But when someone heard from a woodcutter that a pregnant woman was living in the hut in the forest, the solution to the mystery became appallingly obvious. Dieda must be with child; she had been sent to live in the isolation of the forest until she should be delivered of her shame.
The truth, of course, was so impossible that no one guessed it. In the event, Dieda’s part in the deception was not even very taxing, for after the battle of Mons Graupius the Governor had forbidden all public assemblies lest they spark unrest. This far south they had heard only rumors of the destruction; for most folk, getting in food for the winter was a more pressing concern. At the feast of Samaine folk had to make do with the little divinations of apples and nuts and the hearthfire, for there was no fair or festival, and no Oracle.
As for Eilan, she spent the winter snug in the round hut in the forest, visited from time to time by Caillean, and attended by an old woman who did not know her name. She made a little altar to the Goddess as Mother by the fireside, and as she watched her belly ripen, she wavered between joy in the new life that was growing within her and anguish because she did not know if she would ever see her child’s father again.
But it was the natural course of things that even the longest winter should one day give way to spring. Though there were times when Eilan had felt that she would be pregnant for ever, the feast of Brigantia was approaching, when her child should be born. A few days before the festival Caillean appeared in the doorway, and though these days she came easily to tears or laughter, Eilan felt so glad to see her that she thought she would weep.
“There is fresh oat bread that I baked this morning,” she said. “Sit here and join me in my noon meal—” She hesitated. “Unless you feel that I contaminate you by my forsworn presence?”
Caillean laughed. “Never,” she replied. “If it had not been for the snows, I would have come before.”
“And how are things in the Forest House?” Eilan asked. “How does Dieda in my place? Tell me everything; I am very dull here, growing like a vegetable!”
“Surely not.” Caillean smiled. “Perhaps a fruit tree come to harvest not in autumn but spring. As for Vernemeton, Dieda performs your duties faithfully, though perhaps not as well as you would do. I promise you I will come when your child is born. Send me word by the old woman when the time comes.”
“How will I know?”
Caillean laughed, not unkindly. “You were present when your sister’s second child was born. How much do you remember?”
“What I remember of that time is the raiders, and how you carried fire,” Eilan said meekly.
Caillean smiled. “Well, I think it will not be long now. Perhaps you will deliver on the Feast of the Maiden—your hands were busy this morning, and such restlessness is often seen when a child stirs in readiness to be born. And I have brought you a gift, a garland of white birch twigs, sacred to the Mother. See—I will hang it above your bed that it may bring you good fortune at Her hands.” She rose and drew the wreath from her bag.
“The gods men follow may seem to shun you, but the Goddess cares for all Her daughters who stand where you stand now. After the festival I will come again, though it will be no pleasure seeing Dieda in your place there.”
“How delighted I am to hear your opinion,” someone said from the doorway, the sweetness of her voice intensifying the sting of her words. “But if you do not like me in the role of High Priestess, surely it is a little late to be saying so!”
A figure heavily veiled in dark blue was standing there. Eilan’s eyes widened and Caillean flushed angrily.
“Why have you come here?”
“Why not?” Dieda asked. “Do you not think it gracious of the High Priestess to visit her fallen kinswoman? All of our dear sisters are aware that someone is living here, you know, and have concluded it is me. I will not have a shred of reputation left when I eventually ‘return.’”