ABOUT THE PRIESTESS OF CAMELOT Anya, a pagan priestess of the Nordic Rus tribes, leaves her home country and arrives in Britain. There, she joins the sisterhood of Avalon, headed by the scheming Morgaine. When Anya runs afoul of the Avalonian high priestess she is sent to Camelot to spy on the court while acting as healer. But there, she falls in love with the High Druid, Merlin, and King Arthur, bearing sons to both of the great men of her time. After losing both of the men she loves to Morgaine’s treachery, she embarks on a plan that unfolds over the next 1,500 years to return Goddess worship to the island nation and save it from a danger Anya can see but cannot understand. The Priestess of Camelot is the prelude to the Heirs to Camelot series, and sure to thrill fans of Arthurian lore.
PRAISE FOR THE PRIESTESS OF CAMELOT “Drawing on the rich panoply of British history, myths and legends, The Priestess of Camelot weaves its tapestry from threads of traditional tales and imaginative fiction. [The book blends] Celtic mystery, magic, romance, and spiritual growth, with dark-age dangers, intrigue, and lust for revenge. A unique and refreshing take on the Arthurian story. Follow it with your heart.”~ E.M. Swift-Hook, co-author of the Dai and Julia alternate history mysteries.
PROLOGUE
Summer 576 I write the following not because I wish to, but at the urging of Arianrhod, who feels those in the future will wish to know who this Anya was. I have argued that no one will care about the dam. The sires are all. But my daughter draws near to my worktable every few moments to see if I make progress here, so I may as well try a few lines, lest she drive me mad. I am the one who has set down the stories in The Book of Merlin, a Druid Priest and Arthur, King of All Britain. It was left to me, a priestess from so far away, to write about these men who changed Britain. Their own subjects already start to forget, as strange as that may sound. Avalon has withdrawn into the mist, and the people misdoubt that it, or Camelot, ever existed. The Goddess has something in mind for the heirs. She is slowly letting me see how long the time is between those of us setting out on the path, and those who will be there to see whence it will finish. Already through the Sight, I have seen dozens of generations, and still the Goddess has not shown me all of the plan. I must teach my sons, the heirs of Merlin and Arthur, why our work for the Goddess is so important that it must be obeyed. It is up to me to make sure the boys and Arianrhod keep faith with their bloodline. I do not know if I have done well enough creating the rituals, the relics, and the tale to make them stay the course. Arianrhod has just read this and says I spend my time telling what she can. That she wants me to tell of my life, so no one forgets me and my place in the story, as well. My daughter says it will be important to the ones she will teach in the future who this Anya was, and how it was she came to
bear the sons of King Arthur and Merlin—and a daughter born of the Goddess. Arianrhod tells me she will teach her followers to revere my memory and all I have done to assist the Goddess in her great plan. I can be swayed by flattery. If these words are to be studied, then I say to you, future readers, I did not do all that you are about to read for my glory. Occasionally I did things as the Goddess told me. Mostly, I acted a certain way because my heart led me so. Too often, I behaved the way I did because I was wished to avoid pain. Like every other person, I did the best I could. Judge me as you would judge yourself.
CHAPTER ONE VÖLVA OF THE RUS
Spring 541 What do I do? How can I tell him there is no water for the barley seed? “Little One!” Father called, “hurry up!” Father had sent me to get water for the plantings, but when I dropped the bucket down into the dark hole, instead of a splash, there was a damp thunk. Cautiously, I peered down the well. No reflection greeted me. The deep, wet hole smelled like sickness. “Hurry up there, girl. Others are waiting their turn,” said one of the headman’s guards. “There is no water!” I said. The guard shoved me out of the way to look. It was not a hard push, but I fell in the dust. There was a flash of light in the sky. I heard a noise like geese honking, but much, much louder. Suddenly, I saw boulders fall down a hill that I had never seen before. The landslide brought great trees down with it. The big rocks and trees fell into a stream I did not know. A pond formed. Three beautiful black swans swam back and forth on the still water. And then the scene vanished, and I found myself on the ground with the people of the village looking down at me. Father helped me up. Wasn’t he in the field a moment ago? I could not make my eyes work right. The villagers were talking, but it sounded like ravens cawing—louder and louder. My head hurt, and my knees gave way.
I woke later, my head still throbbing. Father was there, holding a cup of hot broth. “How do you feel?” “My head aches. I am queasy. But the broth smells good.” He handed me the soup. As I drank, I sensed him worrying about me. I could almost hear his thoughts. How is that possible? “You have slept for two days,” he said. “Two days!” He sniffed and turned away. Could he be crying? I felt how afraid he was to lose me. The illness that killed Mother and my two sisters during the longest night of last winter almost took him too. I had gone from hut to hut to find herbs to heal them. The villagers pushed me away from their doorway, afraid I would bring the sickness to their homes. I dreamed of this almost every night. I had only known seven winters, but I knew at the time that what they did was wrong. Ever since, Father had been so weak. Winters were the most important thing in that village with no name. It was a matter of surviving that long, dark season when the sun only peeked over the edge of the world, and the moon on the deep snow drifts gave as much light as the day. Winter was a giant beast that swallowed the people whole and spat out the remainders when the sun wearily climbed back into the sky. I was the third of five children, but the only one who made it past the fourth winter. It was considered unlucky to name a child before they lived through their first ten winters, and so I was known only as Little One. When it was finally spring, father was just barely able to scratch out rows for the seeds in the dry earth. And now, he feared some evil affliction would take me as well. Something that felt like the future reached out and touched me, telling me I had not much time left with him. Frightened, I turned my mind from these thoughts. Then, I noticed that the village was strangely quiet. “Where is everyone?” “The headman and a few others went off into the greenwood. They are looking for what you told them about,” Father said. “What I told them?”
“You were shouting about boulders and a creek.” He took the empty cup from me. “Did you see these things when you fell ill by the well?” I touched my lips, as if they could tell me what I said in my dream. “I guess so.” Just then we heard shouting. People were running. “Water! There’s water in the well!” someone called out. I got out of bed and rushed outside before Father could stop me. People were gathered at the well. I pushed my way through to the edge and looked down. My reflection stared back up at me, surrounded by villagers with frightened looks on their faces. She is a Witch! cried their minds at once. There was more yelling from the path out of the village, as the headman and his people returned. One of the men had something in a sack. “It was as the child said,” the headman said. “A landslide stopped the stream.” He beckoned to me. Reluctantly, I went to him. I could feel Father right behind me. The headman leaned down. “You are a spákona—a seer—eh? I will make sure you are well cared for. You saved the village!” I felt that he meant this, but that I also made him afraid. “And we will have a feast to celebrate!” He opened the sack and pulled out a large black swan. In death, its loveliness had been taken from it. The feathers were pulling off the limp neck where someone had strangled the poor thing. “Thank you, little spákona! Perhaps your father will call you Swan on your Naming Day!” “That is not my name!” I ran back to our hut. Two moons later, one of the older boys came running into the middle of the village. “The völva! I saw her! She’s coming!” I dropped the laundry I had been carrying to the wash. I was filled with dread and joy at the same time. The headman gestured for the boy to come to him. “What is this you say? “There’s a great travel basket carried by two big men. By the chimes I could hear, I know it is the völva!” “How do you know she comes here?” the headman asked.
The boy’s faced scrunched up with wonder. “I heard it in my mind. She said: ‘Prepare!’” By the time the basket and bearers came into view, the whole village had gathered to see her. The sound of silver chimes filled the air. “What is the völva, Father?” I asked. “A priestess of the most ancient Goddess,” he whispered. “I have heard of them, but never seen one—not in my whole life. Why would such a one come to this place?” “She comes from Freya?” I asked. “No. This goddess is older than those of Asgard,” he said. The bearers carefully put their burden down, and the chimes ceased. The sides dropped down, and an old woman was helped out. Tiny and stooped, white hair stood out from her head. She had more wrinkles than anyone else in the village. Her eyes were ice blue fire as she looked around her. Her black dress was dusty from the road, yet she seemed not to notice. She clutched a willow wand in her left hand. The villagers drew away from her. Somehow, Father and I were now in the front instead of comfortably in the back. “Where is she?” the völva demanded in a voice crackling like the winter wind through frozen branches. “Where is the girl who saw where the water went?” Me! She means me! I was so terrified, I wet myself. One of the women pointed toward me. Father clutched me to his side. The old woman shuffled over to us and peered down at me. At that moment, I realized the old woman was blind. “Yes, I have seen you walking through my dreams, Little One.” I clutched Father’s leg harder. How does she know my name? The old one chuckled. “I know much, Little One.” The völva looked up at Father. “I will take her with me to the Motherhouse where she will study to be a priestess, as all those females with the Sight must.” Father gasped. “No, please. She’s all I have.” The old one nodded as if he had said something quite different. “The time has come. Give her to me.” “No!” I shouted.
A strange wind flowed around me. My skin prickled. The völva seemed to grow. She passed the willow wand across my face. I stopped feeling afraid. In fact, I stopped feeling anything at all. “Please, you cannot take her!” Father shouted. “You must not interfere, or the völva will curse the village,” the headman whispered loudly. The völva took my limp hand and led me away from Father and back to her basket chair. One of the bearers helped me into the seat, then assisted the old woman in. “I do not want to go,” I said, my voice flat and emotionless. “Yes, yes,” crooned the völva. In moments, we were down the road, the village gone from view.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jacqueline Church Simonds is an author and publishing consultant. Her first published book was CAPTAIN MARY, BUCCANEER, a historical adventure novel loosely based on the real pirate women Ann Bonney and Mary Reade. Simonds has done the usual authorly wanderings in life: she was a lady’s companion, a sound and lights roadie for a small Southern rock band, and managed an antiques shop. She’s sold everything from computers to 1950s pulp magazines to towels and baby clothes. The one constant in her life is a love of words, books and writing. She sold some short stories and poetry early, but didn’t pursue it until later in life. She has had a life-long love of King Arthur and was always drawn to novels about that great hero. Finally, she sat down and wrote stories from her own point of view. She lives in Reno, Nevada with her husband and beagle.
THE HEIRS TO CAMELOT SERIES
Get the next thrilling volume in The Heirs to Camelot series and watch Anya’s 1,500-year legacy of magic and hope unfold. The reincarnated souls of King Arthur, Merlin, and an anxiety-ridden priestess return to save Britain after a devastating nuclear attack, only to find an old foe: Morgaine. After a nuclear attack on London that heralds The Time Foretold, Ava Cerdwin, the high priestess in charge of fulfilling a 1,500-year-old
prophecy, must assist the heirs of King Arthur and Merlin in healing the devastated country. The descendants of Britain’s great men of legend have kept the myths and relics for sixty-one generations, but no one is quite clear on what they must do next. Nothing goes as planned: Ava falls for the wrong heir, the panic attacks are getting worse, the complex obligations of reincarnation are straining old relationships, and Morgaine and her henchwomen are trying to kill them. Somehow, some way, Ava has to make the Healing happen, or Britain is finished. The Midsummer Wife, Book One of the Heirs to Camelot is an urban fantasy that combines Arthurian lore, love, and a race to a breathtaking finish.
PRAISE FOR THE MIDSUMMER WIFE “Sex, magic, and power collide in this [Urban] Fantasy that begins when a devastating terrorist attack on modern London sparks the long-foretold return of King Arthur to heal Britain. Simonds boldly continues the Arthurian saga into the present day, as heirs to Arthur, Merlin, and the woman both men once loved struggle to understand and fulfill their destinies and outwit the sinister agenda of the sorceress Morgaine.” ~ Lisa Jensen, author of Alias Hook and Beast: A Love Story
“Imaginative, mesmerizing, and emotionally complex, Simonds’ unique story boldly expands the Arthurian legend into exciting new territory. The fantastical elements—rituals from old Celtic religions, dark magic, forces of fate—are well drawn and skillfully integrated into a contemporary setting. And then there’s the romance… the palpable chemistry between Ava and Ron (the Arthur heir), complicated by their respective destinies, makes their relationship a riveting read.” ~ Mary Fan, author of Starswept and Artificial Absolutes