Alys Clare - The Joys of My Life

Ruis picked up her astonishment. He smiled, leaned down and said softly in her ear, ‘They may possess it in the day but this place is ours too and by night we reclaim it.’

Yes, she thought as they slipped through a gap in the wall between the huge foundations of two buttresses. Yes, that is, after all, our right.

She and Ruis had to hide in the shadows while a pair of night watchmen paused on their rounds for a leisurely gossip. Then, when the men had gone, Ruis grabbed her wrist and raced across the bare floor, ducked through a doorway and led the way down a low, narrow spiral staircase whose treads were slippery with moisture. He was careful with her, making sure she did not miss her footing. They emerged into a dimly lit open space and, gazing around, Joanna saw that it was a vast crypt. She sensed rather than saw how far it stretched, for the single lantern only lit its immediate vicinity. It had been placed on the floor in front of a massive wall and it illuminated what appeared to be a well.

Ruis led her forward and said, ‘This is our sacred place. The water wells up from deep in the earth, where the wouivre glides through the ground and brings the power and the blessing of the Great Mother up to her children.’

Wouivre. Joanna knew she had heard the word before… Yes. Her venerable teacher in Brittany had explained about the strange currents that snaked and wove their way deep within the earth, some of them harmful, some beneficial. Some, such as those that came to the surface at the holy places, were so strong and brought such open-handed munificence that even the uninitiated could sense them. She had been to many of her people’s sanctuaries and she thought she had experienced the full range of the Mother’s powers; standing there in the dark crypt, she realized how complacent she had been. She had never felt anything like this.

She closed her eyes, surrendered herself and let the force surround her. After a time — she had no idea how long — she became aware of quiet humming. Was it chanting? Were her people responding to the power, honouring it by singing its praises? Or did the unearthly sound emanate from the earth itself? She did not know. It did not really matter.

Presently she felt a touch on her arm. Opening her eyes, she saw that a slim, grey-clad figure stood beside her. Bowing low, not in the least surprised to see the Domina here so far from home — if, indeed, the Great Wealden Forest was her home — she greeted the revered elder.

The Domina, now holding Joanna’s arm, led her away from the well. Instantly she sensed a diminution in the power that had thrummed around her; it was a relief and yet, oddly, as soon as it faded she missed it. The Domina was walking purposefully down the crypt into a far, dark corner. There, as Joanna’s eyes adjusted, she made out a group of figures standing in a circle. Two of them parted to make room, and the Domina and Joanna took their places.

The man who then began to speak was tall and broad-shouldered. Joanna had the impression that he was quite young for a Great One of the people, but his face was shadowed by his deep hood and she could not see whether her impression was accurate. His voice was low-pitched and he spoke softly; sometimes it sounded more like the wind in the trees than a human voice. Perhaps he wasn’t human. Joanna arrested the fanciful thought. Of course he was human!

She made herself concentrate on what the man was saying. He was describing the labyrinth and, although some of what he said was familiar, he also spoke of matters so far beyond her knowledge or experience that she could only gape. He spoke of an island deep down in the purple southern sea where, hidden in a maze, a king imprisoned a creature that was half man and half bull; of how every nine years seven youths and seven maidens were sacrificed to this creature until at last one came with the courage to kill it; how this man, helped by a priestess of the Great Mother, made his way to the heart of the labyrinth, unravelling the priestess’s ball of thread as he went; how he slew the monster and made his escape. The labyrinth was the priestess’s dancing floor; there she danced along its winding path, ever circling and doubling back, until at last she reached the still centre and the great vortex of power that she raised was freed and blasted out into the upper air.

‘The mystic dance brings on the trance state,’ the soft, compelling voice continued, ‘in which power is raised and manipulated.’ The hooded face turned slowly and Joanna caught the sudden glint of bright eyes. ‘Power from the earth, power from the Great Goddess, power that we shall raise here as we dance the labyrinth that the priests have commanded to be laid down. With this power we shall imbue this place with the very essence of the spirit that we revere and it shall be marked so that it never fades.’ He held up a circular object that, from the soft orange glow, Joanna thought must be copper. On it were two figures, one a man, one a strange hybrid with the massive head and shoulders of a bull and the lower body of a human male. ‘This shall be placed at the heart of the labyrinth.’ The voice waxed stronger now. ‘This is our sign.’

But they’ll see it and they’ll take it away, Joanna thought, unable to suppress her doubt. They won’t allow us to Another thought broke across hers; another’s mind gently but firmly reassured her. They will accept this rich gift and they will not think to question its origins, he said, right into her mind. Have faith, Beith, for it will be so.

She looked straight at the hooded man. Now by some trick of the light she could make out his face. Not that she needed to see him, for she already knew him; his mind speaking to hers was unmistakeable. It was the Bear Man.

As the silent group of elders and their companions slipped like shadows away up the steps to disperse into the night, Joanna obeyed the unspoken summons and went to stand in the black shadow of one of the massive pillars supporting the crypt’s roof. When everyone else had gone, he came to claim her. He took her hand, led her up the steps and out across the vast floor of the skeletal cathedral — they passed quite close to one of the watchmen, but the Bear Man must have cast some sort of a glamour about them, for the man did not appear to see them — and then like shadows they passed out into the darkness.

He took her to a place apart from the secret encampment. She lay in his arms until she fell asleep, and in the morning he was gone.

It had taken Helewise’s party a week to travel from the Ile d’Oleron to Chartres. They arrived late one sunny afternoon and Helewise was instantly struck by the sense of almost frantic activity. Rumour had spread of the townspeople’s great efforts, which had begun almost immediately after the fire had destroyed their precious cathedral. The cardinal had told them that the miraculous preservation of the Sancta Camisia was a sign from the Virgin Mary that she wanted a new and more magnificent cathedral built in her honour, so the Chartres people had hastened to start hauling stone from their local quarries. Now, five years on, the massive buttressed walls of the nave rose high up into the blue summer sky. The air was hazed with stone dust and sawdust; all around the cathedral site stonemasons and carpenters worked as if possessed by a spirit of irresistible urgency. Huge carts arrived in a constant stream from roads leading down from the site, each laden with another load of building materials. The noise was deafening: mallets hit chisels into stone; saws bit into timber; horses snorted and struck sparks from the cobbles with their great hoofs; men shouted instructions and exchanged ribald comments.

For several moments, Helewise and her companions simply sat on their horses and stared. Then she turned to Sister Caliste and Brother Saul and said, ‘I could go on watching this amazing scene, but evening approaches and we must find lodgings. Come, let’s try down there.’ She pointed towards a narrow street between rows of close-packed houses.