“It’s no fancy, that,” Cormac said, and his bearing was grim. “Given time, this Church will destroy the worship of all other gods. Hang your Bishop Paternus, Howel; see him swing and make it known ye’ll be having none to replace him. An rulers enow act so, the Cross-worshipers may yet be stopped.”
“Not by the hanging of bishops!” Howel said. “Were it so simple, Cormac, the spread of this faith had been stopped long agone, by the rulers of Rome’s Empire. The gods know their power was greater than mine, and yet they failed.”
Morfydd gripped his hand and shoulder. “Listen to Cormac mac Art, my dear lord! You can do something, if you cannot do everything! Well may you save yourself from seeing the ruling power slip into the Church’s hands within your lifetime, our people tortured and slain for worshiping the old gods!”
“True is that,” Cormac agreed. “Is knowing on ye what the Christians dare claim? Ye must have heard it time and again from the Bishop of Vannes! They say their god is the only god, all others being false demons who deceive men. They say that Arawn-Cernunnos, the Horned God, as the Romans called him when they found him worshiped in Gaul-is the greatest and worst, and make him one with their own arch-demon. I forget me what name they give him.”
“Satan,” Morfydd supplied.
“It’s only fools they are,” Howel said impatiently. “The Antlered God was worshiped in Gaul and Britain ere Christianity was ever heard of, or Rome either.”
“As we well know! The Christians do not, or care what is true-the ignorant, rigid-minded clods! They’re after believing whatever their bishops tell them!”
“Enough!” Howel was beginning to grow angry. “I know my own demesne, Cormac, and by the gods I still rule it! You will see. Come to the ring of standing stones in the Forest of Broceliande upon the Night. It is very near now. See what multitudes of folk attend the old rites, long though the journey is. Then tell me the Church and its bishops are a threat!”
Well, Cormac thought wearily, I tried. Mayhap Morfydd can make him see sense, when they are abed,together. He loves her. Knows he not the Church calls her a witch, and would joyfully burn her alive?
“We spoke of the Horned One,” Howel said. “You will be knowing I personify him in the rites, and take his spirit upon me. Mayhap then I will know what these skyward portents mean. I cannot promise to recall it fully when I am a mortal prince again, but an I do I’ll share the knowledge with you, Cormac.”
“Cormac… why should you not take part in the rites yourself?” Morfydd suggested. “You too are a descendant of kings.”
“I?” Cormac was half startled, half drawn to the notion. “What should I do?”
“Be Winter, in the combat of Winter and Summer.” Morfydd looked at him, appraising his height; his hard, rangy form leanly muscular as a wolf’s; the black hair and dark, sinister face. “You more than look the part!”
“I should,” Cormac said broodingly. “It’s at Midwinter I was born… all save the most hardy babes entering the world on that night are keened for ere spring.”
“Who could be better?”
“Hmm. Who’s to personate Summer?”
“Garin the shore-watcher. He’s known to you.”
Cormac nodded, thinking of the golden-haired, outgoing warrior. Aye, Garin was well chosen for his part in the ritual conflict. Twice yearly it was fought, at Midsummer and Midwinter, and held strong meaning for folk whose lives were regulated by the changing seasons. In the depths of the bleak season, the symbolic defeat of Winter by Summer gave hope for the future, when it seemed the dark and cold might swallow all the world forever. At the height of Summer, the outcome was reversed, as a boding reminder that time was burning and that after this night, the Sun’s power must commence to wane. It lent a certain spur to industry at the harvest.
“A good man,” Cormac said, speaking of Garin. “Well then, I’ll be matching meself with him at the standing stones.”
“An it’s Winter you’re to be,” Morfydd said smiling, “it were best you not wear that talisman you have about your neck! Surely it partakes of the power of Behl, the Blessed Sun.”
“I’ve been told so, Cormac answered, noncommittally. He balanced the Egyptian sigil on his hand, frowning at it. The mage Zarabdas’s words rang in his ears.
…and sorcerers stand across your path, and wraiths of darkness fly from the shadows. Whether you or they will triumph, I cannot know. In this only can I advise you helpfully; keep ever on your person the golden sigil you once showed me. It will aid you.
Words!
Had the serpent of gold aided him to see the Basque ships as they really were, in that southern sea-fight? Cormac doubted it. He put small faith in sigils and talismans. Besides, he was among friends here, and surely it was true that would not be fitting for him to wear a symbol of Behl the life-giving Sun for his chosen part in the Midsummer ceremony. He’d give it to Garin then, just afore they entered the ring of standing stones in the forest north of Vannes. Any dark power would be hard tested to touch him at a place of such holiness!
“Garin may wear it, during our ‘battle’,” he said.
13
Expectancy wafted sweet over Howel’s land. Every farmstead and tiny village felt it. From the town of Vannes it was shut out in a measure, held at bay by the stone walls, the stone streets, and the stone houses, and by the disapproval of the Church. Yet as Midsummer Eve approached, many folk went out through the gates even of Vannes, to travel north. They went alone, and in pairs and in family groups. The roads Rome had built were yet in sufficiently good repair to make the going easy. Two such intersected in the ancient, sacred forest of Broceliande, where a number of Druid groves had survived the axes of Caesar’s men because secrecy and magic had kept them hidden.
Then came Prince Howel himself, from his island estate in the Little Sea. His indigo-sailed galley rowed into the harbour of Vannes with the prince, his lady and a bright entourage aboard-conspicuous among which were a massive redbeard from the northern lands and a grim, dark warrior in dark mail.
“I mislike cities,” Howel said, sniffing the air. Rank it was with the taint of rubbish and sewage in too-great amounts. “They stink, and hem a man in. We’ll be parting for Broceliande on the morrow, but this night I must pay a courtesy call on Bishop Paternus.” He smiled with heretical sarcasm. “Would you and Wulfhere like to bear us company, Cormac?”
The Gael’s thin lips curled in answering mockery. “Not I, thank ye. I’ll not be speaking for Wulfhere. He might enjoy it. What say ye, old sea-dragon? Here’s a golden chance to have mended those mildewed places in your soul.”
Wulfhere snorted. “Thanks for naught, hatchet face! The last time I spoke with one o’ these cross-worshiping bishops was in Britain. Some swindling smith had taken me for a gull, so I showed him his mistake by hauling him into church by the scruff of his dirty neck, and a haltered heifer with my other hand. I cannot say which bawled louder! I forced the local bishop to marry them there before the altar. It might have been a good joke, but the Christian marriage ceremony proved so tame it fell flat, and I burned the church to ease my disappointment.” Wulfhere shrugged: “I cannot say if this Paternus has heard of it, although he may have done. ‘Tis sure that if he’s heard any sort of description, he’ll know me by it… there be not two men like me anywhere…”
“Agreed, and the gods be thanked!”
“Thus I’ll bide here.”
Morfydd smiled. “You are splendidly tactful, Captain. I’d as soon do likewise, but among other things, I’ll not have this robe-wearing fellow think I fear to confront him.”
So Howel and Morfydd, with a few trusty personal servants, spent the night in the house of Bishop Paternus. The rest of their entourage readied horses and provisions under the orders of Garin. All preparations were well made by the time the rulers of Bro Erech returned the next morning.