“And as prime among Eaving’s Sisters, and the one who watched over Pen Hill in our last life,” said Charles, “you are the one to lead the Circle.”
“Yes,” she said. “Louis, you shall need to disrobe. We come into this naked, as do the stones. Charles, bring me the box.”
Louis removed his shoes, then shrugged off his hastily donned shirt and breeches, dropped them to the floor, then walked naked to the bed, climbed into it, and sat cross-legged where Marguerite indicated.
She and Charles also sat, cross-legged, equidistant from Louis and each other, and Marguerite took the box, opened it, and removed the turf.
Taking a deep breath, she held it reverently in her hands, then suddenly cast it upwards, towards the ceiling, calling out at the same time a word that the two men could not quite make out.
The turf hit the plaster with a distinct thud, then fell back towards the bed and, as it did so, transformed.
Marguerite, Charles and Louis gasped. The turf shimmered, then flattened and expanded all at once until it became a large circle of lustrous emerald green silk, fluttering gently towards the bed.
It settled in the centre of the Circle, stilled for a single heartbeat, and then began to rumple, rising and falling into hills and valleys, moors and fields until it represented a relief of the land of England.
Marguerite reached out a hand. It trembled a little, and she had to clutch it momentarily in order to still it. Then she said, “Eaving? Eaving? Where are you?”
The emerald silk again moved, now forming a lake, and then it shimmered once more, and its surface became opaque, then clear until an image formed within it.
A great house that sat nestled in rolling hills.
“Woburn Abbey,” Charles said.
“You know it?” said Louis.
Charles nodded. “Aye. I’ve been there twice as a child. Woburn Abbey is home to the earls of Bedford. Gods…Eaving? Are you there?”
Again the silk shimmered, and the image of the house rushed towards them until a single window occupied the entire silken lake, and in the window…in that window…
In that window a girl of some sixteen years lay in a bed. As if she felt the weight of their regard, she woke, and rose so that she sat staring out of the window. She was beautiful, her heavy hair framing a face made almost luminous by its pale, translucent skin, and containing the most wondrous pair of deep blue eyes.
Her mouth moved, forming soundless words, but each of the three watchers heard them in their minds.
Brutus? Brutus? Is that you, Brutus?
The image faded, and Charles put his face into his hands, and groaned.
Marguerite hesitated, then picked up the silk and folded it into a tiny square in her hands where, once again, it became the piece of browned turf and crumbled soil.
They sat a very long time in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, until finally Charles stirred himself.
“She is in Woburn Abbey in Bedfordshire,” he said.
“Far from London,” said Louis.
“Far from Asterion,” said Marguerite. “For now.”
She put the turf back in its box, put the box into the centre of the circle they still formed, and for the rest of the night they sat there, staring at it, their thoughts filled with Eaving.
Woburn Abbey, Bedfordshire
NOAH SPEAKS
Ah, gods, to wake up and feel him staring through the window at me! Not even Asterion suddenly appearing all leering and lecherous beneath the sheets could have killed the joy of that single, fleeting moment.
I felt Mother Ecub there, too, and Coel. All three of them, close, bonded with a deep friendship and loyalty and something else…a sexual intimacy, I think. Their shared closeness reached out and touched me, comforted me. Their care enveloped me, nurtured me. All in that instant.
But of all that love and care and intimacy that had reached me, what I remembered long into the night as I sat there in my third-floor bedroom, arms about my knees, was how Brutus had felt as his presence had merged so fleetingly with mine. He felt…oh, I don’t know. Distant perhaps, but then Brutus was always distant. Uncertain, and that was something new. Unsure, and that heartened me.
I sat there through the long night, my arms wrapped about my legs, my chin resting on my knees, and wept for sheer joy. I had been three years at Woburn Abbey, and it had been a good three years for me. Lady Anne, the Countess of Bedford, was a kind woman, if a trifle reserved to the point where she sometimes gave the entirely wrong impression of distance. But she loved me in her own way, and had accepted this poor, distant cousin into her family as one of her own.
She put me to school with her children where I tried not to befuddle the tutor, the Reverend John Thornton, with my knowledge of history, as well as several ancient languages. She dressed me in clothes that her own children wore: sober clothes during my early years with her, but now, in my seventeenth year, she allowed me more brightly coloured and daringly cut textiles. I loved the clothes! Oh, this was Cornelia emerging all over again, and I did not begrudge her this delight: the stiff-boned bodices, the full skirts, the embroideries, the silks and satins, the cascading lace of chemises and underskirts, and the delightful brocaded slippers with their daring scarlet heels. Cornelia revelled in it all, and so did I, for which I felt no guilt. The earl and his wife were Protestants, and toed the public line when it came to parliamentary-imposed puritan prudery, but at home, among friends, they still delighted in rich fabrics and the occasional daring neckline. The ivory swell of breast by candlelight was still an indulgence much appreciated by the earl, and I (as well as Lady Anne) was not one to deny him this.
As I grew older, beyond the reach of childhood, I would sit with the earl and countess at night, often with John Thornton joining us, and enjoy the conversation. I remember one night arguing the point that a saint may have been canonised for his good works and service to the Church, but none of that mattered when he remained a tyrant at home.
That night we had been discussing Edward the Confessor, and I suppose that both the Bedfords and Thornton were a little put out by my vehemence on this subject.
As I grew older I became Lady Anne’s companion. Not quite one of the intimate family, but much closer than a servant. I ate with the family, was educated with the family, and travelled with the family on their various excursions about their estates and to the estates and house parties of their neighbours.
But not to London. When the earl and countess made the occasional (and it was occasional, now that the king was dead, and his heir exiled) journey to their London townhouse, I always made the excuse to remain behind. To watch over one of the babies, perhaps, or to attend to one of the more difficult Latin translations that John Thornton had set me. I know this irritated Lady Anne and her husband, but there was little I could do about that.
I could not go to London. Not with Asterion undoubtedly haunting its streets and byways.
I might avoid London, but over the years, and particularly since Long Tom came to me on my journey to Woburn, I had come to terms with what my fate would be.
Asterion’s whore. So be it. I could accept that, I could use it, and I would not allow it to defeat me. I had seen how Genvissa-reborn, Swanne, had allowed it to consume her in our previous life, and I had learned from her error.
The Minotaur (and his dreadful imp) might choose to dictate the boundaries of my life, but they did not own me, and they could not touch who I essentially was: Eaving.
That Asterion’s imp lived inside my womb in this life was undoubted. It was quiescent, but I could feel its life inside me, like some dark child. Caela had not realised its presence, but I did. My monthly cycles were bloody and painful: Asterion’s curse, I had no doubt. But I did not allow those to defeat me; I did not allow them to depress me. Instead, I embraced them. I was Eaving, and I would survive.
I knew what I had to do. Long Tom had been very clear on that point. I had to make amends with both Brutus and Genvissa-reborn, and I had to learn the duties and steps of the Mistress of the Labyrinth.
Those amends would be difficult, and I dreaded them, but that other thing that Long Tom had told me—that the Lord of the Faerie would walk once more—delighted me beyond measure. The Lord of the Faerie was an ancient memory bequeathed to me by Mag. From her memories I knew that Mag had never met him during her long lifetime, but she certainly had known about him, and because I now carried her knowledge, I also knew about him. Both myself and my lover, reborn as the Stag God, were citizens of two worlds: this mortal one, and the faerie world. When the Sidlesaghes had taken myself and Harold to the water cathedral, there to meet and talk with Mag, they had taken us through the Realm of the Faerie to the very borderlands of this life and the next. The Sidlesaghes themselves were inhabitants of both worlds, but more creature of Faerie than mortal.