Tristan and Isolde - 02 - The Maid of the White Hands: The Second of the Tristan and Isolde Novels by Rosalind Miles
Authors: Rosalind Miles
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CHAPTER 12
Father?”
“What is it, my son?”
The old monk raised his milky eyes from his prayers as he felt the rush of air into his cell. He knew without sight that the forceful presence and hurried, limping steps belonged to Dominian, his former pupil and dearly loved foster son. Bedridden now and a breath away from heaven, the old man still remembered the small stunted body kneeling in prayer at his side and the hard little paw, warm and trusting, in his hand. Dominian might be head of the community now and a man of growing might among Christians everywhere, but the old monk would never forget the lost child he had loved and saved.
Even today he could hear in Dominian’s urgent tones haunting echoes of the half-savage he had been. Hated by his mother and cast out to die in the woods, the seven-year-old had thought that he was cursed. His sisters were his mother’s only joy, and as a Goddess-worshipper in a land where women ruled, she rejected him because he was merely male. Jerome sighed to himself. No wonder Dominian now persecuted the Mother with all the fury of a poisoned heart. The blows and bruises of his early days, his empty belly, uncouth speech, and starving mind, had all been cured. But the primal wound to his soul, the old monk thought, no force on earth would ever be able to heal.
“News, Father!” He felt the short body drop onto the chair by his bed and heard the triumphant slap of a scroll against Dominian’s palm. “Word from Rome.”
“From the Holy Father?”
“From the Pope himself.” Dominian unfurled the scroll with a flourish, his dark face alight. At times like this, even the never-ending pain of his crumpled spine seemed worth the burden he was forced to bear.
“The first word is for you,” he said, his eyes aglow. No one would ever know how he loved this man, but he had made sure that they knew his worth in Rome. “ ‘Greetings to Jerome, our beloved son in Christ,’ ” he read out joyfully. “See, you are mentioned by name!”
Jerome allowed himself a smile. “You feed my vanity. What is the word from Rome . . . ?”
“The word is ‘Strike!’ We are ordered to move against the pagans with all speed.”
The wasted figure in the bed stiffened. “Move against—how?”
Dominian held up his hand, raising the hard, brown fingers one by one. “Root out the worship of the Great Whore they call the Mother, and put down her shrines. Convert her followers to Christ, by the sword if need be, and secure their so-called Hallows for our use. Leave no trace of this Goddess-evil in this place. Scour through the islands with tempest, wind, and fire, till she’s not even a memory to aftertimes.”
The old man raised a trembling hand to his forehead. “Now God defend us!”
Dominian turned sharply. “Why?”
“This persecution is against our faith. Our God is love.”
“What would you have us do?”
Jerome struggled to sit up. “Work with the people here and learn from them. Their priestesses teach that religion is kindness and all faith should be love.” The old man’s unseeing eyes gleamed with tears. “Why take from any soul the comfort of that?”
“Priestesses, you say?” Dominian scoffed.
“And more, my son, much more.” A light from the Otherworld crossed Jerome’s face. “Once, long ago, I was on Avalon. I saw the green hill crowned with blossoms and the Sacred Island rising above the lake. The Lady that ruled there was a miracle.”
“Lady?” Dominian struggled with a feeling he could not name. “We have another such Lady here, the Lady of the Sea. They preach thigh-freedom for women and deny the right of a man to call his wife his own. I call them whores.” He reached blindly for the scroll from Rome. “And we are ordered to destroy them all!”
“Son, only think!” Jerome begged. “Could you in your conscience put innocent souls to the sword because they worship another Higher Power than ours?”
“We have it in Holy
CHAPTER 12
Father?”
“What is it, my son?”
The old monk raised his milky eyes from his prayers as he felt the rush of air into his cell. He knew without sight that the forceful presence and hurried, limping steps belonged to Dominian, his former pupil and dearly loved foster son. Bedridden now and a breath away from heaven, the old man still remembered the small stunted body kneeling in prayer at his side and the hard little paw, warm and trusting, in his hand. Dominian might be head of the community now and a man of growing might among Christians everywhere, but the old monk would never forget the lost child he had loved and saved.
Even today he could hear in Dominian’s urgent tones haunting echoes of the half-savage he had been. Hated by his mother and cast out to die in the woods, the seven-year-old had thought that he was cursed. His sisters were his mother’s only joy, and as a Goddess-worshipper in a land where women ruled, she rejected him because he was merely male. Jerome sighed to himself. No wonder Dominian now persecuted the Mother with all the fury of a poisoned heart. The blows and bruises of his early days, his empty belly, uncouth speech, and starving mind, had all been cured. But the primal wound to his soul, the old monk thought, no force on earth would ever be able to heal.
“News, Father!” He felt the short body drop onto the chair by his bed and heard the triumphant slap of a scroll against Dominian’s palm. “Word from Rome.”
“From the Holy Father?”
“From the Pope himself.” Dominian unfurled the scroll with a flourish, his dark face alight. At times like this, even the never-ending pain of his crumpled spine seemed worth the burden he was forced to bear.
“The first word is for you,” he said, his eyes aglow. No one would ever know how he loved this man, but he had made sure that they knew his worth in Rome. “ ‘Greetings to Jerome, our beloved son in Christ,’ ” he read out joyfully. “See, you are mentioned by name!”
Jerome allowed himself a smile. “You feed my vanity. What is the word from Rome . . . ?”
“The word is ‘Strike!’ We are ordered to move against the pagans with all speed.”
The wasted figure in the bed stiffened. “Move against—how?”
Dominian held up his hand, raising the hard, brown fingers one by one. “Root out the worship of the Great Whore they call the Mother, and put down her shrines. Convert her followers to Christ, by the sword if need be, and secure their so-called Hallows for our use. Leave no trace of this Goddess-evil in this place. Scour through the islands with tempest, wind, and fire, till she’s not even a memory to aftertimes.”
The old man raised a trembling hand to his forehead. “Now God defend us!”
Dominian turned sharply. “Why?”
“This persecution is against our faith. Our God is love.”
“What would you have us do?”
Jerome struggled to sit up. “Work with the people here and learn from them. Their priestesses teach that religion is kindness and all faith should be love.” The old man’s unseeing eyes gleamed with tears. “Why take from any soul the comfort of that?”
“Priestesses, you say?” Dominian scoffed.
“And more, my son, much more.” A light from the Otherworld crossed Jerome’s face. “Once, long ago, I was on Avalon. I saw the green hill crowned with blossoms and the Sacred Island rising above the lake. The Lady that ruled there was a miracle.”
“Lady?” Dominian struggled with a feeling he could not name. “We have another such Lady here, the Lady of the Sea. They preach thigh-freedom for women and deny the right of a man to call his wife his own. I call them whores.” He reached blindly for the scroll from Rome. “And we are ordered to destroy them all!”
“Son, only think!” Jerome begged. “Could you in your conscience put innocent souls to the sword because they worship another Higher Power than ours?”
“We have it in Holy
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