Child of the Northern Spring (Guinevere Trilogy)

by Persia Woolley

  Rhufon gave me a long, slow look of appraisal, the teasing in his eyes holding his mouth in a thoughtful non-grin as he nodded very, very slowly.

  “Could be, Missy…could be,” he finally opined.

  “I’ll have her saddled in no time,” I promised, whisking into the stable before he could change his mind. Within minutes, Kevin and I were through the gates and over the causeway that crosses the double ditch.

  “Do you always do things so fast?” he asked when we’d cleared the village and headed toward the little valley that opens up between the great fells.

  “When I get a chance,” I answered happily. “Don’t you?”

  “When I get a chance,” he mimicked, and we both burst out laughing. “I just wish we’d brought Ailbe along; there wasn’t time to go fetch him from the kennels.”

  “He can come next time,” I promised.

  So we rode along and I plied him with questions about his dog, and Ireland, and all the things he found here that were different. Unlike his gentle cousin, he was restless and curious and full of observations, assessing everything from the way the Romans had placed the fort to the best place for snaring ducks along the lakeshore.

  I was immensely impressed. He was only two years older than I, but seemed to understand things I’d never even thought about.

  “How do you know all those things?” I asked.

  “All you have to do is look,” he replied. “Just keep your eyes open, and pay attention to what you see.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like signs of the Ancient Ones, for instance. At home they leave messages for one another all over, clear as can be, and I’ve found one or two of them here already.”

  “You have?”

  The idea that Kevin could read the presence of the half-magical creatures usually met only in stories was intriguing, and I turned to stare directly at him. A shock of black hair fell forward across his forehead, almost obscuring the sparkling blue eyes, and it occurred to me that he could be one of the sidhe himself, so different was his look.

  “Sure,” he confirmed. “Whenever you find a flower with two petals missing on opposite sides of the center, you know it’s a sign of theirs. Or a notch in the bark of a tree about three feet up from the ground…they’re not very tall, you know.”

  “How do you know? Have you ever seen one?” I was sure he could talk to any of the spirits he might choose.

  He looked away, the shyness suddenly coming back.

  “Oh, do tell me, please. I promise I won’t tell anyone, if you don’t want,” I begged, terrified this new friend would withdraw from the easy mood of our conversation.

  “I get teased enough about being a changeling, what with being the only dark child in a flock of redheads,” he said cautiously. “And the grown-ups wouldn’t like to know I’d had contact with the Little People.”

  “Then you did meet one, once, didn’t you?” I prompted.

  He looked over at me and nodded, a sudden beautiful smile lighting his face.

  “I’d gone fishing in a small stream, way off where no one else bothered to come. Because of my foot, I couldn’t rough it up with the other boys, or practice with the sword, or run errands for the King, so I used to go off by myself and spend the whole day fishing or collecting seashells, or watching the birds nesting in the headlands.

  “That afternoon I was sitting on a bank that hangs over the water, trying to coax the lord of the hole to take my bait, when a shadow fell across me, and I looked up to find a little man standing there, his hands on his hips and one eye sort of squinted up.

  “He looked like a regular person, only smaller, and he had black hair and dark eyes, what I could see of them. I said something, and he said something back, and that’s when I realized we didn’t speak the same tongue. He came around to where I didn’t have to look into the sun to see him, and squatted down in front of me. He was so close I could smell him, and he was pretty rank, I can tell you. The skins he wore were poorly tanned, I’m not sure he’d ever had a bath, and the musky odor of peat smoke clung to his hair and pelts.”

  Kevin paused and looked to make sure I believed him, then continued his story.

  “Without a word he reached out and took hold of my foot, the bad one. I was sitting with it sort of tucked to one side, and he just took hold of it and straightened my leg so he could see the foot better. Then he took off my shoe, and tried to trace the bones through my skin.

  “He was very gentle. But no one, not even my mom, has ever been willing to look at it that closely, so it seemed very strange. After a bit he made some signs on the skin, and said some words while he held the foot between the palms of his hands. Then he nodded to me, put my shoe back on and sat back. I couldn’t have spoken if I’d tried, but whether it was surprise or a spell he’d put on me, I don’t know.”

  Kevin made the sign against evil, and I nodded, waiting for him to go on. The path had come out into a meadow, and we stopped, letting the reins go slack so the horses could browse.

  “He reached out and taking hold of my fishing line, pulled it up out of the pool. The bait was still on it, and he stared and stared at the hook, turning it over with the same care he’d shown when he handled my foot. Finally he looked up at me and shook his head, very firmly, and pointed to the stream just in case I didn’t understand. Taking a flint knife from his apron, he cut the fishing line and carefully pocketed the knife again. But he held on to the hook with one hand, and reached forward with the other as though to shield my eyes from something. I closed my eyes and jerked my head aside, but when I opened them again, he’d gone, as soundlessly as he’d come.

  “I’ve thought a lot about it,” Kevin concluded, “and I don’t know how much was curiosity on his part, and how much he actually meant to heal my foot in exchange for my leaving his fishing hole alone. He’d obviously watched me come up to the stream, or he wouldn’t have known I was lame. Most people look away, and try to pretend it isn’t so; he reached out and tried to fix it. And that’s something special.”

  I nodded silently. Somehow his story made the Little People seem less ominous than before.

  “I heard, once, that they have a prophecy,” Kevin went on thoughtfully. “They claim a great king will come, a man whose reign will be ushered in by a comet. Under his rule there will be no more wars; not Celt against Celt, or Roman against Briton, or Briton against Saxon. And that’s something special, too.”

  “Is it possible?” I asked. The very idea was so strange and grand, it must surely have originated in the Otherworld.

  “Perhaps.” Kevin shrugged. “But Edwen’s been teaching me some of your British songs, and the genealogies of kings and warriors for many generations back…none of them were very much interested in peace. It doesn’t seem to have a high priority on heroes’ lists,” he added with the same dryness of tone Brigit used.

  So we laughed and spurred the horses into a race across the meadow, and by the time we were heading home we each knew we’d begun a special friendship.

  Chapter XI

  The High King

  Within a month, Brigit and Kevin had become as much a part of the household as though they had been born to it, and life took on a richer cast than I remembered even from before Mama’s death. When I was not doing something with Brigit, Kevin and I were together. We took to running the horses several times a week, roaming about the countryside when the weather allowed, jumping streams or climbing trees in search of honey, and thinking up no end of adventures.

  In the house my knowledge, if not my love, of domestic matters broadened under Brigit’s watchful eye. Whatever antipathy Nonny may have felt toward the newcomers evaporated the first time Brigit scolded me for having torn my breeches.

  “If you’re going to be so handy at ripping the fabric, you can learn to be handy with the needle as well,” my companion announced, marching me to Nonny in order to get the sewing kit.

  The old woman blinked in surprise, and unlocking the cupboard with Mama’
s keys, pawed through the basket until she found the polished bone splinter with a hole at one end.

  “It’s all right, Nonny; I’ll make sure the bodkin gets put back properly,” Brigit assured her, and sat me down then and there for a lesson in mending. Nonny’s eyes were too old to make out the awkwardness of my stitches, but she was so pleased to discover someone was taking me in hand, she wasn’t overly critical.

  As the autumn nights began to lengthen, my father decided we should winter on the northern coast of the Solway; the weather was mild there and we could put the pain of last year’s loss behind us.

  So we headed north, stopping frequently along the way to learn what the harvest promised to be. It was not the best, of course, the spring having been so wet and cold, but it appeared that most people would have enough to squeak through the winter, and my father allowed it might have been much worse.

  Leaving Carlisle behind, we threaded our way through the tangle of rivers and streams that flow into the firth where the Stones of Mabon stand. A gathering had been scheduled there, and people came from all along the Wall to share their news: barons and warriors, local men of power and a few who came for more personal reasons. Emerys the Miller arrived from Appleby to report that although Urien had mounted several raids along the Pennine border, he had made no gains in his claim to Rheged’s territory.

  There were various other reports and exchanges of gossip, and in the afternoon my father led the thanksgiving ceremony while the musicians played and Cathbad taught us a Greek dance in the young god’s honor. He said that even though the Greeks call Mabon by the name Apollo, they understand the importance of the dance almost as well as we Celts do.

  In general it was a cheerful meeting, though there were rumors of the High King’s having fallen prey to a wasting illness.

  I watched a long skein of geese winging in from the far north, their honking muted and soft as it drifted out of the silvery sky, and wondered what a “wasting illness” was.

  “Probably something the healers can’t fix,” Kevin suggested the next day.

  My father was pleased with the new boy’s talent with horses, and had made him a gift of the gelding, who was now named Gulldancer. We rode together, the big dog Ailbe trotting at our side, as the court headed for our winter quarters.

  “Is it important?” I asked, wondering why it mattered who the High King was. We never saw him, after all, being in that shadow area between the heartland of Britain and the wild land of Caledonia. Indeed, I would have thought the health and temperament of the northern leaders was of more concern to us than the welfare of a figurehead off in Logres.

  “As long as we’re a client kingdom, it’s important,” Kevin averred. “Besides, not all High Kings are as limited in activity as Uther is. It’s said that Ambrosius traveled widely through the land; probably as much as your father travels here.”

  We were coming out of a rumple of hills, and I caught my breath as the broad valley beyond came into view. It’s a sight I dearly love. The farmland sweeps gently down to the southern shore, and is bounded on the west by the first of the ridged peninsulas that stick into the Solway like fat, stubby fingers, each separated by the roiling waters of a firth.

  This afternoon the fields wore the burnished bronze of autumn, and the blue mass of Criffel’s ridge defined the edge of the world ahead. The wind laughed in the woods on the higher ground, while beyond the collar of marshland the Solway looked deceptively smooth and peaceful. When the tide is low you can walk far out across that silvery mud, suspended between the heaven above and the one reflected in the wet slickness underfoot. But when the tide turns round, it rushes hissing over everything in its path, and then a person can be lost between one step and another.

  “According to Edwen, the unanswered question is who will be king after Uther.”

  Kevin’s voice cut across my thoughts, bringing me back so sharply that the roaring tide and the matter of the High King went down together in a torrent of confusion.

  “After…?”

  “After Uther dies, silly. Edwen says we are at a junction point, a crossing of past and future, and the strands are made as much of what has gone before as of what is ordained ahead.”

  I smiled, for it was clear from the tone of his voice he was settling in to repeat one of the stories our bard had recently taught him. He was learning to endow the tales with majesty and mystery, and I loved to listen to him practice.

  “As the days of the Empire were ending, the military commanders took their troops from Britain and sailed for Rome, hoping to defend her from the onslaught of the barbarians.

  “Then began the Time of Troubles, with plague and famine everywhere, and because the Legions were gone, the enemies of Britain grew brave and bold. They swept in from north and east and west: Picts with painted bodies and fierce war cries, Saxons in their longboats, and Irish from across the Little Sea. Britain was besieged, and cried out to Rome for help, but the Eternal City had fallen to the barbarians and could send neither troops nor encouragement.

  “There was chaos everywhere, until one man arose to bind the wounds and seek to rally the Cumbri against the fearful foe. This man was Vortigern, a tough, proud warrior who killed and looted and fought his way to supremacy over all the others during the mad scramble for power when the Empire collapsed. He was a man who believed in the Old Ways, praising the history of the Celts and trying to wipe out anything that had a Roman taint; and those who opposed him fled for their lives and found refuge in Lesser Britain, which we call Brittany today.

  “In his effort to stop the onslaught of the enemies who threatened to overrun the land, this tyrant Vortigern made a pact with the Saxon tribes, enemy though they were. He offered them both land and funds if they would take arms against the other invaders, and on that promise Hengest and Horsa, the Saxon leaders, brought three boatloads of warriors to Britain’s aid.

  “Then did the new allies fight at the Britons’ side, routing the invaders from the north. But when the Picts had been driven back, the Saxons, discontented with their gift of land, began demanding more, and turned against their host, sweeping across the rich midlands of Britain like a wave of death.

  “And then there came, from across the waters in Brittany, the sons of the men whom Vortigern had murdered in his rise to power. Well grown by now, and powerful, they brought armies and courage and hope to the land once more, and the people joined them in rising against the tyrant and driving him even from his mountain stronghold in the heart of Wales.

  “These new leaders were Ambrosius, well trained in the arts of statesmanship, and his warrior brother Uther, who led the men in battle. Between them they restored order to the realm, and drove the Saxons back to the eastern shore.

  “Ambrosius was proclaimed High King, and he called the young magician Merlin to his court, recognizing him as his own son, though born out of wedlock. Roman in training and thought, Ambrosius set out to reinstate the rule of law and order, traveling throughout the land to seek unity among the different tribes of Celts.

  “Yet Ambrosius fell victim to a poisoner at court, and as the warriors felt most at home with his brother Uther, they elected him to the High Kingship, to take his brother’s place.

  “That was sixteen years ago,” Kevin mused, resuming his normal tone. “Uther has been without heir for all the years of his reign—except, of course, for the mysterious princeling Merlin is said to have created by magic and witchcraft. Neither the boy nor the Sorcerer has been seen for years; no one knows where the child is, or what his name might be…or even if he’s still alive. Princelings always have enemies when there are proud contenders for the crown.”

  “But who is there to contend for it?” I asked, still not seeing how this affected us in Rheged.

  “Edwen says there are many who are not happy with this Roman line, and wish to see the High Crown returned to the old Celtic families who were in power before the Troubles began. Since the High King is chosen by consent, there’s many who might com
pete for the honor, and power, that go with the title.”

  His dark, piercing eyes were watching me intently.

  “Tell me,” he said, “how would you like it if the High Crown were to be given to Urien, for instance?”

  “Oh…”

  It was difficult enough with Urien as a neighbor; I certainly didn’t fancy the idea of his having High Kingship over us as well. I nodded silently, staring out at the water again, thinking how tricky and unstable things could be when you looked beneath the surface.

  A shiver ran across my back and I put the problem of the High King and his heir out of my mind. We were heading to the floating houses at faraway Loch Milton, and I told myself that even the High King wouldn’t be able to find us there.

  Older than anyone can recall, the houses rest on islands of mud and brush and logs, much like the nests built by crested grebes. They’re wonderful in summer, when the dugouts are tied up at the verandas that surround each house, and the wash of water on all sides keeps the mood cool and green. And even in the winter the polished wood floor and snug sleeping rooms radiating from the flagstone hearth are every bit as comfortable as any roundhouse on the fells.

  The weather was mild and calm that year, perhaps to make up for the terrors the last winter had brought, and many mornings Kevin and I took the horses out at daybreak, riding through the muted, misty landscape as the sun came up. Standing black and ocher in the fog along the lakeshore, the winter reeds would part suddenly as a heron rose squawking into the day, and my heart would lift with it. Even the bare black skeletons of the alders became beautiful when the sun set the frost on their branches flashing like splintered jewels.

  It was on one such morning that we stumbled across the wild man sleeping in a lean-to of branches and boughs. Any unknown person living in the forest bespoke strange and sinister forces, for only outlaws and madmen made their home in the woods. Beyond that, this ragged creature’s clothes did little to hide the tattoos that marked him as a Pict, one of the strange, untamed people who lived on heather beer and rugged determination in the Northern Highlands. Kaethi said their fierceness and scorn were so terrible, the Romans had built the Wall in order to keep them out. I swallowed abruptly and reined Featherfoot away, and Kevin laughed.