The animal’s huge rectangular head came almost to the boy’s chest, and in its rough coat and leggy build it was unlike any other dog I’d ever seen, for the hounds in our kennel had lean muzzles and satin coats patched with brown and black and white. I wondered what these beasts were used for, and how they kept that tangle of hair from getting matted and torn.
All told, there were four such creatures and they walked along sedately, neither lunging at the leash nor paying attention to the mutterings of our curious greeting. I decided to ask the boy about his charge as soon as possible.
The company disappeared into their tent, dogs and all, and it wasn’t until late afternoon that the men began to emerge, making their way to my father’s lodging and joining him in the customary wine-sharing. The weather had lifted, and gave promise of bringing a fair summer evening, so we set up the pillows and wooden bowls near the roasting spits at the edge of the trees and prepared to break bread with our guests.
There was no chance to meet the boy with the dog before the ritual began at the Standing Stones, however, for all the children were kept under the careful supervision of the women.
At last, when the meal was over and the long twilight had settled in, we made our way along the moorland bench to the circle of stones.
Laid out by the Gods before the beginning of time, these sacred spots are scattered across the land like fairy rings from the days of giants. Always near an ancient track, always set by stars and sun or moon, they serve as universal meeting points for all people; a place apart, where man is stripped of war and pretense, pride and possessions, and meets his fellow with the honesty of his own integrity. This was not the first meeting within a stone circle I had attended, but it was certainly the most exciting.
My father came on horseback, but dismounted when we were all seated within the ancient arc and made his way slowly to the center where the King’s chair was already in place. Nidan and Rhufon accompanied him, each carrying one of the long pointed shafts that end in brackets holding torches. These they planted in the turf behind the King, then stood at attention as formal witness to the proceedings.
After the Circle was called closed and the words to open the Council were spoken, my father looked around the gathering and inquired, “Who has business with the King of Rheged?”
The leader of the Irish group stood up and came before my sire, walking slowly as though still weighing the wisdom of his action. At last he straightened his shoulders, bowed to the King and, turning, addressed the whole assemblage:
“I am Angus, a man of Ulster, come to Rheged with the wish to settle and abide peaceably by your laws.” He spoke clearly, without preamble or flourish, and his accent had a pleasant lilt to it.
“And why do you wish to leave Ireland?” asked my father.
“We were a family of high rank with our king, but he has been killed by his brother, and it is unsafe for us to stay.”
The answer was flat and straightforward, perhaps to cover whatever pain the man might be feeling.
“And what surety do you offer if I give you refuge?” My father’s response was equally direct, and one would have thought it was a business deal for the purchase of a cow.
“My daughter Brigit, who is a good girl and will serve you well, and my nephew Kevin, son of Finn, my brother and co-leader in this venture. Both children are firstborn and have an inheritance of honor in their homeland.”
“Bring them forward,” the King said, and two of the women, who had obviously been crying, detached themselves from the group and escorted the hostages to the King’s chair. The torches flickered in the soft twilight, and our people leaned forward to get a better view of the children.
One was a tall, angular girl with red hair, and the other was the dark boy who limped. They were both much older than any of us expected, and a murmur of surprise ran through our household.
“He was born with a dragging foot,” the Irishman explained hastily, “but is very quick with words and thought, and was being trained by one of the best storytellers in the whole of Ireland. Perhaps you can apprentice him to your own bard, or set him to help your scribe. It should not be difficult to teach him to write.”
My father had not laughed aloud in months, but I thought I could see an amused twinkle in his eyes at the man’s assumption that we had a scribe. With no one in Rheged needing to read, there was no reason to retain someone to write.
The King stared thoughtfully at the women and children for a bit, stroking his mustaches in an absent fashion. At last he nodded and turned his attention back to Angus.
“Where do you wish to settle?” he inquired, apparently satisfied with the nature of the hostages.
“That, M’lord, is up to you. We would prefer a steading of our own; we’ll clear the land and till the soil, since we’re not overfond of sheepherding. We trust your judgment in giving us an area that will meet our needs.”
“Very well,” my father replied. “If you go east along the edges of this Bay, you’ll find promising land near the Roman Road that leads south. I will draw you a map and show you where to land. Or if you would prefer to go on foot, I can provide you with horses and some gear.”
The Irishman looked surprised, apparently not having expected such a helpful welcome.
My father’s eyes were sparkling with good humor and he continued. “Those are details we can take care of later. Now, as to the hostages, there are some things you should know.”
He motioned to the youngsters, who came to stand on either side of his chair. The girl simply stood there, wrapped in a shawl of many colors, staring at the ground with quiet dignity. But the boy gazed openly at the King, then at the people of the circle.
“It is a special trust you give to me in handing over the heirs to your line,” my father began, his voice reflecting the solemnness of the occasion. “It shall be as a pledge between us. There will be no insurrection, no breaking of the peace or plotting of treason on your part. And for my part, I promise to hold you and yours as freemen of the land, and will guide and protect and include your children as members of my household. They shall be treated as would any fosterling, with care and consideration for their welfare. I will not have you worry,” he added, turning to the mothers, “that they might be mistreated or ill-used. It is a poor leader who does not recognize the respect and dignity due to children who have been placed in his care.”
The spaces between the Stones had filled with shadow, and above us the stars were beginning to dance in the darkening sky. One of the women sniffed loudly, and the King turned again to their leader. “Do you agree to these terms?”
The man nodded silently and my father had the hostages join hands, after which their kinsman put his hand over the two smaller ones. Carefully the King laid his own palms over and under the intertwined knot of fingers, saying, “Do you, Angus of Ulster, swear on the lives of your children to keep the peace of this kingdom and acknowledge freely that I, Leodegrance of Rheged, am your leader and king?”
The big redheaded Irishman bowed his head, but spoke out firmly: “I do so swear.”
The hands were unclasped, and my father shifted to a more comfortable position in his chair. There was a collective stirring and sighing throughout the audience, and somewhere in the distance I caught the faint hoot of an owl.
Turning to the girl, my father smiled. “How old are you, Brigit-with-the-flaming-hair?”
She had stared at the ground during the entire ceremony, but now raised her head and answered in the same firm manner as her parent: “I shall be thirteen following the next Samhain.”
“And you, Kevin?”
The boy bowed solemnly. “I turned twelve this spring, M’lord.” He already had the diction of a bard, and I suspected that when his voice changed it would be easy to forget his deformed foot and frail look.
“Both of an age to be company to my own Guinevere, and no doubt good for her spirits as well as mine,” my father said as he looked about the circle again, and slowly asked,
“Is there anyone who opposes this arrangement?”
When no one objected, he nodded, satisfied.
“It is as has been spoken,” he intoned, closing the matter and nodding to the Irishman. “Would you and the ladies like to keep the children with you until you are ready to leave on the morrow? It is a hard enough parting without the pain of knowing they are in the same camp but already under someone else’s wing.”
There was a flurry of appreciation from the guests, and then Brigit and Kevin were swallowed up by their guard of women and my father began to call the Council closed.
When he came to the final prayer, he paused and added a new thought of his own:
“And for this reminder that life flows on, that we must move beyond the time of mourning, we thank you, O Brigantia. The moiras of all humans change and flow, and only the most arrogant think they have seen Fate sealed. These children, who are well nigh young adults, will find the patterns of their lives entwined forever with ours. But they are not the only ones to be affected; their presence brings a new energy, a new color to the court of Rheged, and surely we shall all be the richer, and happier, for it. So let us call this Council well met, Great Goddess, and pray our agreement finds favor in Your eyes.”
It rounded out the ceremony nicely, and I went off to bed with a new gladness of heart, eager to get to know the hostages even if they were Irish.
Chapter X
Brigit and Kevin
We were up early the next morning, breaking camp and preparing to say goodbye to the Irish clan. As he had promised, my father supplied them with horses and saddles, and in return Angus insisted that we accept one of the big dogs as a gift.
“To tell the truth,” the Irishman said gruffly, “the boy is powerfully attached to the creature and quite good at handling him. It will make the parting less lonely if he has something to remember his childhood by.”
We were on our separate ways by the time the sun had gilded the estuary below, the Irish heading off to their new home and our household striking northward along the mountain dale to Lake Windermere and the fort at Ambleside. The boy Kevin stayed behind with Rhufon and the men who were bringing along the tents and trappings at a slower pace, while Brigit rode next to me in the retinue of the king.
It was a glorious morning, full of larks and high fleecy clouds and a gentle breeze.
“Is it so different from your homeland?” I asked, watching the new girl stare about her once we were under way.
“Perhaps, a little. Though the stone circle is very like the ones we have in Ireland. Tell me,” she asked carefully, “is there a chapel near the King’s palace?”
“Palace?” I responded, surprised. It had not occurred to me that she might expect to live in a building specifically made for a king.
“You know, your home. You do have a family home, do you not?”
“Well, yes…in fact, several,” I told her, explaining that when we followed my father we might stay in anything from a Roman bathhouse to a rich steading such as Patterdale or the Great Hall at Appleby with its sleeping lofts and tall wooden pillars that held up the high roof.
“But I don’t think any is what you’d call a palace,” I concluded. Worried that she might be disappointed, I hastily pointed out that it meant we got to travel a lot. “Didn’t you travel with the Court when you were in Ulster?”
She shook her head slightly. “Not often. We stayed at the King’s palace, even when he wasn’t there…There was a chapel, however. And here?”
“Well,” I temporized, “there’s the monastery Saint Ninian built—the White House, on the edge of the Solway. And occasionally one of the wandering Christians comes to court, or lives for a while in a cave by one of the rivers. There’s the ruins of a church in Carlisle, I think, but it’s deserted…Is your family Christian?”
“I am,” she answered proudly, “I and my parents, though my cousin Kevin’s branch is not. But then, they’ve never met a saint, so perhaps it will take them longer to find the Path.”
I looked at my new companion with even greater interest; at last I could hear at first hand about the faith these people followed.
The morning went by in talk of miracles and magic, of hermits and holy men and the great teachings that they espoused. As Brigit told it the saints sounded very like the druids, except that their sacrifices were different and they worshiped a god who had become human himself. She said the new god took a personal interest in what you did—unlike the Old Gods, who insist you come to them and may or may not listen to your prayers.
I already knew that when the Old Gods chose, they could sweep you up into the vastness of their embrace and carry you to the threshold of joy or terror. It didn’t sound as though the followers of the White Christ had much experience with that, so I decided inwardly I’d stay with the Old Ways and hoped the Irish girl wouldn’t seek to convert me to hers.
When we came to the shore of the first lake, my father called a halt to rest the horses and have a midday stretch. Brigit and I ran down to the pebbly shore, munching a handful of nuts and cheese and still chatting about all manner of things. I was enjoying her company immensely, for she was the first real friend I’d made since Llyn died, and I looked forward to showing her everything I could about our land.
She dipped her hand in the waters of the lake and drew it back with an exclamation of surprise.
“Coniston’s always cold,” I told her, and then pointed to the island by the far shore. “That’s where the cormorants perch to dry their wings, and the crested grebes build floating nests and sometimes do their fishing in the moonlight. It’s not my favorite lake, but it does have good fish.”
“You have other lakes?”
“Mm-hm. There’s Windermere, where we’re heading now, and Ullswater, with its great stags, and the Black Lake, where the Lady lives.” I made the sign and then wondered if it bothered my guest, but she seemed not to notice. Perhaps she was not one of those Christians who abhor all other beliefs.
“What lady is that?” she asked, pulling her bright shawl around her shoulders, for we had come to a spot where the trees grew close to the water and it was noticeably cooler.
“Why, the Priestess…the Lady of the Lake. Don’t your people know about the Goddess, and Her Lady, and all?”
“You mean the Morrigan?” She hastily made a sign of her own. “Everyone knows about her. But who is this Lady?”
I explained how a small number of women are trained in the same arts as the druids, and when the old Priestess dies a new one is named to take her place and continue teaching others for the rest of her life.
“And she’s known as the Lady of the Lake because the Sanctuary is at the Black Lake,” I concluded.
“Is she the leader of the druids?” Brigit asked cautiously.
“I don’t think so, though they hold her in great respect. She’s more a teacher than a governor, I guess…and a great healer. People go to the Sanctuary for all kinds of problems.”
“Is it like a monastery, then, only for women?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “I’ve never been to either the Sanctuary or a monastery. But I think there must be both men and women at the Lake, while there’s only men in Saint Ninian’s house at Whithorn.”
Brigit thought about that for a minute, then smiled. “At home, the Saint for whom I am named has started a holy house just for women. I didn’t have a chance to meet her,” she added wistfully, “but perhaps she will travel to Britain one day.”
We began to make our way back to the group of adults, walking carefully because the roots of the trees twined and looped out of the ground and threatened to trip the unobservant. One of them had grown round a stone and when the earth wore away, the rock was captured in a kind of living cage. I have always suspected there are a pair of gods at work here, the one of the stone and the other of the tree, and I silently saluted both as we moved past.
“How do you get to be a saint?” I asked.
“Oh, I guess mostl
y by living in accordance with the Holy Laws, and teaching them to others,” Brigit said.
“So, in a way, the Lady of the Lake is a saint?”
The Christian girl came to an abrupt halt, the look of shock plain on her freckled face. Then she burst out laughing. “Well, it’s the wrong god, but otherwise, maybe so. I’m sure the monks and priests wouldn’t approve to hear her called so, however. They don’t like the Old Ways, you know, and say it’s unwise to consider them holy.”
I nodded and grinned, very much liking this new friend with the lilting voice and full laugh.
***
Getting to know the Irish boy was quite another matter. My days were full of work with Brigit, since Gladys found plenty for us to do in the kitchen, and Kevin was off doing things with the men. The only time I saw him was at dinner, when we joined the other youngsters in serving the adults. There was much carrying and fetching but precious little chance to chat. On top of that, he seemed shy and reticent whenever I spoke to him, and it was beginning to look as if we’d never have a chance to get acquainted.
Then I went loping down to the stables one morning, planning to curry Featherfoot. As I came round the corner of the barn, I found Rhufon by the stable door intently watching what was happening in the paddock.
Kevin was astride a young chestnut gelding, putting him through his paces. He circled the paddock twice, keeping the beast at a steady trot, then urged him into a canter along the far fence while the Stable Master looked on.
“Seems he’s no stranger to horses,” Rhufon commented as I came up. “I’ve had him riding every animal here—except the King’s, of course—and there isn’t one he can’t handle.”
“Then maybe he can go riding with me,” I suggested with elaborate casualness, trying to sound as if this were merely a practical observation instead of a whole, bright future that had leapt suddenly into my head. “You know Featherfoot isn’t getting enough exercise, and if I had an escort who’s that good with horses, there’d be no danger in letting us go out on our own.”
Child of the Northern Spring (Guinevere Trilogy) Page 9