I couldn’t agree more.
During the next four days I went about my chores with a lump of fear lodged just below my heart, and when it was time for the travelers to return, Griflet and I took the dogs out to meet them.
The wolfhounds heard the hoofbeats first and went streaking ahead over the rise. Caesar gamboled about full of wags and enthusiasm, but Cabal was content to take her place at Arthur’s side, pacing quietly at the stallion’s off-fore leg just as she would when they went into battle.
Frieda had not returned but stayed behind with her family in mourning, though she promised to join us before we left for Cornwall. Griflet’s face mirrored the uneasiness of his heart, and he dropped back to ride in silence next to Lance while Arthur and I pulled ahead.
Featherfoot was prancing and playful, but I kept her on a short rein as my husband peered at me from red-rimmed eyes.
“By Jove, how those barbarians love to drink,” he said with a sheepish grin. “Spend all their time in the Hall, swilling brews that set you on your ear.”
He went on to describe the funeral with its tall pyre and the wind that roared up when the kindling caught—flickers of flame dancing and crackling while women wailed and men rushed forward to fling amulets into the inferno. Spirit and prayer and terrible grief rose on the towering column of smoke, carrying the dead man’s soul to the Saxon Gods, who live in the sky rather than under the water as Celtic Gods do.
But what had intrigued Arthur most was not the rites themselves but the man for whom they were held.
“He was neither a warrior nor a noble, but an ealderman, Gwen—a freeman who’d devoted his life to studying the Saxon Law. Their Law is a living thing that grows as they use it, and he was one of many who define and determine it. He didn’t have royal power or great wealth, but you should have seen the number of chieftains who came to pay him tribute!” Arthur shook his head in admiration. “Afterward, in the Mead Hall, Frieda’s father welcomed us as special guests, and introduced us around the gathering.”
My husband was trying to stifle a smile, like a youngster who is having trouble keeping a secret. I waited expectantly, and after a moment it burst from him.
“We’ve been invited to visit the Federate leaders in the south this summer. It could lead to all sorts of things: truces and treaties and trade agreements. Maybe even some way to blend these newcomers into the fabric of Britain. It’s a wonderful chance to advance the Cause!”
He was full of enthusiasm, but I gave only a dubious nod. As far as I was concerned it was one thing to befriend an individual and quite another to have dealings with the very people who wanted to steal our land.
“What else did you find out about them?” I asked cautiously.
“Well, their women don’t sit on the Councils—they bring forth the bowls of mead or ale and serve the men in the Hall, but leave before the serious discussions begin.”
“What sort of Council has half the population missing?” I bridled.
Mischief tugged at the corner of Arthur’s mouth. “A very timely one. I’ve been thinking about instigating it here at home. We might get more accomplished without the distraction of the fairer sex.”
“Nonsense!” I sputtered, unwilling to let a slick compliment mask an idea that was insulting to the core. Featherfoot tossed her head and snorted as if in agreement, and I laughed. “Fairer sex, my foot. Your head’s still full of cobwebs from all that drinking. Beat you to that outcrop,” I challenged, seeing a long stretch of verge opening beside the Road ahead.
Never one to turn down a race, Arthur spurred his stallion forwards and then we were flying over the land, laughing and panting and daring each other to keep up. The dogs stretched out beside us, running at full speed. A flock of starlings rose in consternation as we thundered past their copse of ash trees, and by the time we came pounding, windblown and happy, to the walls of Silchester, all thought of the Saxons had been left behind.
It didn’t stay that way long.
My old governess, Lavinia, was thrilled at the prospect of the trip. Claiming that nothing impresses barbarians as much as a grand display of pomp and color, she and Ettard set out to refurbish my wardrobe. For years Vinnie had struggled to get me out of breeches and into clothes “befitting my station,” and here at last was her grand opportunity. I grinned and left it up to her.
State visits, as well as royal marriages, require the presentation of gifts, and while Vinnie put store in a fancy wardrobe, both Arthur and I had more faith in the gold and silver presents that betoken a rich treasury. But household treasure is not as easily replaced as the golden jewelry kings give to their Champions; every warlord grows rich from the jewelry stripped off his dead enemies, but few warriors carry hollowware into battle. So Arthur had Cei bring all of Silchester’s treasure trove to the mansion, and the three of us went through it together.
There were flagons and goblets, trays and plates, bowls and baskets and boxes of every description. The afternoon sun streamed into the room, highlighting bright enamels and satiny bronzeware, pewter and fine red Samian pottery, inlaid wood and carved ivory. Spread out over table and floor, it was an impressive display that ranged from useful to handsome. There were many things suitable for the Saxon chiefs, “but nothing fit for a king’s wedding present,” Cei grumbled.
I hauled the last bundle from the bottom of an olive-wood box and, sitting cross-legged on the floor, began folding back the protective sheepskin. A gleam of polished metal winked up at me and I gasped as a beautiful silver piece lay exposed on my lap.
“Ah, yes, the Anastasius Bowl,” Cei remarked as I lifted it up. Sunlight sparkled from the fluted ribs that graced its sides, and in the center of the basin a woman’s head had been chased into the metal. It was every bit as elegant as the silver tray Agricola had used to serve us peaches, back before we were married.
Arthur bent down to run a finger along the rim. “That Frankish leader, Clovis, sent it to me as a Gift of State when I became King. I’d forgotten all about the thing.”
Cei turned the bowl over and pointed to the mark of the silversmith, which indicated it had come from Constantinople. That fact alone made it a gift worthy of any monarch.
“I suspect that Clovis gave it to me as a bribe to keep me from going to King Ban’s aid should the Franks launch an attack against Brittany.” Arthur grimaced. “It wouldn’t work, of course…but still I’m loath to give it to someone like Mark, who might use it to make Clovis feel I had not appreciated his gift. Ye Gods, diplomacy gets tiresome. There’s times when I’d gladly trade it all for the life of a peasant!”
I laughed, knowing exactly what he meant. Carefully rewrapping the bowl, I returned it to its box, still wondering what to give Mark and Isolde.
The problem was solved when Agricola insisted on donating his own silver platter to the cause of the Cornish King’s marriage.
“But M’lord,” I protested, “didn’t you tell me that was a wedding present when you yourself got married? Surely you don’t want to part with it?”
“Yes, it was. And my wife and I had a fine life together—but I have no interest in marrying again; there’s quite enough for me to do as the King of Demetia without taking on a new wife as well. Let’s hope the gift will augur as much good fortune and pleasure in Mark’s marriage as it did in mine.”
His words were light and cheerful, but I was glad that Vinnie wasn’t present; she harbored a special fondness for the Roman widower and, I suspected, a secret dream of matrimony.
A messenger was sent to get the tray from Agricola’s villa near Gloucester and it arrived the morning before Beltane. I wrapped it carefully in my shearling cape and put it in the willow trunk with my personal possessions for safekeeping.
Frieda returned that day as well, and seemed to be glad to be back at Court. I was relieved not only for Griflet, but for myself, too, as Brigit had requested permission to go north to the convent over the summer, instead of traveling with the household.
“I won
’t stay with the sisters permanently—at least, not yet,” the Irish girl promised. “But I want to talk with Mother Superior about the future. And you don’t really need me on this trip, as the other women can attend you.”
Her request made sense, of sorts, and since we had just finished packing the hampers and panniers for the journey, there wasn’t time to argue. So I gave her my blessing and turned my attention to the Beltane rites.
The change of seasons is always a chancy time, when both Gods and mortals run the risk of coming face to face. Samhain is by far the most frightening, for in that autumn time ghouls and spirits move abroad and people can be snatched without warning into the Otherworld. Beltane is generally fairer, with its songs and dancing, May Day rites, and grand processions as the cows are turned into the pastures for summer. Since everyone must participate at Beltane—young and elder, weak and hardy—a bustle of activity filled the Court.
I found the kitchen in chaos. Enid had dragged out every pot and pan and was surveying the lot with obvious misgivings. Small and dark as a changeling, my lady-in-waiting spent most of her time in the kitchen because Cook was more in need of help than I was. Her brows knit in exasperation as she assessed the remains of the Empire.
“Those old Romans must not have had much of an appetite; aren’t any vessels here big enough for a proper frumenty. From the looks of it, they never sacrificed anything bigger than a pigeon!”
I grinned and pointed out that when the Romans became Christian, they’d given up blood sacrifices. “But if anyone knows where a caldron could be found, it would be Cei.”
Sure enough, the Seneschal located a battered bronze crater, and before long Enid and Cook were busy mixing up barley kernels and milk and dried fruit for the ceremony.
As the shadows lengthened Ettard and I took the children through the house, making sure that every ember was extinguished in hearth and oven, lantern and brazier—at Beltane one must truly return to the darkness of the days before the Gods. Only then, with the lighting of the Need-fire, can the Gods prove they have not deserted us.
It is a ritual I’ve taken part in all my life. With every year the memories become richer, layered one over the other like petals of a flower holding a secret in their center. In good years it is a time of high spirits and anticipation, but when plague and pestilence stalk the land the royal promise leaps to mind with the Need-fire spark. Mama had died the day before Beltane, and since the flux was still rampant, my father’s life would have been forfeited if the Need-fire hadn’t caught. The memory of that terrible fact lies always just beneath my Beltane joy.
This time the bonfire roared to life with a fine, bright blaze, and the people laughed and capered and danced in giddy delight at leaving winter behind. When the flames died into a glowing pile of embers, we all helped pull the frumenty pot up to the coals and I began the circle dance.
Singing and clapping, the women followed after me—snaking back and forth between the glow of fire and the dark of night, doubling round on ourselves—a living spiral in the dance of life bobbing and weaving to the high, piercing notes of Dagonet’s pipe.
The men moved in behind, swaying and stamping as they reached out to spin us around. Deeply throbbing, lightly sinuous—together we called the Goddess, woke the land. Great waves of love, of pent-up longing, of glorious release, rose in the voice of the people as the cold constraints of winter dropped away and spring came romping across the fields.
Every shadow whispered hope and invitation, and I was back again in the fire-glow of the Beltane after Kevin left. Now…now…I prayed, as if the time since his disappearance had not been. If you are ever going to claim me for your own, it must be now!
His face shimmered suddenly before me; dark-eyed and haunting, but without a smile or gladness of any sort. And when I flung my arms out to him, he turned aside with a look of pure contempt.
Confused, blinded by hot tears of hurt and disbelief, I stumbled from the circle. Arthur’s arms went around me, swinging me up in an arc so high that my feet left the ground. Flying, soaring, whirling breathlessly in his embrace, I blinked repeatedly, trying to clear my vision until I saw that it was Lancelot who moved silently away from us, not Kevin at all.
The pain and poignancy of that love which was never to be, mixed with the cold hardness of the Breton’s scorn, made my heart cry out. Tears ran down my cheeks, mingling with the sweat of fire and dance, and when Arthur steadied me on my feet I answered his kiss with a grateful eagerness that did the Goddess proud.
***
Just before we consummated our ritual, I commended Kevin to Epona’s care, wherever he might be, and once again reminded the Goddess that the moon was full and I was in need of a child.
Chapter VII
Discovery
When the May Day festivities were over we headed off to Cornwall—a cheerful bunch, laughing and joking in the dazzle of spring. After the winter at Silchester everyone looked forward to a change of scene, but for me it held the special promise of getting to know both the land and people.
I rode Shadow, the little white Welsh Mountain mare Arthur had given me as a wedding present, and he was astride his large black stallion. The horses were fit and eager for the Road, tossing their heads and making the bells on their bridles ring. The Banner of the Red Dragon floated above us, while the entire entourage was decked out in their most colorful outfits. Even I was wearing a dress, and Igraine’s golden torque encircled my neck. Altogether we made a splendid picture.
Everywhere we went our subjects came out to greet us, cheering in crowds by the gates of towns or saluting us singly from field and farm. They were as curious about me as I was about them and often called out my name as we approached. I waved and saluted them in return, glad to see them friendly and happy.
Other travelers joined us if they were heading south or pulled to the verge of the Road as our party swept past. Peddlers, healers, farmer’s wives taking food to market, a band of young adventurers sharing the rigors of travel—I studied their faces closely, wondering about their dreams and hopes.
We were coming through the Mendip Hills when a strange, mournful sound overtook us. It was as many-tongued as a pack of hounds, but muted and softer, like geese flying somewhere in the distance. The great, sky-filling flocks had long since settled down to nest, so I looked to Arthur with a query.
Before he could reply the dogs burst into sight, rounding the shoulder of a hill like a tide of flapping napery spotted with blood. White as linen, every animal had dark red ears.
“Great Gods, it’s the Gabriel Hounds,” Gawain cried, reaching for his dagger. Lance drew his sword and the wolfhounds froze, hackles raised and bodies taut.
The racing pack divided to pass on either side of us, sending waves of panic through the household as an ear-splitting whistle rent the air. A man on a dun charger came into view, clinging to his galloping mount like a burr to a blanket. He bore down on us, long hair flying and eyes agleam.
Shadow whinnied in terror as the thundering horse reared skyward to avoid crashing into us. For a long moment it danced in the air, front hooves pawing, nostrils flared and eyes rolling, before crashing to a halt barely three paces in front of me. The dogs ceased their yelping and turned back to their master.
“Arthur Pendragon?” the man called, eyeing my husband with a fierce intensity—half mischief, half threat.
“Who asks?” Arthur’s hand rested on the hilt of Excalibur.
“Gwyn of Neath,” came the quick reply. “Thought I’d find you somewhere in these hills. Welcome to my territory.”
“Your territory?” Arthur cocked an eyebrow. “A bit far from southern Wales, aren’t you?”
By now our challenger had turned to ride beside us, sending his dogs on ahead. He gave the King a gap-toothed grin and nodded politely to me.
“Neath’s just the family holdings—I’m going to Glastonbury to claim the land I liberated from a scoundrel who challenged me at a ford…typical braggart, he was. But I’ve
taken to raising hounds and horses, and his land is good pasturage.”
From the web of scars on Gwyn’s arms I suspected he’d spent more of his life on the battlefield than in either stable or kennel, but perhaps he felt it was time to hang up his shield—older warriors become a liability when their speed drops off.
“Came out to ask if you’d like to stay over,” the wildman went on. “I’ve a hunting lodge not far away—excellent larder and good enough quarters. Been breeding a line of large horses—good for cavalry—and hoped we could discuss bloodlines over ale and meat.”
Arthur glanced at the man’s mount. A young gelding, he was big and sound, and tall in the bargain; just the sort we needed.
“Heard you’re developing a strain of your own,” Gwyn continued, eyeing Arthur’s stallion as well. “I’ve a notion to try for a line of blacks…”
Whatever doubts Arthur had disappeared, and by the time we sat down to dinner he and Gwyn had gone over all the mares in the barn and determined which ones might be suitable for breeding with the stallion.
During the meal Gwyn’s bard regaled us with stories of the witch of Wookey Hole, who lived in a nearby cave with a pair of goats.
“My da saw her once—face all twisted as she stared into a polished crystal ball,” the bard recalled. “Carries the thing at her belt and uses it to make charms.”
I was wondering if she might have some spell for fertility when Gwyn spoke up, his dark eyes riveted to my face. “People don’t go near her cave, however—there’s terrible groans and screams come from that cavern now and then.”
I shivered and made the sign against evil and in the firelight caught sight of Lancelot doing the same. He may not have much respect for me, but at least he paid the Gods their due.
“Tomorrow,” Gwyn announced with a sudden, toothy grin, “I’ll take you through the Gorge. Wonderful place; fairly reeks of the first days of creation.”
Queen of the Summer Stars: Book Two of the Guinevere Trilogy Page 8