What is Your Quest?

Chapter 2 of "A Sword for Wellington", Book Three of The Môrdreigiau Chronicles

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The story began in A Grail for Eidothea and continued with A River Trembles. Now the Chosen Court seeks another Arthurian treasure. New here? Save this post and have a binge read. You deserve it.

Sir Hugh found his aunt’s stone circle ablaze with magical light and finds two women within: one dying and one bearing a sword. The swordswoman has a magical necklace that enables her to understand English.

Beltane, 547 AD

The grass crunched beneath Gwenddydd’s booted feet, a late frost silvering the dark footprints of the people walking in front of her.

The moon rose high and full above. Her skin missed the bonfire's kiss, some miles behind them. Gwenddydd knew she'd not see it again until morning.

She squeezed the arm linked in hers.

Olwen offered a tremulous smile. Her entire body vibrated, an unsprung tension that Gwenddydd guessed had little to do with the magic within her dearest friend.

"You will be in the Lady’s arms," Gwenddydd whispered, leaning close to catch the scent of Olwen’s apple-perfumed black hair. "She will protect you and bring you back to us."

Olwen darted her a look before facing forwards. In front of them marched the other priestesses and guards. Gwenddydd took advantage of her role as guard to have one last conversation with Olwen, Chosen from all the priestesses for tonight’s special ritual.

"I cannot promise when,” Olwen whispered. “I still need to find him. We may both be old and grey before—”

Gwenddydd shushed her. "Do not say it," she insisted, low-voiced. "We must hope for the best."

Her lips thinning, Olwen glanced behind her. The others in their train had given them some privacy, falling back. "There is something I must tell you, Gwenddydd,” she whispered.

"You don't have to say it," Gwenddydd replied, her heart filling with sorrow. She couldn't let emotion overwhelm her. Not now, with danger around every corner. Olwen needed to be kept safe until the very end.

They stepped beyond the wood’s boundary. The brightness of the moon outlined every leaf of grass atop the dark hill. The great stones poked through a rising, thickening white mist, dark plinths that radiated danger and foreboding.

"Look!" Gwenddydd pointed, forestalling any more words from Olwen. Didn't she know how hard it was to say goodbye? If Olwen said anything else, Gwenddydd might run away with her, saving Britain be damned.

Not her Britain. Her Britain fought a losing, desperate battle against the invading Saeson. Olwen would go to the Britain in the future.

Gwenddydd glanced at the sword gripped in Olwen's hands. The lustre of polished iron almost glowed in the moonlight. Or did it hear the call of the stones? Gwenddydd hoped it would do more good in the future than it had in her day.

But then Arthur was dead. Who else would bear the sword?

The man in the future could. The prophesied reincarnation of Arthur, the one who would save Britain from invasion.

Gwenddydd slid her hand down Olwen's arm and grasped her fingers tight.

At the stone circle’s edge, Olwen bade Gwenddydd farewell with a simple kiss on her cheek. "Forgive me," she whispered.

Gwenddydd's forehead wrinkled. Why would she say that? She forced a smile and retreated to take her place amongst the perimeter guard.

Mist swirled, creeping closer to her and the sacred stone circle. Behind her, the soft chanting of the priestesses rose: the last of the blessed Ladies of the Lake.

She knew without looking that Olwen had taken her place in the centre, using the sword to trace a mystical pattern in the air.

Gwenddydd rested her hand on her sword’s rough leather hilt, gritting her teeth against the knowledge that at any moment Olwen would vanish from her life. Maybe that's why Olwen asked for forgiveness? Because she couldn't bear to tell Gwenddydd that they might never see each other again?

Whispering a prayer of safe journeying, Gwenddydd wished she had her near-forgotten mother's powers to make the prayer come true. Perhaps the Lady would hear her. After all, the Lady Goddess had allowed her to stay with the Sisterhood, had chosen her to help defend this last British enclave of the Lady.

The moon transformed the mist into an opaque fog. Down the hillside, the rustling of branches drew her attention. Deer? Gwenddydd shifted, peering into the gloom. She strained to hear the sound again. A murmur flew along the perimeter circle of chosen guards, both men and women: "'Ware!"

She flashed a glance back over her shoulder. The stones loomed over the white robed women. The air around the circle of women shone like daylight. Even the mist dared not trespass near such great magic.

A roar rent the air. To Gwenddydd's left, metal clashed against metal. A woman screamed, ending in a hideous gurgle. "Saeson!”

Looming out of the mist, hulking warriors ran up the hill toward them. She drew her sword, clenching the hilt. She parried the first thrust, slipping into the flow of battle. She fought for Olwen, fought to keep the circle free of these accursed invaders.

One Sais fell and another took his place, with more pressing behind him. Gwenddydd slashed at them, retreating step by slow step with the rest of the defensive line. The metallic tang of blood filled her nostrils until she tasted it.

She stepped between the megaliths, her shield arm shaking with the brunt of a Sais’ blow. The ancient monoliths provided additional protection. The priestesses’ voices rose above the yells and death cries, bringing the spell to its climax.

Within the stone circle, the air glowed, moonlight transformed into a rainbow-streaked sphere of pulsating, swirling light.

A cry of joy built in Gwenddydd's throat. The Lady Goddess leaped like quicksilver through her, claiming her as one of Her own. Gwenddydd reveled in it, her sword arm never ceasing. A rare gift, to feel the reflection of the Lady kiss her soul.

The invaders hesitated. Some called out to their god, little knowing the Lady had already claimed them.

Gwenddydd grinned. Their god would not hear them now.

A Sais urged his men to advance.

She squinted through the magic's glare. Her enemy surged forward. She fought the renewed onslaught, her shield arm numb from the repeated battering of axe and blade. She caught brief glimpses of the action surrounding her.

The twisted grimace of a lifeless Sais falling. Elation transfigured a priestess, dragon tattoos writhing on her upheld arms. The shrinking number of the Goddess' warriors defending each priestess.

Llywelyn ap Llwch, Gwenddydd's lover from last winter, cried a warning as he fell, blood masking his face. She swallowed tears, tasted blood, and fought on. At her back, she sensed one of the Sisters. Her shield protected them both now.

The Lady’s spirit shuddered within her, threatened to fly apart. A scream tore from Gwenddydd's throat. She felt it in her marrow. A priestess had fallen. The Saeson broke the circle! All was lost, lost!

"Keep fighting!" her commander cried, blood cascading down her face from a scalp wound.

"Gwenddydd!" Her screamed name tore at her soul. Had it been a human voice or the Goddess's?

Gwenddydd spared a glance over her shoulder. Olwen stood before a towering Sais. Olwen hadn't raised Caledfwlch, the sword. The old Roman spatha gleamed, iridescent with magic.

An angry bubble of grief choked Gwenddydd. Why didn't Olwen defend herself? She knew the basics! Gwenddydd hesitated, duty warring with love. She had to save Olwen. Between blows, she glanced aside at the priestess, whose safety depended on Gwenddydd's shield.

Go. The command reverberated in Gwenddydd's mind.

Abandoning the priestess, she sprinted to Olwen, nausea rising in her gullet.

The Sais grinned, raising his axe.

Gwenddydd heard Olwen cry out. Caledfwlch rose, the blade shaking.

With one swipe of his axe, the Sais knocked the sword out of Olwen's hands. A second swing cut her down, blood soaking her white robe.

"No!" Screaming, Gwenddydd charged. With ease, he blocked her wild swing. She parried his return thrust. Shock waves ran up her arm.

She blinked at her sword in disbelief. Cleft it in two by the Sais’s axe, she held a useless stump. He boomed with laughter, his arm swinging back to finish her.

Her shocked gaze narrowed. Without looking down, she knew Caledfwlch lay at her feet. With her foot, she flicked up the sword. Whirring into her hand, it blocked her enemy's blow.

The air hummed as Caledfwlch slaked its thirst, plunging into the Sais’s torso. She heaved the sword free and spun to face her next foe.

The world lurched.

Had she been struck? She'd defend her people to her very last breath. She whirled, Caledfwlch lashing out in a defensive circle, blood drops spattering. The moon and the stars revolved into a giddying spiral overhead....

...And grew still again. Gwenddydd came to rest in a crouch.

She crouched alone. No enemy charged her, no priestess sang her sacred song. The fog trailed into a faint mist.

She doubled over and retched.

She looked down at the sword still clutched in her hand. She absently wiped the blade against her breeches, wiping away Saeson blood.

Caledfwlch. The sword Olwen was supposed to carry. Not her. She didn’t have Olwen’s extensive training. She didn't know the secrets of the Sisterhood to make this mission easier. She didn't even know the language.

Her story delivered more questions than answers. It reminded him of the tales his aunt told him as a child, with considerably more blood and gore.

He drew breath to ask the question he suspected he already knew the answer to. She'd spoken of saving Britain and of a mythical king's return, but it couldn't be... "What is your mission?"

Gwenddydd shifted her grip on her sword so that it pointed toward the earth. "I must find the reincarnation of King Arthur and give him this sword."

Hugh sagged against the standing stone, clutching its rough surface. This was his aunt's story, the substance of the promise she had asked him to keep. "Do you know who he is?"

“You found me here, perhaps you are he? The name the Sisters divined was Wellington."

Hugh's breath expelled in a rush.

A livid scar spilled from his hairline to his chin, splitting his eyebrow and half-closing his left eye. It destroyed his cheek: a sunken webbed maze of scars from some surgeon's attempt to stitch it all back together. The scar terminated in a deep score at his chin, dragging the corner of his mouth up into a strained smile.

‘Yes,’ Gwenddydd thought. ‘He is everything I imagined the Arthur reincarnated to be. He is a true warrior.’

His dark eyebrows rose, the left one twitching as the muscle refused to obey.

He shook his head, smiling. "You flatter me." He laid his palm upon his chest. "Devenish. Hugh Devenish."

Her heart sank. She had been so sure: with that commanding presence, a stillness that drew the eye and held it, the scar that spoke of battles won. How could it not be him?

She raised her chin, her mien proud, staring him straight into his blue eyes. No ordinary blue, they were almost lavender in colour. So pretty. She blinked. She had no time to be lost in admiration. She had to keep her mind on the task at hand.

He had reacted to Wellington’s name. Her gaze narrowed. “But you know him?”

In this night of moon and shadows, how could this stranger read him so well?

"Everyone knows his name." A flimsy, if true, prevarication, but he needed time to think. How could this even be possible? He heaved off the standing stone, stepping towards her.

Her every muscle tensed, her stance shifting.

"We need to bury your friend," he said, as gently as he could. "You are welcome to spend the night in my home. We shall talk more in the morning."

"There is no time." Gwenddydd stood her ground.

“There is.” How could she know history had passed her by? A chill skittered down his spine. Yet they had sent her to him for a reason. “The world is at peace. We have time to plan how to best present the sword to him. In any case you cannot travel attired like that. You will frighten people.” He hoped what he said about the world was true.

Gwenddydd frowned, but acquiesced with a simple nod.

“A bath?” How could having a bath help her complete her mission? Her gaze darted about the mahogany-panelled foyer, at the heavy gilt-framed portraits that lined the wall and the stairs, seeking escape and finding none.

Trailing the two women, she tried to tamp down the terror of living in an age where nothing, except the Goddess, anchored her to her own time.

She wanted to go home. Even the bath's steaming waters couldn't reconcile her to her fate. She should be home, defending her people to her very last breath, not steeping in luxury. Shame pricked at her eyes and she blinked them away.

The maid offered her a sponge and a cream-coloured bar. "Soap," the girl said and made scrubbing motions.

Gwenddydd rolled her eyes. She wasn't stupid. She knew how to wash but where was the strigil to scrape away the dirt? Perhaps it would be handed to her at the right time.

The maid sat behind the copper tub and started untangling Gwenddydd’s unruly auburn mess, unpicking the matted braids and grumbling softly.

The comb caught in a stubborn knot. The maid gave it a vicious tug, pulling back Gwenddydd’s head. Cursing, she grabbed the comb from the girl and proceeded to take care of it herself.

"Wash it," the second maid commanded, from somewhere behind her.

The maid made washing motions with her hands in her hair and pointed to the water. Gwenddydd ducked her head between her knees, soaking her hair. Flinging back her head, she reached blindly for the soap, wondering why the women shrieked.

She looked over her wet shoulder to see them batting at water splotches on their gowns. "Sorry.” She resumed working the soap into her hair. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been this clean.

Ah yes. A bittersweet smile clung to her lips. The spring festival, Imbolc. She had looked for her lover there, the man she'd taken to bed that past winter, her first lover, Llywelyn, and found him spinning around the bonfire with another.

He never looked back.

Hot tears started. She'd never see him again either. He'd fallen in that last, desperate battle. She had lost too many....

She plunged her head into the water, sloshing water over the tub's edge. Surfacing, she could claim the soap stung her eyes if they asked, but they didn't, drying her off and dressing her in a clean nightgown.

She laid her damp head on the pillow and closed her eyes. The soft quilts enveloped her and the softer mattress sunk beneath her slight weight. Her eyelids flew open and she struggled to sit upright.

She settled again, lying on her back to breathe easier without being smothered by the bedclothes.

At last, with a sigh, she gave up. Pulling apart the bed, she took the least offensive blanket and padded over to the banked fire, curling up on the rug before it. The hard wooden floor reassured her that she did not lie dead somewhere, dreaming of being in Annwn.

She whispered a prayer for forgiveness to the Lady.

Gwenddydd.

The voice startled her out of half-sleep. Had her conscience had taken on Olwen's voice?

"Olwen?" she whispered into the dark.

Open your eyes. I am here.

She obeyed, sitting up. By the far wall stood the shimmering figure of Olwen, heart-breakingly unreal. "Olwen?"

I am here, anam cara. The words sounded clear within Gwenddydd’s head. I will stay with you.

"But—I saw you fall." The words hurt to say, her throat closing.

Olwen's shape inclined her head. You must listen to the Lady, Gwenddydd. She will prepare you.

“The Goddess?”

And the one who is coming. Olwen smiled, her figure brightening for a moment. Sleep now, my friend. There is much work to do.

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