I smiled. My father’s wife had tried to convince me that such a life was a woman’s highest hope, but I had always known that sooner or later I would be going to Avalon. That it was sooner was due to the rebellion of a general called Postumus, whose war had cut Britannia off from the Empire. Unprotected, the south-eastern coasts were vulnerable to raiders, and Prince Coelius had thought it best to send his little daughter to the safety of Avalon while he and his sons prepared to defend Camulodunum.
For a moment then my smile faltered, for I had been the apple of my father’s eye, and I hated the thought that he might be in danger. But I knew well enough that while he was away from home my life there would not have been a happy one. To the Romans I was my father’s love-child, without maternal relatives, for it was forbidden to speak of Avalon. In truth it was Corinthius and old Huctia, who had been my nurse, who had been my family, and Huctia had died the winter before. It was time for me to return to my mother’s world.
The road led downwards now, winding gently back and forth across the slope of the hill. As we emerged from the shelter of the trees, I shaded my eyes with my hand. Below, the waters lay upon the land like a sheet of gold.
“If you were a faerie horse,” I murmured to my pony, “we could gallop along that shining path all the way to Avalon.”
But the pony only shook its head and reached for a mouthful of grass, and we continued to clop down the road one step at a time until we came to the slippery logs of the causeway. Now I could see the grey stalks of last summer’s grass waving in the water and beyond them the reedbeds that edged the permanent channels and pools. The deeper water was dark, charged with mystery. What spirits ruled these marshes, where the elements were so confused and mingled that one could not tell where earth ended and the water began? I shivered a little and turned my gaze to the bright day.
As the afternoon drew on towards evening, a mist began to rise from the water. We moved more slowly now, letting our mounts choose their own footing on the slippery logs. I had ridden horses since I could walk, but until now, each day’s journey had been a short one, appropriate to the strength of a child. Today’s ride, the last stage in our journey, had been longer. I could feel the dull ache in my legs and back and knew that I would be glad to get out of the saddle when the day was over.
We came out from beneath the trees and the guide reined in, pointing. Beyond the tangle of marsh and woodland rose a single pointed hill. I had been taken from this place when I was barely a year old, and yet, with a certainty beyond memory, I knew that I was looking at the holy Tor. Touched by the last of the sunlight, it seemed to glow from within.
“The Isle of Glass…” murmured Corinthius, eyes widening in appreciation.
But not Avalon … I thought, remembering the stories I had heard. The cluster of beehive huts at the foot of the Tor belonged to the little community of Christians who lived there. Avalon of the Druids lay in the mists between this world and Faerie.
“And there is the village of the Lake people—” said our guide, indicating the trails of smoke that rose beyond the willows. He slapped the reins against his pony’s neck and all of the horses, sensing the end of their journey, moved forwards eagerly.
“We have barge, but crossing to Avalon needs priestess. She says if you are welcome. Is important to go now? You want that I call?” The headman’s words were respectful, but in his posture there was little deference. For nearly three hundred years his people had been the gatekeepers for Avalon.
“Not tonight,” answered Corinthius. “The maiden has endured a long journey. Let her have a good night’s sleep before she must meet all those new people in her new home.”