by Hume, M. K.
Arthur could tell by the trembling of her bottom lip that she was on the verge of tears.
‘I’m sorry, master, but I don’t know my age. Kerryn says I’m thirteen years, but I can only recall my life from when I was about ten. Everyone thinks I’m stupid.’
Arthur was afraid she was about to weep in earnest. However, she bit down on her lip and forced her head up. ‘You must tell me if I disappoint you, my lord, for I’ve been told that I’m good for very little.’
‘Not so, Sybell. Your master wouldn’t have sent an idiot to serve me.’
The girl was pretty and very dark, and her eyes shone, especially after receiving such an unexpected compliment. Arthur noticed a mark on the side of her face that was exposed whenever her hair moved, so he gently lifted the locks of her hair to examine a long scar that ran down her face from the temple to below the jawline. A small indentation just below the temple showed where her skull had been pushed inwards by a savage blow to the head; it explained her loss of memory.
‘You don’t remember who struck you or why, do you, Sybell?’ She must have been very fortunate to have survived a wound of such severity.
‘No, my lord. I was too young.’
‘Let’s hope you don’t remember, little one. At least you are safe under King Eoppa’s protection, so let’s see what you can do about finding a bath for me.’
Sybell ran out to do his bidding. He thought of Maeve and what he’d have done to any man who dared to wound her in such a terrible manner.
A suitable container for bathing was found and Sybell was soon producing large buckets of water, allowing Arthur to luxuriate in cleanliness. Later, after drying his body, he dressed himself in leather trews, a freshly bleached shirt, his mailed coat and a tunic of brass plates. He took up his second-best cloak, checked the cleanliness of his goatskin boots, strapped on his sword belt and then sat while Sybell combed and plaited his hair. Then, with her heart in her mouth, she shaved his chin and cheeks with his special blade. Finally, as well-dressed as possible, discounting his wedding finery, Arthur joined his bodyguards to attend Eoppa’s feast.
As they walked through the darkness towards the great hall, Gareth and Germanus briefed Arthur on what the bodyguards had learned during the afternoon.
‘The consensus of opinion seems to be that Bearnoch is a prickly sort of woman. She’s Christian, and it’s claimed that she’d rather become a nun than a wife,’ Germanus began. ‘There are few physical similarities between her and Eoppa and some of the Angles have made oblique references to cuckoo eggs placed in foreign nests in bygone years. One thing is for certain: Eoppa would kill any man he caught voicing such insults. Her eyes are blue, but her hair is more red than brown, and its shade is far darker than her father’s. I gained the impression she had ideas and ambitions above her expected station, for the nuns taught her to read and write. It seems they decided she might become a noble abbess at some time in the future.’
‘That sounds hopeful! I have no time for a stupid woman although, as a Christian, she’s unlikely to take to my Sigrid.’
‘Some of the men here have referred to her as the Ice Queen because she has never shown the slightest interest in any man. She is also very tall. One of the warriors joked about men who might be brave enough to scale the heights,’ Gareth added. ‘I eventually warned the oaf in question to keep his tongue between his teeth when he speaks of my master, or my master’s wife. He wasn’t pleased by the time I left him, but we had settled the disagreement between us.’
‘Was it painful?’
‘For him, Arthur, but not for me!’
Arthur sighed, then realised he had forgotten to bring a package containing some special gifts for Bearnoch. He turned to Germanus. ‘Could you return to my room and bring me the parcel wrapped in red cloth on top of the clothes chest bearing the Red Dragon motif? Make haste, my friend. We’ll wait for you outside the hall.’
Germanus returned so fast that Arthur was sure that the old man had sprinted the whole way.
‘Now I’ll get to meet the Ice Queen for myself. Meanwhile, accept my thanks for your efforts to inform me of the lady’s character. I’m aware that some of my men call me the King of Winter when they think I’m not listening, so perhaps Bearnoch and I are perfectly suited to each other.’
The interior of the king’s hall was surprisingly sumptuous for a structure as plain and as unadorned as it was on the outside. The flagged floors were covered with the usual carpet of loose straw, but it was unusually fresh and sweet-smelling. The eating tables, scrubbed and polished, were placed in two long rows, with the head table on a dais across the end of the room; the bench seats had been softened with embroidered cushions for the comfort of the guests. Even the copper pots steaming with the aromatic smells of herbs and meats were polished until they shone.
The entry of the Dene guard made quite an impact on the assembled thanes and their ladies, who competed to outdo each other in the lavishness of their attire. Anglii women rarely had the opportunity to join their menfolk on formal occasions, but Eoppa had decided to make an exception for the first two days of feasting to celebrate the marriage of his only living child.
The next feast, to be held on the morrow, would follow the nuptials in the ancient church in the ruins of Pons Aelius.
A further ceremony on the third day would dedicate the young couple to the old gods and would be sealed through the ceremonies of the Nuptial Feast and the Marriage Bed.
Dozens of pairs of eyes ran up and down the tall, athletic figures of Arthur’s guard, young men who had been chosen for their beauty, as well as their strength. Arthur had ordered them to leave their weapons in their quarters, and more than one thane noted this with approval. As one, the guard bowed to the dais, as Arthur strode through their neat lines, flanked by Germanus and Gareth, to stand before the king.
‘We are here to pay homage to you, my lord, as I promised at Segedunum.’
Once more, the guard bowed as one, then stood upright with their hands clasped respectfully at their sides.
‘Be seated and welcome, men of Lord Arthur,’ Eoppa intoned with notable seriousness from his armchair in the centre of the high table.
The guard graciously permitted Eoppa’s steward to seat them along one side of a long table opposite the warriors from the king’s guard; the two groups of men examined each other with careful but not overtly hostile eyes.
‘Lord King of the Northern Angles,’ Arthur began in a resonant voice. ‘I present Snorri, son of Sigmund, son of Sven, who is a master mariner and helmsman, and can read the stars. No seas defeat him and no storm dares to drown him.’
‘Welcome, Snorri, son of Sigmund and son of Sven,’ Eoppa replied with equal courtesy.
‘These warriors have been my friends and closest confidants since I was a boy,’ Arthur continued as he called Germanus and Gareth forward. ‘They have guided my footsteps into manhood. Germanus is a Frank by birth, and was a servant of the descendants of Merovech for many years. He is a warrior par excellence.’
‘Welcome, Germanus,’ Eoppa replied and bowed his head a fraction, a considerable concession that wasn’t lost on his own thanes.
‘And this warrior, so young and so fair, is my friend, Gareth, son of Gareth, who served the Dragon King for his whole life. I expect that you will find such a connection vile, for the Dragon King almost defeated the Saxon and Anglii alliance. But times change, and now Gareth serves only me, so his allegiance to you is also assured.’
Eoppa marked the special nature of this particular meeting by rising and bowing to Gareth, who responded by kneeling at the king’s feet.
‘Truly, legends come to life before our eyes. Was your father the Sword-Bearer?’
‘After the death of the Sword-Bearer, Gruffydd, my father did, indeed, bear Caliburn for his master. Then, after the Dragon King perished, Lord Arthur�
��s foster-father cast Caliburn into the tarn of the Lady of the Lake, deep in the mountains of Cymru, so it could never again come to trouble the world of men.’
‘Welcome, Gareth ap Gareth. Mayhap you will tell my singer some of your stories so that the past doesn’t die.’
Arthur remained standing before the dais, although the room was very silent as the Anglii thanes attempted to digest the information presented to them. For a generation, the Dragon King had been their enemy, the fiend who had been portrayed as a monster in a hundred battles. Now, they were being asked to accept that the son of the Dragon King was trustworthy enough to become an ally. They were confused and unconvinced, but Arthur stepped forward to address them.
‘My friends! Your king and I have made a solemn agreement that I will remain as Arthur ap Artor for this one day – and then no longer! By the end of this feast and by the oaths that we shall swear on the morrow, he and I have agreed to create a new kingdom that will be free of the prejudices of the past. For this last time, I shall salute you as Arthur, Jarl of the Dene Mark, the last descendant of the Roman emperor, Maximus, and the Last Dragon of Britannia.
‘In the new British regime that will soon come into being, I see no delineations between Briton, Roman, Angle, Jutes, Saxons or Dene. Our people must belong to the land, this Angle Land as I have heard it called, and even the Picts are welcome to farm and fight beside us if their prime allegiance is to us and not to the ancient and pointless wrongs of yesteryear.’
It was immediately obvious to the Dene contingent that the Anglii king had convinced his vassals that his vision for the future was in the best interests of his subjects. Realising they were among future friends, Arthur’s guard began to sit a little taller on their bench seats.
Satisfied with Arthur’s stirring words, Eoppa rose to his feet once more.
‘Welcome, Arthur. Come now and seat yourself at my right hand so you may meet your new bride.’ Eoppa sounded slightly nervous. In turn, Arthur did his best to avoid staring; instead, he marched up to the High Table and placed the package in red cloth in front of Lord Eoppa.
‘I wish to present this small gift to Lady Bearnoch in gratitude for my welcome today. The gift is also a pledge of my enduring respect.’ He smiled directly at the attractive young woman sitting woodenly at the table, and she flushed under his searching gaze. ‘And I am hoping she can tell me who it was that wrought the marvellous wall-hanging that has lent such beauty to my hall.’
A muffled voice coughed in embarrassment.
‘I made the hanging, Lord Arthur, so I am pleased that it has given you enjoyment.’
‘It is doubly appropriate then that you should be given my paltry gifts, which could never hope to match the beauty of your weaving. Still, I hope you will forgive the choices made by a mere warrior. The jewellery was part of a treasure horde collected in the icy north lands where the sun doesn’t set for half the year.’
Eoppa passed the colourful package to his daughter, whose high cheekbones flushed with obvious pleasure. She was beautiful, but without the conventional prettiness of most Anglii women. While her nose was just a little too narrow and elongated, her face was fine but determined. Her eyebrows were dark, winged and slanted upward, while her mouth was full so that it appeared to be bee-stung.
Like a hesitant child, she opened the package with great care, conscious of the many eyes that followed every movement of her narrow fingers, but Arthur could see something wounded and vulnerable in her dark blue eyes. Their colour reminded her betrothed of deep water on a fine day, and seas that consisted of many layers. Arthur could imagine a sensitive man becoming lost in those eyes and the complex mind that lay behind them. He was intrigued, something he had never expected to feel in this loveless match.
Bearnoch had covered her hair with a length of rose-coloured silk; she looked well in this material, because her hair was almost a rich oak colour, with just a trace of red in it. It hung down her back in a thick smooth curtain almost to her knees. She had never permitted its length to be cut.
Arthur wondered why this attractive woman had remained unwed. She’s obviously clever, he thought, and she’s certainly accomplished. Perhaps she’s not beautiful in the accepted fashion, at least not like my Sigrid, but a man could feel content and proud if he possessed such a wife.
Then Arthur amended his thoughts. No! This woman isn’t a possession. She would demand to be an equal, not stridently, but by the subtlety of her intelligence. Bearnoch would be an eternal companion and a friend to the man who won her allegiance.
Putting aside his odd thoughts, he gazed at Bearnoch and saws the colour rise from her collarbones to suffuse her face with pleasing shades of pink.
‘How did you know that I loved pearls and amber, my lord?’
The necklace in Bearnoch’s hands consisted of large, irregular pearls of spectacular refulgence strung with beautifully matched pieces of honey-coloured amber. At the end of the long double string, another large piece of amber hung, shaped carefully into an oval. Within it, a small white moth had been caught in the yellow tree-sap at some time during the distant past, imprisoned forever in a single moment of fragile grace.
‘A night moth! It’s perfect! This gift is far too fine,’ Bearnoch breathed, as her eyes glowed with excitement. ‘I should feel sad for the poor thing, but its beauty has been preserved for eternity. Long after we are dust, other women will wear this amber and be reminded that life is short and fragile.’
‘No mere moth could rival your eyes, Mistress Bearnoch. Honest beauty can survive beyond time when Fortuna is just,’ Arthur responded. His words were cautious, rather than flattering, for something about this woman reached out to him. He could scarcely understand why he had chosen to be so fulsome with his praise.
The king looked from one young face to the other. The young man’s beauty had been hardened by far skies, glare-soaked seas and adversity. Then, with fondness, Eoppa gazed at his only living child and recognised the inner strength that was softened by her innocence. For a moment he wondered whether it had been wise to have her educated among the gentle nuns at Eburacum.
Eoppa felt a shiver begin in his lower back, which usually presaged an increasingly troublesome onset of pain, and he prayed that he had done everything within his power to protect the only things that he still loved in this wicked world.
On the morning after the welcome feast, Arthur and his jarls returned to the great hall to meet the churchman who had travelled from Eburacum to record the marriage of Eoppa’s daughter with the northern heathen. An increasing number of prominent thanes had adopted the teachings of the new faith, including Eoppa’s second wife. At her insistence, Bearnoch had been sent to the little nuns and it had been half expected that she might spend her life there in quiet contemplation and prayer.
Eoppa valued the teachings of the Church of Rome and took every opportunity to have his alliances recorded in the scrolls prepared by the church fathers, knowing that word of his deeds on this earth could endure for eternity within the monasteries’ secure vaults. Wise men in Eoppa’s position kept their feet in both camps, pagan and Christian, and there they would stay until battle for dominance was eventually won by one side or the other.
Arthur had scanned the long and excessively elaborate document quickly, his lips curling at the scholarly language that buried the unromantic details of alliances under fulsome wording.
The cleric stared at him disapprovingly.
‘Can you make your mark, my lord? I will show you where to place it.’
The cleric’s well-fed face displayed ill-concealed scorn, and he wore a knowing look that declared Eoppa, the Dene and the Angles to be upstart barbarians. Arthur’s sense of devilry made him pore over the whole document, reading it carefully while the black-garbed cleric flapped his hands together in distress and insisted that Arthur make his mark and return the scroll into the priest�
��s safe hands.
Grinning and mischievous, Arthur finally demanded an implement suitable for writing.
The room was suddenly silent as all eyes turned to him.
‘Yes, Father, I’m very fluent in Latin. After reading some of the tortured language in this scroll, I’m of the opinion that I’m better versed in its intricacies than you are. I must say that it’s hard to grasp at the meaning of some of the passages here.’
‘My lord, I . . .’ the cleric stammered, and then ground to a halt.
Germanus and Eoppa couldn’t help themselves. Their smiles soon turned to laughter.
‘Imagine that! A literate barbarian!’ Eoppa chortled. ‘Who could have considered such a possibility?’
While the priest sweated with embarrassment, Arthur signed the long documents that would bind him to Eoppa. He also signed the wedding agreement and, on this occasion, used his new nomen of Ida, comforting himself with the knowledge that those friends who loved and cherished him would forever see him as the Arthur of old.
If he was fated to lead the Dene and Angle people through the coming years the name of Ida would probably endure down the centuries, such was the power of the written word. I’ll let Fortuna call the odds, he decided, and I’ll place my trust with the goddess.
And so, Arthur and Bearnoch were wed. As they sat on their bed under the remarkable hanging, the new bride was still dressed in stiff robes and wearing a veritable breastplate of gems like an ivory idol. Bearnoch had replied to Arthur’s questions in monosyllables during the feast. The only clue he had to her partiality towards him was the huge necklace of pearls and amber that was prominent on her breast.
In the half-light, Bearnoch carefully removed her garland of flowers and the heads of wheat that had been interwoven with ribbons. Her fingers began to shake in the dim light.
‘Come! Sit closer to me, Bearnoch, and we shall talk for a little while. There’s been scant time for us to know each other at all,’ Arthur began; his new wife sighed deeply and he searched her face carefully to see if there was any sign of nerves, repugnance or fear. After all, this girl had been raised in a nunnery.