Yet his chauvinistic attitude toward his northern island home came through in everything he said. Nowhere else were the colors of the Great Crown so brilliant, the warriors so brave, the women so fine. His mother, though originally of Cornish stock, was now accepted as the Queen of Orkney, and was the most beautiful and powerful woman in the world.
“There are no arts known to man or god she is not versed in, and she can command even the secrets of the Goddess.” His voice was full of awe, and he carefully made the sign. “Why, my Aunt Morgan says Mama could have become a priestess herself, if she’d studied with the Lady.”
I nodded silently, wondering what a queen would do with the powers normally reserved for a religious leader. It seemed an unholy combination of interests, and not one I was easy with.
In the late afternoon we turned toward home, making our way to the end of the lake and passing the tanner’s holding that sits on the knoll overlooking the watercourse. One of the children in the yard looked up from the hide he was scraping and waved as we went past. At least Gawain would go home with the knowledge that our people are friendly and cordial, even to strangers.
The path followed the river, which was low because of the lateness of the year, but the water itself ran bright and clear, dancing over its rocky bed with a merry sound like the high gills after a spring storm. I told our guest how the salmon rush up it to spawn, fighting their way against the current and turning the water into seething silver. He shrugged, and said it was much the same in the Lothian rivers.
On a whim, I took the turn that leads to one of the finest spots in the Lakes, not telling Gawain where we were heading. Let him surpass this, I thought as we climbed amid green ferns and gray rocky ledges under a stand of fine old oaks. When we reached the top of the hill the trees thinned abruptly, and ahead of us stood that great circle of stones known as Castlerigg.
They rise proud and solemn on the greensward, crowning the hill which lifts above the junction of three mountain valleys. On every side the ground slopes away to the dales below, and the massive mountains ring the sky beyond, as though one were standing in the center of a bowl.
The usual mists and fogs of late afternoon were nowhere to be seen, and the sun cast a bright, hard glint off rock and scree alike. Yet the presence of the Gods surrounded us, flickering in the thousand greens of the forests below and looming up on the steep sides of the fells.
We stood there in silence, as if on an island in time. Only the lack of wings kept me from soaring out across the wonderful moat of space that encircles the soft green knoll.
Kevin took his flask from his belt, and after pouring out an offering to the Gods, passed it among us. No one said anything until we had started home again, and Gawain let out a long whistle under his breath.
“Now, that’s the most impressive thing I’ve seen in Rheged,” he announced, once we were safely on the trail again. “Old as time, I would imagine. But the red stones of Stennes are taller by a good bit, and in that circle there is a carved timber that rises from a flagged hearth, and when the fire is lit beneath it, the faces on the post come to life.”
I glanced at Kevin, furious that I could not win unqualified admiration from this boy, but Kevin studiously avoided my gaze and I had to keep my frustration to myself.
After the evening meal Gawain arranged to sleep on the hillside with the soldiers, saying he found the stone rooms too dark and stuffy for comfort. I looked across the court at my father and wondered if King Lot was as difficult to please as his son was.
When I mentioned it to Nonny, she snorted with indignation.
“Proud as eagles, those two, but rude as well. The code of hospitality applies to guest as well as host, and someone should have taught them that when they were young!”
“Maybe he’s just uneasy, being so far from home,” I said, surprised to find myself coming to Gawain’s defense. I remembered his quick grin when we stopped to watch a marten chasing a squirrel noisily through the treetops.
“The little beggar got away,” he’d cried gleefully when the squirrel scampered to safety after the marten misjudged a branch and fell to the ground. I suspected there was a streak of rooting for the underdog in Gawain, and wondered what his father thought of it.
The next day dawned hot and brazen, with the sun a copper disk pounded flat against the sky. We spent the day down at the lake, trying to snare ducks while Kevin took the coracle out fishing. I caught two birds, but Gawain got none, for he lacked the patience necessary for snaring and tended to give himself away with his quick movements.
“I prefer hunting the beasts of the forest,” he said, eyeing my mallards disdainfully. “The royal stags in our glens are as fine as any you’ll find anywhere.” I didn’t say that I’d rather eat solid duck than fill my stomach with imaginary venison, but I thought it.
When Kevin brought the coracle back to shore, I asked our guest if he wanted to row out to the island.
“There’s ruins on it,” I noted, gesturing toward the rocky crags half-hidden by the trees. It shimmered in the afternoon heat like a fairy image, mysterious and strange. “They say it was once the home of Bilis, Dwarf God of the Underworld who rides about on the back of a goat,” I added casually, hoping to reclaim our prestige.
“And you would trespass on his property?” Gawain asked, appalled at my effrontery.
“It’s part of my kingdom,” I answered with a shrug, not bothering to add that all the lakeside children climb among the now harmless rocks and rubble on warm days.
“Nay, I’ll not be party to such an act,” Gawain countered, making the sign. One of Kevin’s eyebrows shot up quizzically, but he said nothing, and we both kept from smiling.
It dawned on me that while human ways and simple accomplishments might not inspire Gawain with awe, encounters with the Old Gods did, and I spent our homeward trek telling him about Rough Firth with its strange, frightening pathway to the Underworld.
“Annwn lies somewhere beyond The Mote,” I explained, the words inspiring a delicious shiver of fear and amazement within me. “And many’s the morning I’ve sat high up on the rock and wondered whose souls were being borne past on the rush of waters. Why, once,” I added breathlessly, carried to new heights by the very idea, “I saw the shadow of the Gods as they trooped off to Arawn’s Hall.”
Gawain’s eyes had grown large with wonder, and he stared at me in respectful silence. I felt somewhat mollified; at least it showed he could admire something beyond the boundaries of his own kingdom.
Morning of the Council Day dawned bright and clear, with a promise of more heat by afternoon, so we decided to take the horses out early and give them a run along the track while it was still comparatively cool.
Gawain’s mount was a good solid creature, hardy and trustworthy, though I suspected not as fiery as he would have liked. One doesn’t use the best of animals for long treks unless there is need for them at your destination.
Kevin had rounded up the horses and Featherfoot was saddled and ready for the day’s outing by the time we reached the stables.
Rhufon helped me into the saddle with the terse warning, “Your mare’s feeling plenty frisky this morning. Don’t you be doing anything rash, now, Missy.” I laughed and nodded at him, knowing that when I wasn’t around he liked to brag I could manage a horse better than most boys my age.
We headed off along the forest path, with Kevin riding ahead as usual. Up until now Gawain had ignored my dark companion, which was fine with Kevin, who generally preferred to watch and listen to what was happening around us, occasionally making a droll comment to me which no one else could hear.
As we neared the juncture with the track our guest turned to me and asked, “Do you always have a servant with you?”
“Servant?” I gasped. “Kevin’s no servant. He’s my foster brother and the High Prince of a proud kingdom in Ireland!”
I knew I was exaggerating, but after days of putting up with Gawain’s condescension, I didn’t care.
“I didn’t say Tara. He comes from a small northern realm, and his father is a client king of Tara’s just as we’re client kings of the young Arthur.”
“Your father’s sworn fealty to Uther’s bastard?” Gawain’s shock was evident in both tone and expression, and he looked at me dumbfounded.
“Of course,” I answered, furious now for having brought up a subject I should have remembered would not sit well with our guests. I was as hemmed in by my runaway blunders as by the trees and undergrowth on either side of the trail.
The track lay just beyond the turn of the path, and I suddenly gave Featherfoot such a kick in the ribs she lunged past Kevin and out into the open space. It wasn’t the most honorable way to end a difficult moment, but it did work.
We bolted down the broad track, the high, bare landscape flashing by in a blur. I crouched forward on the mare’s neck, feeling the wind lifting my hair from my back. The boys were pounding behind us, but so far only the dog had been able to catch up, and he loped along now with the same grace of released energy that I felt. We kept our lead, flying into the morning sun as though our pursuers were the spirits of Samhain, and I saw Ailbe drop back to Kevin’s side as Featherfoot held her pace.
The track dipped down to the rocky ford at the beck, and I swerved away from it, so that we galloped across the rough ground toward a spot where the banks of the creek were high and firm. Featherfoot saw the drop ahead and gathered under me, taking the leap as though we had practiced it every day. For a moment we were suspended free of the earth, flying over the small chasm and landing cleanly on the other side. A few strides more and I swung the mare’s head around, turning in time to see Kevin’s gelding barely complete the jump.
I brushed my hair back from my face triumphantly and watched as Gawain’s horse came to the bank and plunged to one side, in spite of his rider’s commands. The red-haired boy took his mount back up to the rise of the track and set him at the jump again, whipping him forward with the rein. The horse came on gamely at first, then swerved aside a second time, almost unseating his rider.
Kevin and I walked our horses down to the ford and came back up to our guest, who was roundly cursing his animal.
“It’s all right,” I said, as tactfully as possible. “Your horse probably isn’t used to jumping.”
The Prince of Orkney glowered at me, red-faced and furious. “He’s only a traveling horse. I could take my stallion over it easily.”
I nodded and saw Gawain’s blue glare flicker to Kevin. It was obvious he didn’t want to be outdone by a boy he had assumed was a servant. “I could take it on your horse,” he proposed, turning back to me.
“All right,” I answered, slipping from her back, “but she’s got a very gentle mouth, so be careful not to jerk the reins about.”
Together Gawain and I walked Featherfoot to a rocky ledge, letting the mare get accustomed to his smell and voice.
I used a light saddle, barely more than a leather pad, and he scrambled from the rock onto the seat with more determination than grace. When he took the reins I had a moment’s misgiving, wondering if he’d remember my warning about her mouth. But he handled her gently, if not well.
It was only when I stood there watching them trot back up to the track that I realized he was nowhere near the horseman I had supposed. Dear Epona, I prayed, don’t let anything happen to him while he’s my guest. I glanced at Kevin and saw him frowning with the same concern.
Featherfoot came down the track well, cutting off into the rough and heading for the stream more by her own volition than by Gawain’s guidance. She reached the bank, leapt up into the air, and sailed across the rocky chasm with all the grace in the world. Gawain clung to her mane, grinning from ear to ear, but as she landed he lost his grip and tumbled from her back.
He hit the ground with a horrible thud and rolled over on his back, still as death.
I scrambled over to him, terrified he’d split his head open on some half-hidden rock. I wondered what I could offer the Gods to bring him back to life if that was the case.
He lay amid the tufts of grass and bracken, gasping for breath and looking very surprised. His face was spattered with blood, and a steady stream of it ran from his nose.
“Are you hurt?” I asked, kneeling next to him and trying to staunch the nosebleed.
“I’m fine,” he wheezed finally. “Landed on my shoulder and rolled some, I think.”
I was relieved to see his eyes tracking and his skin unbroken, and when we had gotten the nosebleed stopped he struggled to sit up. There was a red spot along one cheek which would probably turn to a bruise, but at least he was in one piece.
He grinned then—the fierce, bright smile I’d found so contagious before—and shook his head in admiration. “You may live in dark little houses and eat birds and cabbage like a peasant, but you certainly have fine horses and great sport,” he said.
I was so surprised, I burst out laughing. The arrogant disdain and raging temper were all gone, and although he moved gingerly, he looked around with good cheer. “That horse will be halfway to the Wall by now. Will she be hard to catch?”
“Featherfoot? No, she’s too much part of the family to run away.”
I stood up and scanned the landscape, spotting my mare browsing among the grasses by a stunted tree.
I’ll get her,” Kevin said, handing me the reins of the other two horses.
“You’re quite sure you’re all right?” I asked again as Gawain got to his feet. The nearness of catastrophe caught up with me, and my knees started to shake. What if he’d been thrown into the streambed itself, crashing against the jumble of dry rocks and bringing grief to his family and dishonor to my own? I was appalled at what might have happened, and found it amazing that Gawain himself seemed unconcerned.
“Of course,” he was saying, “just bruised a bit here and there. I’ve taken worse in sword practice at home.”
We rode more sedately after that, in part because of the morning’s mishap, and in part because we began to encounter people on the track, all heading for the settlement and the afternoon’s Council. When the trees around the settlement came into view, Gawain called a halt.
“I’d just as soon we not mention this to the grown-ups,” he ventured, smiling shyly.
“But what about your nose?” I asked, noting that it was red and swollen, and no longer truly straight.
“I’ll say my own horse shied unexpectedly. He’s a dull animal, and my father would rather hear that than know it was poor horsemanship on my part, particularly if I had not acquitted myself well in a challenge.” I sighed with relief inwardly, and Kevin nodded in silence, but looked upon our guest with admiration and an almost-smile.
“So we’ll leave it at that?” Gawain pursued hopefully.
“That’s fine with me,” I said, grinning, and on that note we returned to the stables and the afternoon Council.
Chapter XVI
King Lot
Royal Councils that summon the citizens from more distant parts of the kingdom are not common, for Councils are usually local in nature and are held wherever the King happens to be staying. To have a special convocation at the request of a visiting monarch was most unusual, and the throng that gathered was full of cheerful curiosity. It was plain that those arriving were glad to have this unexpected break in the summer routine as they greeted old friends and exchanged family news and speculation on what the Council would be about.
The settlement was soon overflowing with people, and many set up camp outside the walls, having traveled so far they could not hope to return home by dark. There was even a traveling peddler who spread his wares on a rug beside the well.
The man’s blond hair and blue eyes set him apart as a foreigne
r, and I watched curiously as he tried to sell his merchandise to one farm wife after another, without any luck.
On closer inspection the items on the peddler’s rug were rich and various: plenty of the usual bronze and copper things such as one finds at any market, but also a silver brooch in a solid disk shape such as I had never seen before.
“Saxon work, Miss,” the man confided. “Very popular around York. But dear, much too dear for any save a princess.”
I was tempted to tell him I was a princess, but since I had nothing to trade for it anyway, decided to let the matter go.
He held up a small purse, richly colored and decorated with intricate designs. “Egyptian, as I recall. From Cairo, anyhow. Maybe the weaver was in Damascus.”
I wondered where Damascus was and who the artisan had been, and marveled at the traders who carried the products of man’s endeavors across the world. I wished we could sit and talk about the campfires he had joined, the forges he had seen, and the stories he had heard in all his wanderings. But Gladys was calling me to come help decant the wine, so I grinned at the man and trotted back to the pantry.
The afternoon was hot and sultry, and when it was time to start the Council the people crowded into the central court. There were so many that some overflowed into the doorways of the houses, sitting or standing packed close together, trying to make room for everyone. The servants had to pass the flagons of wine among the guests, since there were nowhere near enough cups to serve everyone properly. Gradually the feeling of celebration began to fade, and by the time the King’s chair was brought out to the center of the compound, the mood of revelry had disappeared and all was serious business.
Child of the Northern Spring (Guinevere Trilogy) Page 15