Murmurs of assent could be heard, and Merlin stepped forward.
“What is this ‘Celt versus Roman’ nonsense?” he asked. “We are all a mixture of both. Our grandfathers called themselves Roman citizens and were proud of it. The Empire has been split and shattered by the barbarians, it is true, but the knowledge of civil organization knows no geographic loyalty. To condemn a useful system of government because it comes from a certain source is as foolhardy as to refuse a good joint of meat because it comes from your neighbor’s cow!”
A spate of laughter ran through the audience, beginning with Lot’s own northern allies who still engaged in cattle raiding now and then.
Lot started to speak out again, but Merlin continued blithely. “I do not ask you to accept this young king because I have foisted him upon you, as Lot implies. I ask only that as freemen of the realm you follow your own conscience, your instinct to recognize a hero when he appears among you and your willingness to give your pledge to one trained and reared specifically for this job. Arthur owes no man here a favor, has no debt to any one of you, carries no vendetta or grudge to cloud his judgment. He can be just and fair precisely because of this fact. What more could you wish? What more can anyone give, as High King?”
Merlin paused to look carefully around the gathering, no doubt noting who nodded in agreement and who did not.
“Because of Uther’s death this day,” he continued, “we are a land without a leader. And yet the same fate that took the High King from you has also provided his replacement. Would you turn to internal bickering and petty politics when you have, this night, the chance to recognize a new star rising in the sky of Britain? He is here, now, before you, and awaits only your sign as to what you would have him do. What say you, freemen of Albion?”
Perhaps it was his use of the old name for Britain, or the wind tugging at the Banner again, that set the troops to chanting. Soft and low at first, then growing in pitch and volume, their chant carried as one voice until the whole camp rang with it: “Arthur, Arthur, Arthur Pendragon.”
Lot still stood his ground, and Arthur remained unperturbed, as though the tumultuous cheering were but the crash of a wave on some distant shore and not the heralding of his own kingship.
At the moment when the energy of the crowd began to wane, a tall broad man wearing the badge of the Boar rose and requested permission to speak.
“Your words are powerful, Great Merlin, and the future you spin is alluring. And of all men here,” he said slowly, “I have the greatest reason to distrust you. But I, Cador of Cornwall, am here prepared to pledge my loyalty to Arthur, not on the basis of what you say, but on what I myself saw in the field this very day. This lad is a leader, born to the sword, such as comes rarely to any land, and I am willing to follow him from this night forth.”
Cador moved from his place in the front row of the assembly and striding up to Arthur, bent on one knee and raised his hands, palms together. Arthur looked down at him and carefully enclosed those two hands between the palms of his own, then freed them when Cador looked up at him.
***
“The smile that broke through Arthur’s reserve was a joy to behold,” Bedivere said, his voice touched with wonder. “And when he helped Cador to his feet the army roared and stamped its approval. I think,” he added, “that it was the first time I had ever cried for happiness, and it had nothing to do with the fact that Arthur is my brother.”
“What happened then?” I blurted out, enthralled by the scene he had conveyed.
“I guess you could say Arthur was proclaimed by unanimous uproar, while Lot stood to one side, his fists tight-clenched and his eyes all but shooting sparks. One after another of the kings came forward, each bending the knee and offering his loyalty and receiving in return a smile, a nod, or even a personal comment from Arthur.
“When he saw the majority would not listen to him, Lot turned on his heel and, gathering his followers and allies, left the camp. It was only later that we learned he and his troops departed that night for the north, choosing not to join the rest of us in taking Uther’s body south, back to his court and his widow.
“I myself went to our tent, for the press around Arthur was too thick for me to get through, and by then the long time without sleep was beginning to tell on him; he looked too tightly drawn to have time for a childhood playmate. I didn’t see him again until the next morning.”
“Was it very awkward, when you did meet?” I queried.
Bedivere laughed with full good humor and shook his head.
“Arthur sent a squire round at first light to roust out Ector and Cei and myself, and the next thing you know, we were all seated at a table in the kitchen tent, eating oatmeal and each telling his own part of the battle as though we were back home again after an outing at the Fair. I tell you, Gwen, Arthur has a way of making people feel comfortably part of the grand adventure no matter what else is swirling around him. It’s not just a trick of manners or a thing that can be learned. It’s something native to his soul. You’ll see…you’ll see when you meet him.” And he smiled encouragingly at me.
I nodded, halfway admitting to myself that unless the Gods intervened, I might have good reason to care what sort of person King Arthur was.
A scout rode up, reporting that we would soon be coming to the community of Ribchester and our lodgings for the night.
So Bedivere went off to the front of the caravan, and I thought back to what Uther’s last battle had meant to Rheged.
Chapter XV
Gawain
Uther’s call to battle had reached us just before the spring equinox, raising a flurry of conferences and grim arguments. Rhufon doggedly pointed out that it was much too early to take horses on the warpath, and he’d have to take fodder for the animals, since there wouldn’t be enough grass for forage. Many of the roads weren’t open yet, and between the ice and frost of winter in the higher elevations and the mud and melt of those places which had thawed, the idea of hauling a train of supplies across the breadth of Britain was, in his estimation, insane.
Nidan nodded in agreement, and my father suggested to the messenger that since King Uther himself was not well, perhaps it would be wiser to wait till later in the year, when both he and his allies might be stronger and more fit.
The royal messenger raised his head stiffly. “King Uther is ready for battle,” he announced, “even if he must go before the host in a litter! He is a strong, brave-hearted man, M’lord, and counts on your support in this matter. If he can face such a foe under these conditions, surely you can find a way to manage the problem of supplies.”
Kaethi says you can get the Celts to do most any foolhardy thing if you appeal to their pride, and sure enough, after a heated discussion of routes and transport, Rhufon suggested that if each horse carried additional nets of hay as well as a rider, it might be possible to make do with fewer wagons. And in the end it was agreed upon, as though some kind of logic had prevailed.
Word went out for the war bands to rendezvous at the Aire Gap, and we began gathering and packing whatever would be necessary. In the evenings we sat together around the hearth, measuring and looping and tying the linen twine into fodder bags while Edwen recounted the glory of past victories. Within a week we were all on the Road together, the household accompanying the men as far as the path that would take us to the safety of The Mote while they were at war.
I could not remember my father going off to battle before, and was swept up in the excitement of the impending conflict. By the time our two parties separated I enthusiastically joined in the clapping and cheering and singing, as zealous a warrior’s bairn as anyone could find.
My high spirits continued as we turned down the path, for The Mote is a spot both wild and primitive, as if untouched by time. The huge gray rock juts proudly out from the hillside, rising sharply above the turbulent waters where the Rough Firth joins the Solway. Softly thatched roundhouses cling like mushrooms round its base, creeping up the hillside from
the pebbled beach to the upper rampart. And at the top the fort perches, neat and trim as a peregrine. It seemed a fittingly dramatic place to wait out a war.
Once the spring gales were past, the fine weather came quickly, and with it the freedom to explore both the coast and the woods close by. We collected the sea kale’s tender stalks for Gladys and brought her the odd, hollow mushrooms known as morels that grow in the ashes of Beltane fires. In the high forest the red squirrels rained pine chips down on us, and once, when we first got there, we came on a husk of hares dashing madly about a clearing, occasionally rearing on their hind legs to box at each other like children. I burst out laughing and they leapt away, running crazily through the woodland.
Yet even while the high spirits of springtime ran free around us, fear and worry for the men who were off fighting the Saxons hemmed us in. Nowhere was it more noticeable than around the evening hearth, where Kevin’s voice, just now changing, provided the only deep male tones to be heard.
Then one wet, gray day a small party of travelers appeared on the shingle, moving slowly through the rain because of the stretcher. At that distance I couldn’t clearly identify my father, but no one else would have been riding his stallion, and it was Nidan’s steed that was being led home riderless.
White-faced and grim, the King’s best warrior barely opened his eyes when they reached the fort. My father helped lift him onto a pallet by the hearth, and Kaethi set to work with her herbs. Wet and exhausted, the rest of the group silently ate the steaming nettle soup Gladys put before them, then went to bed. Rhufon stayed at the hearth a little longer, but refused to give any details about the battle.
With the warming of the next day’s sun, the whole population of the settlement trooped up to the fort, bringing pillows or rugs and making themselves comfortable on the broad flat top of the rock.
I have always taken special delight in sitting there with the wind whipping round me while the black-headed gulls circle endlessly below and the waters of the Rough race and ripple toward the Otherworld realm of Annwn. Across the mouth of the narrow firth an ancient fort lies hidden in the forests atop the next ridge, and on nice days the fisherfolk leave their huts to venture forth upon the chancy tides. Today I found a spot on the edge of the gathering where I could look out across the water while Edwen reported the news of Uther’s last battle.
He began with a recounting of Uther’s background, just as Kevin had told it on our trip out to the Loch. Half-listening, I let my mind drift, dancing on the little waves that were sparkling along the firth. Even on misty days the currents are patterned with shimmer and shadow, and Nonny says they mark the passage of souls making their way to that strange land where a magic caldron graces the feasting hall. I wondered if the spirits this day were the recent dead going to join the festivities in Annwn, or those returning to the world to be born again as new humans.
There was a gasp at the news of Uther’s death, and I sat up suddenly, remembering the question of his successor. But Edwen was telling of a new hero, unknown and unexpected: Uther’s mysterious young son, long hidden by Merlin, had come to the fore and rallied the armies behind him.
“And that,” the bard concluded, with a run of the harp strings, “is how Arthur Pendragon burst across the horizon, burning like a firedrake that appears out of nowhere and streaks in glory through the night sky.”
The audience smiled, and clapped their approval, though it was hard to tell whether their enthusiasm was for Arthur or for Edwen’s presentation. All I could think of was that a bare boy, hardly older than Kevin, now stood between Rheged and the threat of Urien. I watched the tides shift in the firth and wondered what the young man’s moira held for him.
“Perhaps,” Kevin said softly, leaning toward me so as not to be heard by others, “this is the Great King the Ancient Ones tell of, whose reign will be like a comet.”
I had forgotten the prophecy, and nodded now with remembrance. I hoped it boded well for the lad, for in a way we owed him a debt of gratitude.
Gladys was calling me to come help prepare the feast, so I got up and ran off to the kitchen, the king-to-be already dismissed from my thoughts.
***
The warriors were not the only ones that suffered in Uther’s last battle. Bad traveling conditions and short rations had left the horses thin and exhausted, so it was decided to put them out to pasture over the summer. I was glad for the horses but disappointed for myself, since it meant the household would have to stay in one place.
We took up residence near Lake Derwentwater, in a hill settlement that overlooks the broad vale leading from the Lakes to the Pennines. It is an ancient site, built up of stone slabs and hard work over many generations, and as far as I was concerned its greatest advantage was the proximity of the ancient tracks that run along the mountain ridges.
The valley floors and lower flanks of the mountains are so thickly forested that travel is confined to waterside trails and twisting footpaths. Only the high ground, with its stunted trees and tufts of grass and heather, affords easy passage, and here the old tracks have been worn broad and smooth by centuries of use. The one that passes near Threlkeld Knotts not only leads west to the lake, and east to the Roman Road, it runs for miles along the fell tops and offered many a place for Kevin and me to race our horses.
Nothing is as cold as a stone house, for the walls harbor the chill of winter long after the flowers of summer dot the meadows, but during times of sultry heat their cool shadiness is most pleasant. This year the hot, dry days arrived in August, and it was a pleasure to take our late-evening meals in the central compound that is open to the long twilight and roofed only by the bright stars.
Early one evening a rider came to court with the message that King Lot of the Orkney Isles would be arriving within a day’s time, come for a state visit and the chance to address our Council. My father grumbled to himself, then sent the messenger off to the kitchen, where Brigit began to confer with Kaethi as to how we would feed and house the guests.
I looked at Kevin and grinned; visiting royalty rarely came to the Lakes, and we could certainly use some excitement. At the age of eleven I thought not much past the present moment, and it never occurred to me that the events of the next few days might have repercussions for years to come.
The party was bigger than I had expected, for King Lot traveled with a full complement of warriors and personal retainers, and had brought along his oldest son as well.
The boy Gawain was short and stocky, not having caught up with his manhood yet, and his hair was every bit as red as his father’s. Everything he did conveyed his quick energy, from the way he strutted behind his sire to the flash of his smile when something amused him. He was no more arrogant than other northern princes I had seen, but this was the first time I was expected to entertain one, and I wondered what he would enjoy doing over the next few days.
He turned out to be a good companion, eager to participate in anything I suggested, although I soon found that nothing we provided could compare to the wonders he was used to in the Orkneys. Even the wolfhound Ailbe only caused a momentary widening of Gawain’s blue eyes before he allowed there were deerhounds of equal size at home.
“We have stone buildings too,” he informed me in a heavy northern accent as we went off toward the corrals with his horse. “But ours are made of red rock worked into thick walls that are many stories high and honeycombed with rooms. You can see them from a far distance, towers of strength and grandeur, and if you climb the stairs within the wall, you can look for miles in every direction.”
“Are they like the Roman forts?” I asked, trying to imagine walls thick enough to have rooms in them.
“Oh, no. The brochs are ancient places, often dark and crowded. They were used as forts when the Romans first threatened, but we made treaties with the Empire and never had to host their soldiers on our soil. I think the brochs frightened them away,” he added proudly.
“Where do you live now?” I asked, trying to ignore
the implication that Britons who had become part of the Empire were somehow less brave or clever.
“Sometimes we stay at one of the wheel houses, where the structure doesn’t go up so high, but on the inside of the wall there are wooden rooms built up that open onto a courtyard as big as yours here.”
He sketched a circle in the dirt and drew a series of lines across it, like the spokes of a wheel. The layout reminded me of the floating houses beyond the Solway, but before I could say so he went on with his bragging.
“They’re much taller and airier than these,” he announced, gesturing toward our low houses and small doorways. “Most of the rooms facing the courtyard are open, with hide curtains you can pull back so you can look down into the court, or up at the sky. My quarters at Midhowe are on the top tier, and it’s like sleeping in a nest.”
I glanced around, seeing our settlement as dark and mean for the first time, and wished we had hosted our guests at Carlisle, where the house by the river is large and imposing. Kevin said nothing, but a small smile played around his mouth.
The call for a Council had gone out shortly after our guests arrived, but because people must come from so far away it would not be held until the third day. Lot and my father were busy conferring on matters of state, and since there was no need for us to hang about the settlement, we spent the next day trying to avoid the heat by exploring the trails through the woods.
For a while my guest talked of the things he had seen on this, his first major trip through his own lands and those of his neighbors. His father’s fortress on the massive rock of Edinburgh impressed him mightily, as did the inland reaches of the Firth of Forth and the great settlement at Dumbarton, on the Clyde. And he was looking forward to seeing Urien’s capital, which had once been a powerful Roman city.
Child of the Northern Spring (Guinevere Trilogy) Page 14