He paused and, taking up his goblet, turned it slowly between his fingers so that the birch wine swirled gently around the bowl, giving off the clean, pungent scent of wintergreen. His rugged face softened, and his voice was a mixture of reverence and enthusiasm.
“I don’t know whether it started as Arthur’s dream, or Merlin’s, or perhaps was writ in the stars, but it’s a wondrous thing to work for. And”—he raised the goblet to me—“I would say we are lucky to have you as part of it.”
The compliment took me by surprise, and I fixed my eyes on my plate while the flush crept back into my face.
He lowered his voice and said firmly, “Look at me, Gwen,” and when I did, he was all seriousness. “I am not speaking as a flattering courtier, but as one friend to another. I was afraid Arthur would end up saddled with a simpering fool for a wife; one of the daughters of the courtiers who scramble about looking for favors, or a convent darling interested only in prayers and primping. There are too many important things to be done to have a leader such as Arthur troubled by the nagging of a spoiled, self-centered vixen who came to power just because she’s beautiful. I, for one, was relieved when he announced he intended to take a northern girl to wife. He needed a Celtic wife from the Cumbri, and he’d already taken a liking to you and your family.”
I looked down again, for the disappointment of hearing what I already suspected was more painful than I had anticipated.
Bedivere must have read something in my face, for he went on gently: “Shall I tell you what Arthur said to me? We were in his chambers following the announcement of his decision, and he was tired of arguing with those who would have him look elsewhere. ‘Bedivere, she is not only a logical choice, she comes from good stock as well, and there is no other woman I wish to consider. You can tell that to the pack of hopeful fathers down there, and maybe that will shut them up.’ I think he would have gone to war with them for you, he was that sure you are the woman he wants.”
I smiled, partly at Bedivere’s diplomacy and partly at the idea there had been some personal preference involved.
“Now—that’s better,” Bedivere affirmed, watching me carefully, “But if I may be permitted a bit of advice…you must learn to accept compliments, and attention, and sometimes even flattery. It is disrespectful to the giver of a sincere compliment to dismiss it, and it is disconcerting to the flatterer to meet with a gracious acceptance of what he knows in his heart is an effort to mislead. I think you will find many among Arthur’s people who will genuinely love and admire you, and it will hurt them if you do not receive their tributes in the spirit in which they are given. And as for the others, well, better to keep them off balance, I always say.”
I laughed at that, and this time when he raised his goblet to me I nodded slightly and smiled, remembering the many times I’d seen Mama do much the same. I couldn’t help wondering how she’d learned to be a gracious, dignified queen, and if she had had as many qualms then as I did now.
After dinner the Irish family brought out gifts. Angus himself had carved a small wooden cross for Brigit so she would have the symbol of their faith wherever she lived, and there was also a necklace of the gray-green pearls found in the rivers to the west.
“To remind you of the Lakes, where your family is,” Brigit’s mother said softly.
The women had made a wonderful shawl for me, bright and colorful as the one Brigit had brought from Ireland. But this one, they hastened to point out, had all six colors, in honor of my status as a queen. There was a pair of earrings, fine-worked and delicate, made of Irish gold, and I wondered which of the women was parting with these, her own reminders of a home long ago left behind. It was a gift to touch the heart, and mindful of Bedivere’s recent words, I accepted them as graciously as I could and showed my gratitude most openly.
“For being so good to our child,” Angus said, as pleased as though he were giving up his own personal mementos.
Last of all, our host signaled to one of the boys who darted outside and was back in a moment with an angular bundle of wriggling gray fur.
“Wouldn’t do to leave the bridegroom out of this celebration,” our host announced, holding up the puppy for everyone to see. “Pure Irish stock, he is, and promises to grow into a fine, strong wolfhound.”
Bedivere looked puzzled, for to anyone unused to the breed it resembles nothing so much as a frame of sticks covered with rags that one puts up in a field to scare away the birds. I was laughing and clapping my hands and, reaching out, took the funny, awkward thing into my lap.
“Just ask M’lady here what kind of dogs they grow into.” Angus beamed, obviously enjoying his role of benefactor. “Brought the original ones over when we came, some five years back, and they do as well in this country as in Ireland. You can tell the King there’s more where this one comes from, if he’d care to start a kennel of his own.”
The puppy nuzzled into the crook of my arm, blinking sleepily and wagging his tail slightly. Suddenly I wondered how we were going to transport it over the next two hundred miles; graciously accepting a gift might be one thing, but knowing what to do with it was another.
Bedivere was speaking, thanking the family for their hospitality, their loyalty, and the puppy, all in the name of the King. “Perhaps,” he added, “we might purchase a crate from you in order to carry the dog?”
“Of course,” said Angus gustily. “As a matter of fact, I made one up special, just in case you might need it. Strong and roomy. And the dog’s already weaned, so there shouldn’t be any trouble caring for him,” he added, proud to have thought of all these details.
Then the good man brought out a flask of his own and poured us each a bit of strong brown liquor, which burned the throat but certainly warmed the heart. “A wee secret like unto the Waters of Life,” he said when someone asked him what it was, and there was laughter and much merriment all around.
Brigit’s brother Sean uncovered his harp, in which Bedivere showed much interest, and began to fill the room with Irish songs and the stories of great heroes. It was his young wife who was pregnant, and she sat in placid contentment, listening to him play. The soft shadows and comfortable curve of the roundhouse embraced us in the age-old way, while generations past and as yet unborn were captured by the music.
Later, when we were all tucked in and warm against the spring chill, I thought back over the evening. Brigit’s family had been cordial and welcoming, and of all the gifts bestowed upon me, the sharing of the family hearth was the most touching. Perhaps they held no resentment over my taking their daughter so far away…or even for what had happened to Kevin. The old pain of that loss throbbed dully in my heart, and I turned away from it restlessly.
The day’s journey had been more pleasurable than I expected. The High King’s lieutenant was turning out to be friendly and personable, and since he had known Arthur for so long, it was possible he would tell me more about the man who expected me to be his queen.
I yawned sleepily. There was no harm, after all, in finding out what he was like. It needn’t change my determination to avoid entrapment, and it might help me find a way to change the direction in which my life seemed to be going.
Chapter XIII
King Uther
Morning came dazzling bright and clear, with neither trace of fog nor remnant of the clouds that had brought a shower in the night. Brigit was already up, sharing a time of prayer with her parents before the demands of getting our party under way took over. I was just heading for breakfast when she returned and swung into step beside me, shooing a clutch of chicks out of the way.
“It’s nice to see your family again,” I commented, looking over at her. “I’ve been wondering…wouldn’t you rather stay here, with them, instead of going all the way to Logres with me?”
“What for?” Her question was so direct and forthright it startled me.
“Well, they are your bloodline, after all. They gave you life and brought you well through childhood…and they are Christians,
which I can’t promise you’ll find a lot of in the south. I…I just want you to know you have the choice…” I finished lamely.
“Some choice,” she answered, tossing her head with a laugh. “Here you are, riding into glory knows what sort of future, and you ask if I wouldn’t rather stay behind!”
She strode through the cluster of children who were fetching water from the well.
“Don’t forget, Gwen, I’ve only been back in touch with my parents since Kevin…left. And then just for occasional visits. Before that there was a good long while when you and the court were the only family I knew. I honor my clan; they are my parents and my kin—but you are my family. I know you far better than I know them now, and prefer to stay with you.”
As usual, she made everything sound simple, and I nodded gratefully.
“If only we didn’t have to ride so far,” she added ruefully. “I didn’t know I had so many places to be sore in.”
I had forgotten that riding was not the Irish girl’s favorite means of travel, and she took to a horse only when distance or time demanded it.
“Why don’t you sit in the litter with Lavinia?” I suggested. “The thing was made big enough for two, after all, and it would give you a chance to rest your sore muscles.”
It was her turn to grin with gratitude. “I may just do that,” she responded.
We left the Irish family in a fine, cheerful mood. As I was preparing to mount Featherfoot, Sean’s wife came over and shyly offered to let me touch her belly “for good luck.” When I put my hand on the rounded mound and felt the life stirring within, she and I smiled at each other, and I offered a silent prayer that she be delivered safely.
Once on the Road, I began to study my escort, trying to see them as individuals instead of just “Arthur’s men.” They shared a camaraderie that had nothing to do with rank or age, and it extended from the unbearded youth who attended the litter to a grizzled veteran who oversaw the packhorses. It spoke well for the High King’s future, since nothing is so corrosive as followers who are split into warring factions.
When we were well under way, Bedivere reined in beside me. White billowy clouds were scudding in out of the west, half-threatening to soak us with a springtime shower, and Featherfoot pranced and sidled excitedly, impatient for a chance to run. I glanced at Arthur’s lieutenant, wondering if he’d be interested in a race, but decided against asking. It seemed a good time to find out more about Arthur, however, so we chatted amiably and soon came round to laughing over the complication of the puppy.
“Arthur’s a man to appreciate a good dog,” Bedivere allowed, “and if that bundle of bone and fur grows into the kind of animal promised, he’ll be delighted. I think the thing he missed most about leaving Sir Ector’s court was that he no longer had time enough for the kennels.
“But what about the family? Didn’t he regret leaving them?” It seemed to me that only a coldhearted person would miss dogs more than people.
“Oh, we went with him. I, of course, because I was his best friend. And Cei because he was our brother. Sir Ector and Drusilla stayed with us at court all through the first months, and Merlin is with him still, as you see. So it’s not as if the people closest to him were forgotten along the way.”
I nodded, trying to imagine an entire Cumbrian family suddenly set down in the heart of a Roman court. It seemed a bit preposterous, and I smiled at the thought.
“When did you first discover who your foster brother was?”
“Same time as everyone else, including Arthur,” Bedivere replied with a grin. “I don’t think anyone, except Merlin, had any idea what changes Uther’s last battle would bring. Certainly there was no hint that the hidden Princeling was about to be revealed. Like many people, we assumed that the boy was being raised in Brittany, just as Ambrosius and Uther had been. Remember, the idea of hiding a kinglet from his enemies till he’s old enough to be fledged was not new in Arthur’s case. But there was the added complication of how Arthur came to be at all, and that may have had something to do with Merlin’s taking the infant away as soon as he was born.”
I wondered what Bedivere knew of the mystery surrounding Arthur’s origins, but my companion continued with his story before I could find a tactful way to ask.
King Uther had been a proud man, apparently unwilling to consider his own mortality, and he’d put off naming his heir or even a regent to keep the kingdom until the Princeling came of age. When rumors spread that Uther was ailing, the client kings grew restless, fearing that the lack of a logical successor would lead to bloody internal struggles. Then word came that a new group of invaders had landed to the north and Urien needed help to contain them.
Even though it was too early in the spring, Uther had been determined to go to war. Perhaps he knew in his bones what he wasn’t willing to admit with his mind…that he was dying.
Sir Ector announced that the High King would need every warrior possible and since all three boys were of age, they could join the troop as well.
“Drusilla was much against it,” Bedivere recalled, “but Sir Ector said it didn’t matter where a warrior was blooded, he could get killed as easily in a border skirmish as he could in a big offensive. And in the end we answered Uther’s call, in spite of the weather.”
“The men of Rheged did too,” I broke in, wanting Bedivere to know we had responded loyally also. “There were still patches of ice on the Stainmore, so my father chose to go by the southern route, through the Aire Gap. Also, with Urien being such a chancy neighbor, it seemed wiser not to march the main body of our troops down the length of his kingdom.”
“Your father is an astute man,” Bedivere said. “But I had no idea he had shared his military thinking with you.” He gave me the same quizzical look I had seen before, half smile, half question.
“Perhaps because he had no son to pass it on to,” I replied. “Anyhow, what was it like, when you went to meet the High King?”
Arthur’s foster brother returned to the tale, his voice warming to the subject as we went along. I let his words wrap round me, conjuring up the pictures of those events.
They had come out of the steep green valleys of Wales, three children and a hermit-tutor, heading into manhood and history without so much as a pause for consideration. Merlin knew, of course, and Sir Ector surely suspected that his foster son would soon be the center of all attention. But all the rest were unaware of what was about to happen, and for the boys it was adventure enough that they were discovering the world beyond the Marches, where the land smooths out into rolling hills and there are few waterfalls or crags to mark the horizon.
On a late afternoon their small contingent topped a ridge and looked down on the tents and picket lines, cooking fires, and pavilions of Uther’s camp. The wind was out of the east, cutting and chill, and on it they heard the ring of a smith’s hammer and the crack and flapping of banners. These were everywhere, ranging from long skinny pennants to huge impressive flags, each carrying the device of its people, each providing a rallying point for the soldiers to gather round. The boys had never seen such a display before, and they gaped in amazement.
Coming into camp, Sir Ector sent the rest of the men to find a spot to pitch their gear. He seemed distracted, and later Bedivere asked what he had been feeling. “Nervous, like a man on the eve of his son’s wedding,” he answered. “I kept wondering if I’d done the right things; if, after all these years, Uther would be satisfied with how the boy’d turned out…if he’d be harsh or happy with his newfound son…and most of all, how Arthur would react to discovering his royal heritage.”
Sir Ector called the boys to follow, and together with their teacher they made directly for Uther’s tent. The Red Dragon floated over it like a tethered monster instead of a banner, and there were guards and messengers, pages and servants all clustered about the royal pavilion waiting to be of service to the High King.
The hermit rode right up to them, and they drew back in awe and deference as though he were himse
lf of royal birth. Bedivere and Arthur exchanged glances at that, but it was obviously not a moment for asking questions.
When they reached the tent itself, someone ran forward to help Merlin down from his horse, and suddenly their tattered old tutor was standing in the midst of the King’s own guard, drawing that immense presence into himself. It was the first time they had heard him use the Voice of Power.
“Tell the High King that I have arrived,” the Magician ordered, and within seconds the tent flap was drawn back and they were ushered inside.
Someone had been burning herbs in the brazier, so the space was hot and stuffy with the smell of medicine. Uther was sitting in his carved chair, dressed in the full regalia of his estate, with the jewels and gold gleaming from his crown. There was such splendor and richness about him, Bedivere hardly noticed he was propped up with pillows and a fur robe had been placed across his knees.
Yet ill or no, there was no doubt he was still the sovereign lord of Britain. He was so gaunt and thin, his face was like a death’s head, and his hands were as bony as those of a man twice his age. But his dark eyes burned with an eager fire, and his gaze moved constantly between Arthur and Cei and Bedivere.
Merlin stepped forward and without so much as a greeting asked the High King, “Why didn’t you let me know how badly you’re ailing?”
Uther looked him up and down before replying. “You are not the only physician in Britain, Sir. But I think you’ve brought me a better tonic than any concoction the doctors could prescribe…” and he gestured the Enchanter out of the way. The great garnet ring, carved with the Royal Dragon, flashed in the lamplight, looking out of place on the wasted hand.
Merlin took a step back and, turning, began the formal introductions. “M’lord, I am pleased to present Sir Ector and his family.”
Child of the Northern Spring (Guinevere Trilogy) Page 12