the Saxons and the men of the
North had launched boats upon the southern kingdoms, and it was
rumored that an attack on the coast was imminent. The omens of the
last days emerged through the mist of smoke and ash that touched the
stone-grey sea. Great dark fish of the deep flung themselves onto the
sand, as if the water itself had been poisoned. In the air, flocks of
ravens flew swift along the twisting roads at the edge of the marshy
strand that led to the great rock island, the Dragon’s Mount, which
jutted out from a strand of the southern Armorica coast called
Cornouaille by the Celtic tribes. The priests and bishops called out
for the heathens to be hunted down, for they had brought ruin to the
crops and kept the land unholy and allowed the Saxons and the men of
the North to destroy the holy sites. But those who had known the Days
of the Kings and of the Druid Priests, had remembered the Roman
captivity, called out for the Merlin in the old tongue, hoping that
the ancient mage might save them from the devastation.
Atop
the peak of the Dragon’s Mount, where the rocks flattened like great
altars, soldiers stood vigil lest those who had lost faith during the
fortnight might risk the quicksand marshes and ascend the rocky stair
to the ancient place of pagan worship.
The
year of war and fire lay dying, and the Cauldron of Rebirth, called by
some the Grail, had been lost. The isles of Avalon in the brackish
summer sea turned to haze and even the finest boatmen could not find
them. Those who worshipped the heathen gods went underground, those of
Christendom sought sanctuary in the ruins of abbeys and monasteries
and nunneries and the Roman villas, which had become property of
either church or warlord; the wars continued, even after the great
castles of Arthur, pen-Dragon had fallen and lay in ruin.
All of it, so it
was said, could be laid at the feet of one man, whose infamy had
spread throughout the kingdoms and whose name had quickly come to
mean, simply, “traitor.”
That name was
Mordred.
“Mordred,”
curved upon the lips of those men who sought the source for the
unraveling of the world – as if the word “Mordred” were an eel that
wriggled and slithered along the tongue, many grimaced as the name was
spoken. He was known to be unnatural; a demon; a spirit of malevolence
rising from the miasma; some believed him to be a creature of the
night, drinking the blood of youths; still, others remembered his
mother, and how she had turned to darkness and raised her son in
shadow. A great price of gold and silver had been set upon the head of
this bastard heathen, as well as for the sword he had stolen from the
greatest of Kings of the Britons.
And yet, few could
recognize the face of this man. By legend, he was a hideous, deformed
creature, with the horns of the Bull-god upon his forehead, and the
stench of the grave about him.
The villagers
expected a phantom in the form of a man.
It was to this
craggy shore that a stranger arrived, cloaked and masked.
3
He paid
his fee to the boatman with a sack of gold – and none questioned him,
though rumors spread as fast as fire across a field of drying hay.
A soldier under
Bedevere’s command, standing with his comrades along the Roman wall,
found the boatman soon after his landing. Threatening him and his crew
with death, the boatman confessed that the masked stranger had first
come to him with blood on his hands, blood on his gold, and had only
washed in the sea when the stranger had noticed the boatman’s glare.
“He wears a mask of gold and silver, as I have seen the heathens wear
for their infernal celebrations,” the boatman said.
The soldier struck
the old man hard, and the boatman fell to the earth. “You are heathen
yourself. I see the markings upon your wrist old man. You brought this
murderer to our land to escape his fate among Arthur’s knights.”
Then, he took the
gold from the boatman. Passing it to his companions, the soldier told
them to arrest the boatman until a confession was had as to the
whereabouts of “that bastard Mordred who shall not live to see another
dawn.”
4
And yet, for one
long day and night, the stranger traveled inland, finding the narrow
byways off the main coastal roads, avoiding the trade routes and the
endless run of horsemen and soldiers.
The
nameless days of December passed, the days without sun following the
solstice; the hours since the song of swords had last been sung; many
nights since the last cry had been heard on the battlefields, beyond
the gentle slope of land. The fires had come, and then the silence.
The dead remained unburied where they had fallen; the living had
retreated from the sea to the forest and the inland villages. Smoke
plumed at a great distance, from the still-burning towers along the
sea wall. The sky above, at twilight, ran crimson through thatched
gray clouds, and the local folk who lived along the marshlands and the
fields beyond the ruined castle of the dead warlord, Hoel, felt this
was a sign that Arthur had begun his journey to the Otherworld,
through the isles of Avalon.
The
forest by the roadside grew dark too fast; and omens and auguries were
read by the priests of old, in secret places, and predictions of the
coming year mingled with prophecies of the immortal king. Whispers
rode the wind across the wolf-scavenged battlefield at the plain
beyond the woods. At the far end of the torn castle wall, near the
abbey and the old Roman road, it was whispered that all that had been
found was lost, and all that had been dreamed, disturbed.
Into
this approaching dusk, came that dark-hued stranger, a man of shadows,
like the spirit of one long dead now raised to complete a task. That
phantom, masked and shrouded, carrying a staff that looked as if it
had once been a spear of war.
5
He wore
a heavy, ragged cloak, as a beggar might, and some folk grew afraid
that he brought a plague with him as he skulked beneath the fallen
towers, still blackened and smoldering. His face, covered by that
jeweled mask placed as if hiding a war-scar.
He
grasped his staff, trudging up the dirt road with its markers of pikes
with the heads of traitors upon them. In a time of plenty, he might be
judged a wanderer, but in these dangerous times after the wars, fear
had spread across the land. Strangers brought with them dread. The
kindest among the folk in the village whispered in doorways that this
might be a hermit come to the forests, having retreated from the world
of men in order to fight the demons of temptation. Those of the old
beliefs, those who still kept the antler headdress hidden beneath
their straw mats, or went to beg the Lady of the Wood for herbs and
salves, felt that he might be one of their Druids, perhaps even the
sacred Merlin, disguised as a wanderer.
Those who held to
fearful beliefs thought it might be one of the undead of the
battlegrounds, called the Wandering Ones. These spirits had not been
invited into the Otherworld for crimes they had committed and debts
they owed.
This cloaked man
went along, unmolested, unharmed, and as twilight grew near, he
stopped along the rotting wood and crumbling stone of an old Roman
villa that had but one standing wall left to it.
Here, he slept,
curled nearly into a ball, against the cold stone.
6
He awoke shivering.
Above him, a boy of no more than nine or ten, standing in a peasant
shift, pointing down at him. Beyond the boy, two monks watched his
slow movements as he sat up.
“The soldiers came.
Three nights past,” the little boy said. “Sir Bedevere’s, they told
me. Looking for a stranger, they told me. They promised my father and
brothers gold should any of us find him.”
“That warlord’s
army might have more pressing things to do than raid these villages
and search for one man,” the elder monk said, resting his hand upon
the boy’s shoulder briefly as if for comfort. “Do not be afraid of
these things, child. And if gold is to be had, you shall have it, I’m
certain.” His voice carried with it a wheeze and a cough, and the
young monk with him touched the edge of his hand as if to steady him.
The young monk
moved closer to the stranger, raising his russet robe slightly as he
got down on one knee beside him.
“Is it the devil?”
the boy asked. “They say he has the jaws of a wolf.”
The monk lifted the
stranger’s hood so that he could better see his face. The monk reached
up to the mask that covered the stranger’s eyes, and drew it from
him. He recognized the mask as one used many years before in the
heathen ceremonies, and it was the face of Cernunnos, the Lord of the
Forest. A pagan god’s face, etched into the gold and silver mask.
Around the eyes, amber and garnet stone.
The hunter and
the hunted one.
Beneath the mask, a
face sharply handsome, yet worn as if all his energies had been spent.
The stranger’s eyes
opened and closed as if he believed himself dreaming rather than
waking.
When
the stranger opened them again, the elder monk said, “He has been hurt
much. I dread what will become of him. Yet, we must take him. If not
us, the soldiers. Or the wolves.”
The
stranger’s eyes were warm and a brown-green shade.
Then, the young
monk turned back to the boy and his companion, “This may be the one
who has been sought these many days.”
7
The stranger did
not resist the monks as they took him at the elbows and prodded him
along, for the stranger, despite his youthful appearance, no more it
seemed than a man in his late twenties, yet showed infirmity of limb
and fell once or twice before reaching the monastery gate. The little
boy trotted after the monks alongside the dirt road, and now and then
reminded the elder monk that his father would want the gold “if the
good Sir Bedevere keeps his promises.”
Watching the monks
from a distance, some of the villagers came to the edge of the winter
fields to ask after this prisoner. The boy’s father came, too, and
drew his son back “for the plague may be with him, and demons upon his
robe.” And then, his father shouted after the monks, “I will not
forget what is owed me from this! What my son is owed!”
The elder monk
glanced back at the shouting man, and shook his head when he saw the
folk who had gathered to watch them. He said to the young monk who
shouldered the burden of their captive, “They will want blood. It is
all anyone wants, these days. More so than gold.”
The other monk
remained silent, while the strange man leaned against him for support
as they walked.
At the north gate
into the monastery, which led first to the gardens, the elder monk
said to the younger, “Bedevere will come soon enough for this man. We
must keep him here overnight before the soldiers force their way to
him. I do not want an innocent man murdered in a time like this. Too
much murder has gone on. Too much greed. You will find what he seeks.
Why he is here. If he is the traitor, we shall pass him to the
knight’s men. But if he is not, we shall give him sanctuary.”
8
Inside, they took
the stranger to a room of straw and dirt, and after awhile, in the
dark, he slept again. The heavy-gated door, closed and locked. Though
it was a prison cell, the place held a bit of warmth in the earth and
when he awoke briefly, before falling back to the deepest sleep of his
life, he found a bowl of fresh water near him, as well as a trencher
of bread soaked with milk.
Sometime in the
night, the young monk entered his cell, a slow-burning lamp in his
hand.
9
The stranger sat up
in the straw, stretching his arms over his head as he woke. “Thank you
for the water,” he said, sleepily. “It revived me much.”
“You have great
need of sleep.”
“I have
need of that sleep from which one does not wake,” the man said. Then,
when he tried to move again, he groaned slightly, reaching down to
touch his side. When he noticed the monk’s eyes upon his hand, he
said, “Do not trouble yourself with my pain.”
“You
are wounded?”
“I am
healed,” the man said.
“I want
to see your wounds,” the monk insisted. “They may need tending.”
The captive lay
back on clumps of straw and drew back the fabric of his cloak, but
slightly. Then, he smiled, but did not say a word. He reached to the
stays along his cloak and undid them, up to his throat, and drew out
the curved silver pin that held it in place.
When it opened, the monk noticed the torque that encircled his
neck. He had seen torques in his childhood, but they had been
outlawed by the church and the king as symbols of the heathens. It
was a twist of beautiful gold, a collar band that did not seem too
tight against the muscled cords of the man’s throat.
“It was
given me by one whom I loved much,” the captive said, fingering the
torque, like a slave collar. “It cannot be removed, though I have
tried. But you are after wounds, my friend. I offer them to you.”
Drawing
back his cloak completely, the man reached up with his hands and tore
the thin fabric of his shirt open to his waist. Between the jagged
tears of the cloth, the curves of a lean physique, well-defined
muscles, with a chest that was thick and broad despite his body’s
over-all slender build. Upon his smooth flesh, small tattoos of the
type that adorned the pagan priests – markings in the ancient tongue
that could not be deciphered without risk of heresy. The small image
of the sun itself lay just above the curve of his left nipple, and of
the crescent moon at his right. Three small markings had been etched
just below his navel, with what looked like the welt of a healing
wound that rose from the thin strip of leather at his thigh. He had no
tufts of hair there, as was the old ritual of the forest priests to
remove the body hair of initiates into certain forbidden mysteries and
damnations.
“Yes,”
the man said, watching the young monk. “Are they not beautiful? It is
hard to take your eyes from this art, for it is said that it holds a
glamour for men to look upon it.”
The monk,
transfixed by the body art, his fingers gliding lightly along the
captive’s ridged and taut stomach to his navel, and felt the slight
welt of scar where the tattoos had been made just above his loins. The
man shivered slightly at his touch.
“You
are a most unusual monk,” the captive said, softly, his eyes warming
to the monk’s face. “Would you like to inspect the rest of me before I
am throttled by soldiers? I could step from these trousers that you
might see more of this magickal art.”
His
skin shone with oil and sweat, and when the man drew open the strip of
leather binding at his trousers, and parted the opening, he grinned.
“I have lain with monks before, so if that allows me escape from this
place, then we may know each other freely.” He brought his hand to the
monk’s sleeve and tugged it. “Is this what you wish?”
The
monk drew his arm back, and returned his gaze to the captive’s face.
His eyes seemed
like shiny black stones now where they had seemed warm and bright
beneath the sun, and although the man remained smiling, his lips thick
and curved, he radiated fury.
“I do not wish to…”
the young monk said, his throat dry. “I want only to know.”
“To
know? Is that why do you keep me here? Or is it to sell my head to the
highest bidder?”
“No. But you are
hunted like the forest stag. You are safer here than out in the cold
fields where Bedevere’s men might find you. You are the one who
betrayed the king. And the knight Lancelot. And the Queen of the
Britons, Guinevere.”
“All those?” the
man said. “You know this?”
“I have heard. And
worst of all, to the people of these lands, from here to the islands,
you murdered King Arthur, the greatest leader of the Britons.”
“My father.”
“You are truly
Mordred, son of Morgan le Fay?”
“Yes. I am Mordred. I could lay claim to the family pen-Dragon,
but I do not wish to do so. I am a prince of the Wastelands and of the
isles of Glass and of Avalon and a priest of the sacred Grove. And
only son of the king.”
“Why do
you return here? We had heard you would escape to the Saxon lands, if
alive. But…”
“You
heard I had died, on the field. So here I am, a ghost.”
“Some
reports were of your death, some not. I never believed you were dead.”
“Who
are you not to believe in my death? You seem young to doubt me. How
old can you be?”
“I am
old enough,” the monk said. “I am nearly into my nineteenth year.”
“A
dangerous age to bury yourself in a monastery, little brother monk,”
Mordred said. “Your beauty is like a young stag in springtime. You
should be out in the field dances, or riding a wild horse along the
banks of a river. Chasing nymphs. Or men. The monastery is meant for
old men, but the wilderness is meant for you. Your life has been
shackled.”
“My
life has been pure,” the monk said. “For I was born of sin and must
atone.”
“All
the world, according to monks, born from sin,” Mordred laughed. “Tell
me, pure one, why have you come to me so late? To see my wounds? To
cut off my head as I lay sleeping?”
“No.”
The monk’s face reddened. “I would tend to your wounds, yes. But they
seem healed. I would ask of you that you tell me of your life.”
“Why?”
Then,
the monk said in a voice that was both nervous and hopeful, “That I
might understand all of this.” In his eyes, a glistening of tears, yet
he did not wipe them. “I cannot tell you more, for if I did, I would
have to leave you to your fate. I have been raised among the gardens
and cells of this abbey. My mother died before I reached a full year,
and I have not experienced the world at all. The monastery have been
my lot this whole life.”
“So
tales of my crimes will please you?” Mordred asked.
The
monk nodded.
“So
that when you are on that hard wood bed, in your itchy shirt, after
your evening prayers, you may lie there and think of the great and
evil Mordred to whom you are superior?”
“No, my
lord. Not in any way. But they say the world has unraveled, and the
great knights and the King have passed. And you are the only witness
who has come here who has known these noble knights and ladies of
whom…of whom I speak. I wish for truth, good sir. I wish…” But the
monk’s voice faded, and a troubling look came into his eyes. “I wish
to know.”
“I will
tell you what truth I know,” Mordred said. “If, with each tale, you
allow me one freedom.”
“I
cannot promise freedom.”
“I do
not mean the freedom from this cell. I mean, the freedom with you that
I desire.”
“I have
heard of your desires,” the monk said.
“And I
know the desires of one kept among monks his whole life, one of such
beauty and longing and purity,” Mordred said. “But I need one freedom
to begin, and another when I have finished.”
“Tell me,” the
young monk said.
“For a kiss,”
Mordred smiled, his gaze steady upon the youth who leaned forward
while Mordred rose to meet it, and press his lips against the monk’s.
The young monk withdrew after too long a moment, his face flush-red in
the lamplight.
“Thank
you,” Mordred sighed. “I have not felt so refreshed in days. And now,
where shall I begin? Shall it be when I brought the Queen into the
light of day? Or when, as a boy, I learned of the secrets of the earth
and the lakes. Or of my training with the Merlin, in the eastern arts
of necromancy and of war? I owe you my life tonight, my friend. I will
tell you what you wish to know.”
“All of
it,” the monk said, a slight rise in tone to his voice as if he were
angry now for having given the kiss. “I want to know of Arthur and his
knights. I want to know of meek and beautiful Guinevere, and that
shining knight Lancelot, and the Lady of Astolat. I want to know of
that terrible witch, Morgan le Fay and of her ogre-sister, Morgause,
and of…”
“The
lies that you’ve heard, second-hand, in your monk’s cage,” Mordred
said, his eyes seeming to sadden a bit. “They are not true. Morgan and Morgause were not ogresses, neither were they terrible. In fact, many
men believed them to be the most beautiful and powerful women of their
time. If I tell you the truth, the truth as I know it from my own
memory, tonight, will you help me escape this place?”
Without
hesitation, the monk nodded his head, keeping his eyes on Mordred’s.
“I will. Tell me of your mother. I have heard she was a great
sorceress and spoke with the spirits of the dead.”
Mordred
began his tale. “The king would one day call my mother the
Witch-Queen, and she bore that title as if it were the greatest in all
the world. And that is how I think of her, as the Queen of Witches, of
the Faerie, of Broceliande and of Tintagel and of the Wastelands. But
mostly, I think of her as Queen of the Britons. She was heavy with me
in her belly when first she learned that Arthur, the King, but
seventeen years of age, meant to murder her.”
PART ONE
THE
WITCH QUEEN
Copyright 2005 Douglas Clegg. All rights
reserved, used here with permission.
