The Hallowed Isle Book Three by Diana L. Paxson Page A

she had never been there. As soon as she told her mother what had happened to her, Petronilla had decided to take her to the nuns who lived on the Isle of Glass for a blessing. The prospect filled her with mingled excitement and fear.
    It is like growing up —she thought as they reached the base of the isle and the curve of the lower hill hid the Tor from view. For so long it loomed on the horizon, and now I cannot see it because I am almost there. I will only be able to see my own womanhood reflected in others’ eyes .
    The top of the round church that the holy Joseph had built showed above the trees. Around it clustered the smaller huts that were the monks’ cells, and a little farther, a second group of buildings for the nuns. Nearby was the guesthouse where the visitors would stay. As they climbed the road, the deep sound of men’s voices throbbed in the air. The monks were chanting the noon prayers, her mother said. Guendivar felt the hair lift on her arms with delight as the sweet sounds drifted through the trees. Then the shadowed orifice of the church door came into view and she shivered. The music was beautiful, but cooped up in the darkness like that, how could men sing?
    She sighed with relief as they continued along the hillside toward the houses of the nuns. To one side she saw apple trees, ripening fruit already weighting their branches, and to the other, neat gardens. Beyond was a tall hedge, hiding the base of the hill that nestled next to the Tor. She wondered what was behind it. There was something in the air of this place that made her skin tingle as it did when the faerie folk were near. If she could escape her mother’s watchful eye, this would be a good place to explore.
    A tall woman came out of one of the houses, robed in a shapeless gown of natural wool with a wooden cross hanging from a thong around her neck, her hair hidden by a linen veil. But when she looked up, Guendivar saw a broad smile and twinkling eyes. For a moment that gaze rested on her in frank appraisal. Then she turned to Guendivar’s mother.
    â€œSo, Petronilla, this is your maid-child—she has grown like a flower in good soil, tall and fair!”
    â€œNothing so rooted,” answered her mother ruefully. “She is a bird, or perhaps a wild pony, always off running about the hills. Guendivar, this is Mother Maruret. Show that you know how to give her a proper greeting!”
    Still blushing, Guendivar slid down from her pony, took the woman’s hand and bent to kiss it.
    â€œYou are welcome indeed, my child. My daughters will show you to your quarters. No doubt you will wish to wash before your meal.”
    Guendivar’s belly growled in anicipation. Along with other changes, she was growing, and these days she was always hungry.
    â€œYou are not our only guests,” said Mother Maruret as she led them towards the largest building. “The queen is here.”
    â€œIgierne?” asked Petronilla.
    â€œHerself, with two of her women.”
    Petronilla lifted one eyebrow. “And you allow them to stay on the Isle?”
    The nun smiled. “We have been in this place long enough to understand that the ways of the Creator of the World are many and mysterious. If the queen is deluded, how shall that trouble my own faith? But indeed, she has never been other than quiet and respectful when she was here . . .”
    Guendivar listened, wide-eyed. She had heard many tales of Artor’s mother, the most beautiful woman of her time. They said that King Uthir had fought a war to win her and killed her husband before her eyes, though others whispered that Merlin had murdered him with his magic. She lived now in the north, ran the tales, on a magic island. Of course by now Igierne must be quite old, but it would be exciting to meet her all the same.
    But when they entered the guest-house, though the queen’s two women were there, talking softly by the fire, Igierne was nowhere