Gods' Concubine Page 53

  At the pool’s edge Caela took Harold’s other hand—he was now visibly tense—and together all three, the King of England, a Sidlesaghe, and a woman who was about to become something that not even she had yet fully realised, stepped into the water.

  It was not wet. Rather, it felt to Harold like the soft caress of a warm breeze. Led by the Sidlesaghe and Caela he walked forward until the water reached his chest then, at the insistent tugging on both his hands, and with a quick, silent prayer in his heart, he ducked beneath the level of the water.

  It was a different world beneath, and yet similar. It was a reflection of the world above, only smaller, more compact, and far, far more magical.

  They stood in a green meadow, the grasses weaving about their knees. Above them shone a clear sky—a soft grey—and before them rose a low hill.

  On its summit stood something that Harold could not quite make out. It appeared to be a building constructed of something so indistinct—almost out of focus—that he could not make out its lines.

  He felt a slight squeeze on his right hand—the Sidlesaghe had now let go of his left—and found Caela smiling at him.

  “Is this not beautiful?” she said.

  “Aye,” he said slowly, again looking around. Thousands of Sidlesaghes were wandering about this soft, gentle landscape. They hummed—a sweet, reassuring melody.

  “Aye,” Harold said again, and, after a pause, “What is it?”

  “The Otherworld.”

  Harold jumped. It was not Caela who had replied, but a Sidlesaghe, standing a pace or so away.

  “Am I dead?” Harold said.

  “No,” said Caela. “We are, I think, merely being granted an audience. Look.” She pointed to the hill.

  A figure had emerged from the indistinct structure atop the hill.

  A small, dark, fey woman.

  Caela gasped and, her hand still linked with Harold’s, pulled him towards the hill.

  By the time they reached the hill’s summit Harold was out of breath, but Caela didn’t seem affected by the climb at all. She let go Harold’s hand and wrapped the shorter woman in a tight embrace. “Mag!”

  Harold felt himself freeze in awe. Mag? But was not Caela Mag-reborn?

  The woman, Mag, returned Caela’s embrace, then smiled at Harold. “Mag-who-once-was only,” she said. She reached out a hand for Harold and, hesitatingly, he took it.

  Immediately a sense of peace flowed through him.

  “Will you come into England’s water cathedral?” said Mag, and she drew Caela and Harold forwards.

  She led them into wonder, and the moment they stepped inside Harold realised why it was he found it difficult to put this building in focus.

  It was, unbelievably, constructed entirely of water.

  They had entered a massive hall—columned and vaulted in flowing water. It was the most magical sight that Harold had ever seen, or could ever have imagined seeing. The vast interior of the hall was colonnaded on either side by twin rows of water columns, rising to some fifteen or twenty paces where they merged into a gigantic circular domed vault that rose at least a further twenty paces.

  They walked to the centre of the hall, directly under the dome, and Harold looked down to the floor.

  It, too, was made of water, although it felt solid under his feet. The water (floor) was of a deep, rich emerald colour, but running through it were lines of blue, trailing haphazardly, crisscrossing each other at random intervals.

  Harold raised his head to find Mag smiling at him.

  “The island’s waterways,” she said. Then she stepped forward and embraced Harold with almost as much emotion as she’d hugged Caela. “Thank you for bringing her to us,” she said.

  “It was my pleasure,” Harold said, and Mag laughed, and kissed him on the cheek.

  “We wished she could have found you sooner, but that she found you at all is a blessing indeed.”

  Harold was going to say something more, but then stopped as he saw that a score of shadowy womanly figures had emerged from behind the columns to walk to within several paces of where Mag, Caela and Harold stood. Most appeared in their late middle age, but apart from their shared femininity and the gentle smiles on their faces, that was their only similarity. Some were fair, some dark, some tall, some slim, some plump, some beautiful, some homely.

  Harold gave a small start…there was one other thing all these woman shared in common. They all had knowledge and power shining from their bright eyes.

  For once, Caela seemed as puzzled as he.

  Mag took Caela’s hand, ignoring for the moment the other women. “Caela, you have had trouble accepting the heritage I bequeathed you.”

  “Yes. It has been…difficult. I felt myself empty. Lacking.”

  “Aye. For that you have blamed yourself. Ah, my dear, that was my fault, not yours. Here, let me explain.”

  Mag gestured to the encircling women with her free hand. “These woman are all my predecessors, as I am yours.”

  Caela so forgot herself that she gaped. “There were others before you?”

  “Indeed. I will explain, but first, if they may, my sisters would introduce themselves to you.”

  “I am Jool,” said one of the women. “I came three before Mag.”

  “And I am Raia,” said another. “I came ten before Mag.”

  The woman all introduced themselves in turn. There were thirty-one of them.

  Mag turned to Caela and took both her hands in her own, giving the woman her undivided attention. “I am the thirty-second in line from the dawn of time,” she said. “You will be the thirty-third. All of us have lived long lives, millennia long, and at our given time we have passed into this world, handing on the responsibilities we shouldered to our successor. Part of that succession was, firstly, ensuring that the woman we picked was mated with the land. That normally happened before we left our successor to her work. In your case,” Mag smiled sadly, “well…in your case, events, and Genvissa’s darkcraft, intervened. I was not able to ensure that you had mated with the land. No wonder you found it so difficult in this life.”

  “But,” said Caela, looking between Mag and Harold. “Coel and I…” She stopped, remembering.

  “Brutus murdered Coel before the act was completed, before that moment when both of you sighed in repletion. And besides, that act took place before I had told you of my decision. That was not, in any sense of the word, a true mating of my chosen successor with the land, although the souls were right. You both needed to be reborn into the places you are now to have accomplished the act you have.”

  Caela nodded. Mag had told Cornelia of her plans many months after Coel’s death, the night Genvissa had forced her daughter from her womb.

  “Normally,” Mag said, “the old mother goddess of the land and the waters passes over at the moment her successor and her mate have sighed in repletion. I went too early. I could not aid you to the place that both of you found today.”

  “With the Sidlesaghes’ aid,” said Harold.

  “For my lack of being there,” Mag said, “I apologise from the bottom of my heart.”

  “We all do,” said the woman who had called herself Raia, “for we all should have helped you.”

  “And welcomed you,” said a woman called Golenta.

  “But late is better than never,” said Mag, smiling. “You are here now. And Harold,” she nodded at him, “is here because he is a beloved man both to you and to us, and because all of us need a witness when…” She stopped, and arched a questioning eyebrow at Caela, to see if she understood.

  “Ah,” said Caela, after a moment. “You said that only part of the responsibility in handing on succession was ensuring that your chosen successor was mated—married—with the land. There is something else which needs to be accomplished, and which needs a witness.”

  Mag nodded, pleased. “None of us shares the same name, my dear. And in the past few months, you have felt awkward using the name ‘Mag’, have you not?”
r />   “Yes, indeed.”

  “You have avoided using it,” Mag continued. “It has not felt comfortable to you. That is as it should be. My dear, when each of us came into our own, when we came into that power, that embrace which you know as the essence of this land, its soul, we each chose for ourselves our own name.

  “Now,” she said, “you must choose for yourself a name, as I chose Mag when I shouldered the burden, and as all the other women present chose a name when their turn came. Your name, your goddess-name, is not only most sacred, but most powerful. One day you will wear it openly, but for the time being, until this land is free of the burden which currently consumes it, it will be your secret name, and the more powerful because of that.”

  “I can choose any name I wish?”

  “Indeed, my sweet. But listen, for this is important. Your name will become your nature. It will dictate who you are. You will never be able to act beyond the confines of your name, for be certain that your chosen name will confine you. Do you understand me?”

  “I’m not sure,” Caela said.

  “I chose the name Mag when I ascended,” Mag said. “In the language of the people who lived on this land when I lived only as a mortal woman it means welcoming…intaking…nurturing. I thought it the essence of motherhood, and for me that is what I wanted to be for this land.”

  “Of course. Thus, Mother Mag.”

  “Yes. And as I had chosen that name, so it confined me—and eventually it damaged the land. Can you know of what I speak?”

  Harold saw Caela’s brow furrowing, then it cleared and understanding replaced the puzzlement on her face.

  “Ariadne. When she came begging a home you welcomed her. You took her in, because that was your nature, that was your name.”

  “Yes. Mag was who I was, and it meant that once I took Ariadne in I could not reject her. What mother can reject any of her children? The Darkwitches attacked me, and drew away my power, but that was not the only reason I weakened. The time was coming when I needed to pass into this world and pass on my responsibilities. ‘Mag’ was no longer what the land needed.”

  “You all passed on when the ‘who’ of you became irrelevant?”

  “Aye. And now you must choose your own name, Caela. Your secret name, your power name, your goddess name. Choose well and choose wisely, for it must be a name that will provide this land what it needs to repel the malevolence that assails it.”

  Caela drew in a deep breath, pulling her hands from those of Mag. Harold thought he saw a fleeting expression of panic cross her face, and he didn’t blame her. Choose well and choose wisely…

  For if you don’t…

  Caela turned away, her head down, thinking. She paced very slowly about the room, her arms wrapped across her breasts as if in protection, then, after a few minutes of total silence with all eyes in the hall upon her, Caela came to a stop before Harold.

  She lifted her eyes, staring at him, and Harold felt tears come into his own eyes at the depth of expression and of love in hers.

  “I have chosen,” she said softly, looking at no one but Harold.

  There was silence, and Harold felt the breath stop in his throat.

  “Eaving,” Caela said. “My name will be Eaving.”

  Harold’s breath let out on a sob, and the tears that had welled now flowed down his cheeks.

  Eaving! It was a rustic word, used generally only by shepherds, herdsmen and sailors. Yet, even by these men eaving was a word used only once or twice in their lives.

  Superficially, “eaving” meant shelter, but its meaning went a great deal deeper than that. Eaving was used by shepherds and sailors, men who were exposed to the worst of the elements, to mean “an unexpected haven from the tempest”. They used it when they and their flocks, or ships, were caught in a storm of apparently supernatural anger, which threatened their very lives, and from which there appeared to be no shelter. Then, suddenly, as though god-given, there appeared seemingly from out of nowhere the unexpected haven: an overhanging cliff which protected the shepherd and his flock from the worst of the weather, a small bay or estuary in which a ship could ride out a storm.

  Eaving, the unexpected haven in which to ride out the storm and from where one could re-emerge into the sunlight.

  “You wish to use the name Eaving?” asked Mag. “Once you accept this name you will be tied to it and by it.”

  Eaving turned to Mag, then looked at each of the other women in turn. “It is who I have always been,” she said, “and what I want only to be. Eaving. I accept this name.”

  “Then welcome, Eaving,” said Mag. “Welcome to yourself.” She held out her arms, as if she would embrace Caela—Eaving—but then the hall appeared to disintegrate into its elements, and water crashed about them, and the next thing Harold knew he was standing atop the Pen again, shivering in the cold night air, alone save for Caela who lay at his feet.

  For one terrible moment he thought she was dead, but then Caela rolled on to her back and smiled at him.

  “I feel whole,” she said. Then she held out her arms to him. “Let me make you warm.”

  His shelter from the impending storm…and suddenly all of Harold’s fear and anger and frustration at his approaching, unavoidable death vanished. He knelt down beside her, and lay down, and felt her take him in her arms.

  “Eaving,” he whispered, and then she kissed him.

  SEVEN

  When she returned to her chamber within St Margaret the Martyr’s, it was to find Judith, Saeweald, Ecub and Silvius waiting for her.

  “What has happened?” said Silvius, taking a step forward as Caela entered.

  She looked at him as if slightly puzzled, then smiled agreeably. “I have spent the afternoon with Harold.”

  “Harold?” Judith, Saeweald and Silvius said together.

  To one side, Ecub looked carefully at Caela, and nodded very slightly to herself. So.

  “He is tired,” said Caela. “Dispirited.” She paused, her brow furrowed as if trying to remember something, then said, “Our brother Tostig is dead. Harold killed him at Stamford Bridge.”

  Judith and Saeweald looked at each other, not sure what to say.

  “Caela,” Saeweald said.

  She came to him, and kissed his cheek gently. “Forgive me for being so dispirited these past months, Saeweald. I have come to my senses now. I will do what I must.”

  “What has happened?” Silvius said. He walked forward, and took Caela’s chin in his hand. “Caela?”

  “I am well and I am at peace, Silvius,” she said. “There are no more empty spaces. No more lack. I am this land, I am the soul of its rivers and waters, the wellspring for its fertility. I accept it. I have embraced it.”

  “How is this so?” Silvius asked. His black eye was narrowed, searching Caela’s face. “Why so confident, so—?”

  “Unexpectedly confident, Silvius?” Caela smiled, very gently, and moved her face so that her chin slid from his grip. “I am tired,” she said. “I would rest. Do you mind?”

  As they filed from her chamber, Caela added, quietly, “Ecub, I beg you to stay a moment.”

  “Harold,” said Ecub, once the door had closed behind the others.

  Caela’s face broke into a huge grin. “Yes! Oh, Ecub, you cannot know—”

  “I can guess,” said Ecub, laughing. She stepped forward, taking both of Caela’s hands in hers. “He was your mate, yes? He was your means to marrying with the land. We all should have seen it sooner. Even in the past life, we should have seen it.”

  If anything, Caela’s grin broadened, and Ecub laughed again, and enfolded the younger woman into a tight embrace.

  “There is much I need to tell you,” Caela said when Ecub eventually pulled back.

  “Indeed,” said Ecub. Her face was sober now, her eyes searching. “But what I want to know, first, is why you tell me, and not the others.”

  “I am not sure.” Caela turned and walked to the window, gazing out at the looming shape of Pe
n Hill in the darkness. “There was a caution within me that lifted only when you were the last left in the room.” She turned back to face Ecub. “And perhaps it is because you were the one with me at Mag’s Dance. You were the one to watch me dance Mag’s Nuptial Dance.”

  “And Blangan.”

  Caela smiled sadly. “But she is not here now.”

  “But you are.” Ecub breathed deeply, then bowed low at the waist. “Mother Mag.”

  “No,” Caela said, and Ecub looked up, surprised. “Eaving,” Caela said. “My name is Eaving. Mag has passed, and only I remain.” Caela sat down on her bed, and patted the space beside her. “Sit, and I will tell you all that transpired this afternoon. Oh, Ecub, it was so beautiful.”

  An hour later they still sat on Caela’s bed, their hands gripped, save that now Ecub was weeping, shaken by what she had heard, and by the power of her own joy. Oh, how fortunate she was that she should have lived to hear this!

  Eventually Ecub sniffed, quietened her emotion, and said to Caela, “You are Eaving, the shelterer, but you also shall need a shelter, and a protector.”

  Caela’s mouth curved in a small smile. She had been right to trust this woman as the first—apart from Harold, of course—among those who would know her for who she truly was.

  “I,” said Ecub, “and mine, my sisters, will always be yours. We shall exist for only one purpose, and that shall be to provide you with a haven, in whatever manner you need it.”

  It was a powerful promise, and Caela’s own eyes now brimmed with tears. She leaned forward, kissing Ecub softly on the mouth. “I accept,” she said, “although you may one day regret—”

  “Never!” said Ecub. Then, more softly, “Never. I watched over Mag’s Dance, and saw you come to your own within it. I will watch over you now, and for so long as you need me.”

  Caela nodded. “Thank you.”

  Much later, when everyone else had gone, Ecub bedded Caela down in her chamber. Judith had gone off with Saeweald, and Ecub was glad of it.

  “What is it that you ‘must’ do?” asked Ecub, tucking the bed linens about Caela’s shoulders as if she were a child. “Warn William? Move against Asterion?”