by Hume, M. K.
‘I am, as yet, unfamiliar with the way that Anglii men and women organise their households. However, after a number of years living among the Dene, I have found that their marriages seem to fare better than those I have seen in Britannia. I believe you should rule my household and my kingdom in my absences, exactly as the Dene women do. From this moment onwards, everything I own is equally yours.’
She smiled at him, but he still found her expression was a complete mystery.
‘The only people who will remain as my personal property are the Geat slave, Ingrid, and her two children. I took them as captives in a raid years ago and have developed a fondness for them. Ingrid’s daughter, Sigrid, has warmed my bed and she is gravid with my child. I tell you these details for I want no secrets to exist between us. Your children will always take precedence over hers; I could never marry a slave, even one who is as well-born as Sigrid.’
‘The poor thing!’ Bearnoch whispered suddenly and her hands twisted in her lap with distress. ‘Does she know you will return to your fortress with a new wife?’
‘Yes, Bearnoch, she does. There will be no discontent in my household, at least not from her. How say you, Bearnoch?’
Arthur waited breathlessly to find out what kind of woman he had married . . .
‘You’ll have no trouble with me, Arthur, for I’ll do my best to bring honour to Sigrid for the betterment of us both. Perhaps she will help me to learn and understand my responsibilities as the wife of a king.’
Arthur laughed self-consciously. ‘I hardly think I’m a king yet, Bearnoch. As your father has probably told you, I’m the birth-son of the High King of the Britons. But your father has concluded that the days of kings may disappear into the chaos that threatens to swallow our lands.’
Bearnoch moved closer to him then and took his hand in hers.
‘There is a power in your flesh that tells me you will become a king, one who will father a line of kings that will last far into the future. You are giving me immortality, Arthur. I’m a poor excuse for a woman, for I know nothing of the arts of love or the secrets of domestic organisation, but I’m loyal and I’m proud. I’ll never cause you to regret your bargain with my father – or with me!’
Before she could become afraid of the ordeal to come, Arthur extinguished the oil lamp and plunged the room into darkness.
He fumbled gently with laces, buttons and ties until he finally bared her pale flesh from under the many imprisoning layers of clothing. Then, dressed only in the nest of her hair, he caressed her until she forgot what the nuns had told her of the horrors of the marriage bed.
Before the first cocks crew at the break of day, Arthur discovered that Bearnoch was a pearl beyond price.
CHAPTER XXII
BRAN’S BANE
Eternal law has arranged nothing better than this, that it has given us one way into life, but many ways out.
Seneca (The Younger), Epistulae
Once Arthur was certain that his wives could live together amicably after his marriage of convenience with Bearnoch, he had decided to make a rapid overland journey to Arden to be reunited with his parents. The young man knew that Bran was restless in the south and would soon come raiding into the distant north-east to settle old scores with Eoppa. If Arthur was to see Elayne before she passed into the shades, the time to make the journey was now – while relative calm reigned.
In an oilskin folder he carried a lock of soft red-gold baby’s hair. Sigrid had borne his first child, a lusty boy whom he had named Valdar in honour of the Storm Lord, now far away beyond the heaving seas of the north. Had he waited just a few more weeks, Bearnoch would have been delivered of his heir, but time pressed at Arthur’s heels and he felt impelled to take to the roads.
Bearnoch had been close to weeping because Arthur was leaving at such a late stage in her pregnancy, but Arthur took time to explain how much he longed to see his kinfolk and how he could be back in time for the birth anyway.
‘I never expected to love you, Bearnoch, but more importantly, I never expected to be able to talk with you on important matters. Marriages of convenience are usually dead, chilly things. Fortunately, you understand me, so I can explain how much I need to see my family. I don’t want to miss the birth of my first legitimate son and heir, but—’
Bearnoch put her hand over his mouth to still his explanations.
‘I understand the duties of a lord and I know you’ve spent time with me as you settled me into my new life. In the process, you’ve neglected your blood kin. I understand how your mother must be suffering, and I can’t conceive of any harm coming to the child I’m carrying, so go, my beloved. Even if you can’t return in time, I’ll have you for a lifetime.’
Arthur was shocked by her generosity. Sigrid had been petulant, yet he had been there for the birth of her son – barely! He counted himself fortunate in possessing a wife who was proving to be a friend and a lover too. The women were already plotting against him in matters, Bearnoch swore, that were entirely for his own good. Arthur should have been the happiest of men.
‘Few men could be as fulfilled as I am in my marriage,’ he had responded with complete honesty, so that Bearnoch had flushed with pleasure at the compliment. ‘I even like your father.’
Yet, when Arthur rode away, Bearnoch had allowed her tears to fall unchecked as she waved her goodbyes.
Arthur was accompanied by Gareth, Germanus and Snorri. The four had discussed and planned their journey, while recalling the lessons that Germanus and Gareth had learned during their travels to the northern lands of Skania so many years earlier. They had concluded that a small group of companions would cause little comment if they rode at a reasonable pace and stayed away from the main roads and larger towns. And so Arthur’s party had ridden south in easy stages with his packs full of gifts for his kinfolk and a song in his heart at the prospect of a long-awaited reconciliation.
The journey to Arden was relatively uneventful. Arthur hadn’t expected so much change, for forests are eternal and the wild places had been sacred to the Britons for a thousand years.
Yet he soon discovered that many of the old fortresses were gone or fallen into dilapidation. Cataractonium, Lindum, Verterae and Ratae lay in ruins, their walls breached and the rock dragged away for use in Saxon walls or foundations. The Roman roads still existed, but only their regular use by carts, livestock and the feet of travellers prevented these ancient wonders of engineering from disappearing back into the earth. Fortunately the still-visible milestones told Arthur where he was, for the signs and landmarks of his youth had been washed away.
As he approached the margins of Arden, he felt his heart sink, for axe-men had bitten deeply into the quiet glades and groves he had once known so well. Arden had shrunk, and was shrinking further still, for men were hauling away large forest giants or burning venerable trees to make charcoal. He could have wept at the desecration.
He had almost given up hope of finding a familiar landmark when a simple well-travelled track led him into the forest’s heart. What he had hoped to find at the end of his long journey was long gone; the ancient timber fortress was manned by strangers and Elayne’s clean rooms were filthy with fouled straw and animals that seemed cleaner by far than their Saxon masters. Here, beds could be purchased by travellers from a new order that was stripping away Arden’s beauty like a half-remembered dream.
Arthur had refused to remain for longer than one night for the beds were verminous and the stews were rancid and fatty. Of the Britons, including the Arden Knife and his family, there was no sign. Nor could the new landlords give him any word of them and spoke of Bedwyr as if he was an overrated legend from bygone days. Disgusted and heavy-hearted, Arthur decided that his small party should ride on at first light.
Bedwyr’s great oak tree had been chopped down, but Arthur’s favourite tree had survived. This oak had grown from a see
dling that Bedwyr had transplanted, and the old man had used it to teach Arthur about paternal love. By chance, the smaller oak had been spared by the Saxon woodsmen, so Arthur paused for an hour to climb its branches and recall how his world had changed since he had left Arden a decade earlier.
Then Fortuna turned her wheel and offered him a small gift. Just outside the shrinking western margins of the forest, the party came across a British crofter and his family in a simple stone cottage and barn more Celtic than Saxon.
‘We are travellers on the road, good sir. We seek word of Lord Bedwyr and Lady Elayne who were masters of Arden Forest in bygone years. I would be pleased to reward you for any information you could provide that would aid me to find my kinfolk.’
The crofter was a small man with a scarred face that hinted at battles and multiple wounds in his past. At the shabby door, Arthur could see a bulky woman with small children around her skirts.
‘Mayhap I could help you, sirs. I mean no disrespect, but I recognise your friend there. He was sword-master to Lord Bedwyr’s son, back when the world was peaceful and good. Unless I miss my guess, you might be the master’s son.’
‘Aye, good crofter, that I am,’ Arthur replied, grinning in his delight. ‘What is your name? I will give Lady Elayne news of you and your family, if I should be lucky enough to find her.’
The crofter flushed with pleasure. ‘Aye, Lord Arthur, the good lady will remember me. She begged us to come with her and the rest of the folk from Arden, but my wife couldn’t leave her old gran behind. The old besom is dead now, but I can swear that she were a tough old body. If you see your noble mother, tell her that Gwyllium of Arden still holds to the old ways. He’s quiet-like now, though, for our Saxon friends rule the roost in these woods.’
Arthur nodded, for he feared his voice would betray him if he tried to speak.
‘Melvyn? Fetch milk for Lord Arthur and his friends. Hurry, boy, for the sun’s past noon and our lord will want to be far from here before darkness comes upon us. The outlaws will be about, sir, and them devils give no respect to anyone, warrior or king.’
A boy of no more than ten came running, while he attempted to carry a large jug of foaming milk. Another smaller boy followed, clutching four rough mugs.
Each guest drank deeply, although they guessed the children would have to do without in the name of hospitality. And so, when the visitors were offered a second cup, each man refused with such courtesy and flattery that no offence was given or taken.
‘From your speech, good crofter, I must assume that the noble Bedwyr has passed into the shades,’ Arthur said softly.
The crofter’s face screwed up in response, for Bedwyr had been truly loved by all the people in his community who had known him.
‘Aye, I’ve heard he breathed his last, but it weren’t afore he saw a new fortress built in the Forest of Dean. I believe them woods lack the beauty of old Arden, but they be wide and wild. It’s said that it’s far too difficult for any Saxons to remove their ancient trees.’
‘Thank you, Master Gwyllium. Have no doubt that I will remember you to my mother when I see her. Should you and yours ever have need of me, send word to Ida, north of Hadrian’s Wall, and I will endeavour to come to your aid.’
Then, as tears streamed down his plain and honest face, Gwyllium loosed the horses and his four visitors cantered away under the high sun.
The distance from Arden to the Forest of Dean was short as the crow flies, but the route through old Glevum, which still clung precariously to the Western Alliance, was thick with outlaws and wild northerners who seemed hell-bent on robbery and murder. On several occasions, Arthur’s party was obliged to fight and kill small bands of robbers who were so desperate for the base coins in their pockets and the food on the traveller’s packhorses that they refused to heed warnings. After several bloody encounters, the four reached the Marches of Cymru and entered the ancient Forest of Dean.
On the outskirts of the Forest of Dean, Arthur had begun to doubt the wisdom of his journey. Did he really wish to know what had become of his family?
Germanus saw his young friend’s hesitation and brought his horse to a halt in front of Arthur’s mount.
‘You’ll soon get to know the best, or the worst. At least, you’ll be free of any anxiety.’
Arthur nodded. Germanus’s advice was always sound.
‘We can expect to meet up with sentries in the trees soon, all armed with bows. Make no sudden movement once they challenge us, for they are nervous of strangers.’
Once they entered the cool environs of these ancient woodlands, Arthur’s heart felt easier. He had lived in wide, open farms and had spent many months on the equally wide seas, but his heart had been given years earlier to the dim, green lights of the forest. His horse picked its way nervously along the narrow path that was frequently breached by fallen trees, sustaining new life and rebirth from where they lay. Velvet green lichen grew lushly on trunks, rocks and decaying wood, punctuated by vivid mushrooms and branch-like strings of flowers. The horses’ hooves could easily slip on these treacherous surfaces, so the experienced horsemen spent more time looking downwards than examining the road that lay ahead of them.
The four men had been travelling for hours inside the margins of the forest, following lower trails that kept them close to the sounds of rushing and bubbling waters, when a disembodied voice hailed them. The sentry warned them not to make any untoward movements, and then demanded they give an account of what they wanted.
‘I am Arthur, son of Bedwyr. I was thought to be lost in the far north and stolen away.’ Arthur swept away the cowl of his cloak so that his unusual curls were bared for the sentry to see. ‘Germanus and Gareth you should also know. The other warrior is Snorri, a fine friend from across the grey seas. We seek news of my mother. How goes Lady Elayne?’
The silence among the trees was menacing. ‘I remember Germanus,’ another voice called from out of the darkness. ‘And I remember Gareth Grey-Crow. You brought bad news when I saw you last. You may pass on to the next sentries, who will be warned of your approach.’
The four horsemen obediently set their horses at a slow walk while their eyes tried to piece the darkness of the trees.
They were accosted three times and Arthur gave the same greeting each time, trusting that word of his party would reach the fortress before him. At last, a curve in the track led to a sudden opening in the trees that permitted the men their first sight of the pastureland that had been hollowed out from the green heart of Dean.
Then, after passing through fields already slick with young grain heads or grazed by cows, they came to a palisade and a great set of gates. Arthur could have been in Arden again, except that Dean was surrounded by hills. Before they could ask for entry, the gate swung open and Arthur’s gaze settled on the faded and wrinkled face of Elayne, the Lady of the Woods, his troubles forgotten as he threw himself from his horse to bury his face like a child in the ample softness of her breasts.
Arthur luxuriated on a warm bed after a real bath, although the hurriedly organised water was little more than tepid. His long hair had been spread out across the pillow to dry and his whole body felt as light as thistledown. He would have continued to lie there, without thought and without any particular emotions, had his mother not silently entered the room.
Elayne was very old now and she held herself with the dignity of a woman who had known legends and been loved by heroes. Arthur’s fond eyes accepted the inevitable march of time. Her hair was white, with the odd streak of faded russet; her face was plump and rosy-cheeked, wrinkled only at the corners of her eyes, and in the deep lines of suffering that dragged down the corners of her mouth. Her buxom figure had thickened, yet Arthur would have known her anywhere.
She lay on his bed above the covers and made herself comfortable, so she could rest her head against his chest.
; ‘I’ve longed for this day for many, many years, my darling son, but I was beginning to believe that you might have been lost in the northern snows. I often told your father that I couldn’t accept your death. He had always credited me with having traces of the Sight, but it was only wishful thinking that kept me sane. I don’t have the gift. I’m just a mother who would have known if her children had died. However, there was never a sense that you and Maeve had met your fates and gone into the shades.’
Her eyes filled with tears as she remembered their enforced departure from Arden and Bedwyr’s strength of purpose when he led his people to a new sanctuary. Then a pleasant possibility suddenly occurred to her.
‘Now! Enough of me! Tell me about Maeve. How fares my strange little daughter?’
So Arthur told his mother of Maeve’s adventures with such vivid exactness that Elayne wept with happiness or, perhaps, from loss. Strangely enough, Arthur had never been able to tell what she was thinking. He took out his son’s wisp of hair and described Sigrid and Bearnoch and the child that had been born to Sigrid. Her heart was elated this time, for Arthur’s children weren’t in the distant lands beyond the cruel sea; the promise remained that Elayne might yet see them before she died.
Elayne also asked for news of Eamonn and Blaise, so Arthur was forced to relate the dolorous tale of the Battle of Lake Wener. She grieved for the Queen of the Dumnonii Tribe of the south-west of Britain, who would never receive the long-awaited news for which she had yearned. Reports of Blaise’s state of mind would be difficult for any mother to accept; that Blaise could change so much in a relatively short time filled Elayne with dread for her own daughter’s safety in such a barbaric place.
‘But Maeve is ecstatically happy in her marriage to one of the great men in the Dene Mark,’ Arthur explained with a smile. ‘Would you have believed your little Maeve would ever become a queen?’