"To teach them patience," Vivienna explained with a gleam in her eyes and a lilt of laughter in her voice. They circled back and around seven times, passing monks at work in the orchards, harvesting the last of the apples and pears and repairing the labyrinth walls.
The low spires and arched windows of Glastenning Abbey rose from the very summit, dark and forbidding against the cloud-lashed sky, offensive in Covianna's eyes for squatting so leechlike on the Mother's breast. She smiled and nodded to monks she secretly loathed and daydreamed about someday having the personal power necessary to drive the Christian church out of Britain, returning her people to the ancient ways that had been preserved in her family's lore.
It would be rather nice to go down in history as Covianna the Apostate, Queen of Britain and Empress of the Celts. She had to bite back a burbling laugh at such an image, torn between outrageous humor and the self-mocking realization that such an outcome was very, very unlikely, if only because the Christians, once they'd gained a toenail's hold on a piece of turf, utterly refused to let go until they'd swallowed down the whole ruddy thing, indigestible bits along with the rest.
The trick was to be placed to take advantage of whatever change might be in the wind—and Covianna was more than half convinced that the Saxons' day had come, or soon would. Whatever miracles Artorius managed to pull out of the seat of his britches this time, the day of the old guard was done, for the world had changed and nothing Artorius did could stop that reality from crashing down on all their heads, whether it crashed on them during this battle or one next year or next decade. It was nothing more than breathing room, a delay of the inevitable disaster, that Artorius fought for, a bitter folly that was killing Britons and smashing British futures under men who would all too soon be their new masters.
What might it be worth to a Saxon king like Aelle, to have the way smoothed for a peace that would prevent needless slaughter of Briton lives? It was only when men like Aelle were crossed and humiliated, as Ancelotis had humiliated Cutha, that their tempers turned savage and butchery of innocents commenced. There had been no such slaughter when Wessex had joined ranks with the Saxon kings. Yes, much might be gained by helping the Saxons to a peaceful takeover of key Briton strongholds.
She could do nothing about Caer-Badonicus, but Glastenning Tor was another matter. And there was one more thing in the Saxons' favor, from Covianna's viewpoint. The Saxons were still a decently non-Christian group of pagan souls. She felt far more in common with the likes of Aelle than she did with the abbot who presided over the rape of the Goddess Brigit's most holy shrine. What worth could be placed on the restoration of one's faith and the destruction, stone by hated stone, of the abbey perched so hideously atop the Tor? Covianna would risk much, to see that fate brought down upon Glastenning Tor's abomination.
As they came around the last upward turn of the labyrinth, the abbey grounds opened out onto a relatively flat summit. Wind blew briskly, full of gusting rain and biting chill. The dour stone walls rose forbiddingly against the slate of sky and storm. It was not a particularly large abbey, although Covianna supposed it would be enlarged in due time, as the abbey's power and wealth continued, like cancer, to grow. A young monk Covianna didn't know, barely seventeen, if that, met them near the abbey's heavy wooden doors. "Is there trouble?" he asked, hurrying across the small plaza.
Covianna's mother reassured him, "No, not immediately. The Dux Bellorum has sent Emrys Myrddin to look over the Tor's defenses."
Relief and worry chased by turns across his young face. "I'll take you to see the abbot at once. Father Elidor is in his chamber at this hour, going over the abbey's accounts."
"That will be fine, thank you," Myrddin nodded courteously.
The monks of Glastenning Abbey had learned, long ago, the folly of trying to keep the women of Covianna's family out of the abbey when professional business was involved; their escort merely guided them inside without even a brow raised in protest. Their footsteps echoed across the stone floor. Dark walls rose around them, claustrophobic, with squat columns and ugly arches and high, narrow windows.
The windows were the abbey's only attractive feature, as most of them had been glazed in beautiful colors by the smithies of Glastenning Tor's glasshouses, who had been making colored glass for centuries, learning the skill from Roman artisans. The patterns were simple, the pieces shaped to an approximate fit and held together by strips of soft lead. Little squares and circles of white and yellow light, punctuated here and there by more expensive greens and blues and reds, fell in lovely geometric shapes where the dull, fitful daylight passed through into the darkness of the room. The masterpiece was above the altar, a mosaic in glass, depicting the death of Christ. For all its beauty, it was still abomination in Covianna's eyes, a temple dedicated to death erected on a hill sacred to the deity of life.
They stepped through a doorway behind the altar and found themselves in the monks' private quarters, a long and even uglier building adjoining the church. Tiny cubicles lined the dingy corridor, empty now, as their occupants were hard at work elsewhere. The abbot's room lay at the far end, larger than the other cells, to accommodate the abbot's worktable, accounting records, and manuscripts he was studying. Covianna could hear the quiet scratch of goose quill on parchment as Father Elidor made careful notations. Head bent, absorbed in his work, he didn't hear their approach until their guide tapped at the open door. Elidor looked up in surprise, pausing with quill suspended midair, the tip glistening with wet ink in the light cast by his oil lamp.
"Lady Vivienna has come up from the village, Father."
"Vivienna? What is the trouble?" He rose to his feet, frowning. When he glanced at Covianna, standing behind her mother's shoulder, his eyes widened. "My dear child, you've come home at last!" He hurried forward, smiling in open delight.
She accepted his embrace graciously. "It's good to be here," she murmured with perfect honesty. "I've brought Emrys Myrddin with me."
Elidor frowned as he turned to greet his unexpected guest. "I'm sorry to meet you under such circumstances. It must be drastic news, to bring you to Glastenning Abbey. How can we help?"
Myrddin clasped his arm in greeting, then said, "I would like a tour of the entire abbey, its safe rooms, lockable doors, approaches not only up the hill, but through doors and windows, weak points that would be difficult to defend. There must be room for the townfolk to shelter here, as well, should a real crisis develop." Elidor was nodding. Myrddin added, "Do any of your men know the use of arms?"
A grimace came and went. "To my sorrow, yes, all too many. There are former soldiers among us, men so distressed by the killing they've waged this past decade, they have renounced the sword and sought refuge with God. But if it comes to seeing women and children butchered, I believe even they will find it easy to lay aside the commandment to turn the other cheek, and follow instead Christ's admonition that if a man has not a sword, let him sell his cloak and buy one."
A smile, bittersweet, chased its way across Myrddin's lips. "A good thing to remember in these troubled times. Very well, the sooner we begin, the sooner you will be prepared."
The tour was thorough, with Elidor himself serving as guide, joined by half a dozen of the senior monks, who made notes as Myrddin made specific suggestions, often sketching out the defense works to be added to the labyrinth's existing walls.