Conn Lear’s door and windows stood open. It was light inside when they entered the circular room with the painted hangings on the walls.
As Quintus stepped in, he heard a sound, half gasp, half cry, and he whispered, “Regan.” The girl ran forward around the tree trunk, with her hands outstretched. Quintus bounded toward her but the Arch-Druid quickly barred the way between them, as he had when they had parted here before.
“No, daughter of my daughter, you shall not speak to the Roman centurion, until I have decided many things,” said Conn Lear. “Sit down where you were, and you”--he pointed at Quintus--“over there.”
The girl gave Quintus a quick, involuntary look. Biting her lips, she raised her chin proudly and obeyed her grandfather. Then she returned to a stool near the small fire, picked up the distaff she had dropped, and began to twirl yam around it slowly.
Quintus, from the bench indicated by the Arch-Druid, could just see her. She wore a new violet and yellow tartan, her lovely hair rippled with chestnut lights down to her waist Around her neck there was a crescent of beaten gold, beautifully carved, that lent a sparkle to her charming down-bent face.
She did not look at him again and he gazed at her until he knew just how the tendrils sprang from her white forehead, the way a mole accented the corner of her full red mouth, and the way her long lashes shadowed her cheeks.
He paid no heed to the Arch-Druid and Petillius, who were conversing at the other side of the room, until he was jolted from his absorption in Regan by the Arch-Druid’s suddenly raised voice.
“Ay, General--it surprises you that I am willing to make peace with our conquerors? It was not always so. Once I hated the Romans as fiercely as ever Boadicea did. I hated as did the Arch-Druids before me, back through the years to the invasion of your Julius Caesar. But I am old now, and of what use is it to hate that which is--and will be!”
“Who can tell what WILL be--Conn Lear?” said Petillius in a grave, thoughtful tone.
“I can,” said the Arch-Druid. “Because Lugh has granted me the vision. I have made the sacrifice of the bull. I have lit the sacred fire at midnight in the great stone temple out there. And I have seen.”
“What have you seen, Conn Lear?” said the general softly.
The old man rose, turned his head toward the east window, and gazed toward Stonehenge. Then he raised the hand which still clasped the golden sickle and spoke in the chanting voice of power. “Blood I have seen, and defeat. I have seen the coming of darkness to the Celts in Britain--to my people. I have seen the Roman legions marching into every corner of this land. But more than that. . . .” He paused. “Ay, more than that, I’ve seen that the blood of Briton and Roman will someday mingle here, and they shall become one race and for hundreds of years this shall endure.”
“You are wise, Conn Lear,” said Petillius very low, “I believe that you have seen the true sight of what will come.”
“The gods will mingle too,” went on the resonant voice, unheeding. “Our own gods, our Celtic gods that you Romans will adopt and call by Latin names, just as you would dilute and Romanize our Druid lore in time--if we permitted it.”
“Permit?” cried Petillius sharply. “Now you speak as though you would resist!”
The Arch-Druid lowered his head and looked at the Roman, a sad smile came to his lips. “We shall not resist. For if we did, it would be slaughter for us, as it was for Druids on the isle of Anglesey. I know your Governor Suetonius’ nature. No--you must give us but a little time, a month will do--then we shall leave this land to its own destiny.”
“Where will the Druids go, Conn Lear?” Petillius leaned forward earnestly.
“To the Islands of the West across the Irish Sea. There no Roman will pursue us.”
So the Druids were planning to leave Britain, thought Quintus in sudden panic--and what of Regan? He saw that she too had heard; her mouth was tight. Suddenly she threw her shoulders back and got up. “Grandfather,” she said, walking toward him. Her voice trembled. “I am frightened of your anger, but I must speak.”
“Speak then,” said the Arch-Druid, sitting down and looking at her steadily.
“You know what is in my heart, Conn Lear,” said Regan, “and I know the condition you have made. Put it now to the test, I implore you. Tell Quintus Tullius.”
“You are impatient, child--you interrupt me,” said Conn Lear sternly, but his eyes were not unkind. “Yet because I love you, daughter of my daughter, it shall be as you wish. Come, here, Centurion!”
Quintus rose and walked to stand before the Arch-Druid, wondering much and worried because he saw that something portentous was coming.
“The Druids will go to the Islands of the West without me,” said the Arch-Druid, “for I am old and sick and very soon will die. When I die I would be laid here in this room beside the tree, and burned--my spirit to mingle with the spirit of this oak in fire, as in the ancient rites of long ago. I would that nothing here should be disturbed until the ashes of my body, and the oak, and my house shall all sink down and mingle with the quiet earth beneath . . . undisturbed,” he repeated solemnly, “by any mortal hands forever.”
What has this to do with me? Quintus thought, profoundly uneasy for the piercing gaze seemed to be searching his soul. Petillius too looked puzzled, as he sat a little withdrawn, watching. Regan’s hands were tight-gripped, her breath came rapidly. Her eyes moved from her grandfather to Quintus.
“When you first came to Britain, what was it that you wished to find, Quintus Tullius?” asked the Arch-Druid quietly.
“The body of my ancestor Gaius,” murmured Quintus after a moment.
The Arch-Druid rose and pointed with the golden sickle.
“The body of your ancestor lies here amongst the roots beneath this tree.”
Quintus gasped. He stared at the great trunk in the centre of the room. Petillius made a sharp motion, but Regan held still--waiting.
“That Roman, Gaius Tullius, profaned our holiest things. It was for this that the Arch-Druid of that time built the stronghold of our religion here, to counteract the evil. Now that you know, Centurion, what will you do?”
Quintus breathed deeply, and looked into Conn Lear’s eyes. “I don’t quite understand, Arch-Druid, but I’ve changed since I came to this land. I will not profane your holy things as Gaius did, unknowing, nor disturb that which you wish left untouched.”
The old man’s face quivered, the biting coldness vanished from his gaze, but he said inflexibly, “There is Druid gold buried with your ancestor, Centurion--much gold. You wanted that, did you not?”
“Yes,” said Quintus slowly. “I wanted that, but there are things now that I want far more.”
He looked at Regan and saw joy shining in her eyes.
“You have chosen well,” said Conn Lear. “And I will tell you this. If the spirit of your ancestor has been unquiet, it will be so no longer. For in the fire that will consume us both, all differences shall be resolved--the Roman invader and the Celtic high priest shall both pass together into the paradise where there is always peace.”
The old man stopped and bowed his head. He walked to his chair and sat down wearily. There was a throbbing silence in the room of the living tree. Tears rolled down Regan’s cheeks, she knelt by her grandfather and kissed his hand.
Petillius stirred at last and spoke; in the roughness of his voice, Quintus recognized the strong emotion that he felt in himself.
“It shall be done, Conn Lear, all as you wish it. Quintus has spoken and I have spoken.”
The Arch-Druid nodded slowly. “You are good men. You are of the stuff that shall build up the new Britain.” He sighed, then his mouth lifted in a faint smile. He put his hand on the girl’s bowed head. “Ay--Regan,” he said tenderly, “you may speak to your Roman now. Take him outside, for the general and I have still many things to talk of.”
Quintus caught his breath, as the girl rose from her knees and came toward him, but he turned to look at Petillius.
The general answered his look with a softness Quintus had never seen, and he smiled as he said, “Yes, go with her, Quintus. And speak to her as you wish, for the Arch-Druid is right. From such as you and Regan will come the new race in Britain. You must have patience till the law is changed, but I’ll see that it won’t be long before permission will be granted.”
“Thank you, my General,” said Quintus very low. He took Regan’s hand and they went out into the grove of trees, both silent, feeling only the clasp of their hands together, so deep in wondering happiness that they could not speak.
They stopped together, as of one accord, beneath an ash tree in the grove, and looked into each other’s eyes.
“Regan,” Quintus whispered, “did you understand what the general meant?”
“Not quite,” she whispered back. “Oh, Quintus, I’ve prayed for this--I didn’t know how much I--I--until you were gone, ah--but you’re wounded--what has happened to your leg...?”
He put his hands on her shoulders and held her thus, looking down into her candid beautiful eyes. “I was wounded by a spear thrown by one of your own countrymen, and I killed many of them, Regan, in the battle that wiped out half of Britain. The battle in which Queen Boadicea died. You must know and face this.”
Her lids drooped for an instant, then lifted. Her pupils were dark and steady as she gazed up at him. “I know. I have mourned bitterly for my people who are dead, for the Iceni and my foster mother who once was good to me. But it is past. Soon the snows will fall, then spring will come, and grass will grow again--even on the battlefield.”
“Yes, my Regan,” he said on a long breath. “So now I will tell you what the general meant There’s still a law, a barrier between us for a little while, but when the grass has grown again upon that battlefield, then--I can ask you to become a Roman soldier’s wife. And will you, Regan?”
She did not answer in words. She slowly raised her arms and put them about his neck. He caught her to him, and they stood clasped together beneath the tree. The slanting sun filtered through the leaves and glinted on the girl’s bright flowing hair and it glinted on the breastplate of the young Roman centurion, who had found in this land not the thing he had once searched for, but instead a new home, and love, and his destiny.
Anya Seton, The Mistletoe and the Sword: A Story of Roman Britain
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