Child of the Northern Spring (Guinevere Trilogy)

by Persia Woolley

My father opened the Council with a formal invocation of the Gods in honor of the importance of the occasion, and when the libation had been poured he immediately introduced King Lot and sank wearily back into his chair.

  The northern king’s restless energy filled the space at the heart of the gathering, and captured every eye. He was a sturdy man with magnificent mustaches, their ends waxed and twisted so that they hung elegantly down to his chin. His high coloring and broad stature conveyed an abundance of health and vigor, and I stared at him with awe and admiration. Standing there with his green plaid sash held on one shoulder by a great jeweled brooch and his linen tunic coming barely to his knees, he looked like a timeless hero, proud and powerful.

  It was easy to see how Gawain came by the kind of bluntness that is sometimes perceived as being rude. But whereas the son’s actions were often hasty and brash, the father’s were overlaid with the poise of a warrior who has learned always, above all else, to keep his balance.

  He began with the ritual words of a guest, thanking the King for our hospitality and the people for their willingness to hear what he had to say. His voice was not particularly rich, but he had perfected its use as well as any bard might, and at first I was more interested in his delivery than in the content of his words. If there had been more room he would have prowled about the circle, but as it was he had to be content with standing in one spot and turning, with great sweeping gestures, to face the different parts of the audience in turn. They, of course, were fascinated by his display of confidence and power.

  Somewhere along the line the compliments and flattery gave way to the death of King Uther and the point of Lot’s visit.

  “Now they are putting about the story that this Arthur is really Uther’s child, conceived by magic and hidden away until suddenly he is proposed as heir to the High Kingship,” Lot declared, his voice rising with indignation. “What claptrap! They’re playing politics, mind you, trying to satisfy the Romanized south, who expect sons to inherit regardless of their capability!”

  He spat out the word “Romanized” with such contempt that I wondered what Kaethi was thinking, but the crowd was so thick I couldn’t see her.

  Lot bent to someone across the circle from me and took the flagon that was offered him.

  “Oh, it’s a very clever story, all right, making him half-Celt, and on his mother’s side at that, in the hope that we northerners will be satisfied that the bloodline is direct and pure. But we’ll not be fooled…”

  He took a long draught, then gave back the flask and wiped his mustaches with the back of his hand. You could see the scars of past battles webbed palely across the darker wholeness of sound flesh up the whole length of his arm.

  “This young Arthur’s claim to Logres is one thing; it was Uther’s realm, and if the people wish to accept this ‘son’ of his on Merlin’s word, that’s their business. But we who never became Rome’s servants, we northerners who are proud to remember we are Celts, choose our High Kings on merit and proven leadership. It has always been thus, and we won’t change now. We’ll not accept an untried boy, sprung on us after fifteen years of hiding. No matter what his blood, the Celts will not follow a leader who has not proved his worth. Why, he’s barely a year older than my own boy here, and while Gawain has been in half a dozen battles already, this young Arthur has appeared in only one, and we all know that is not enough to test the mettle of a fighting man!”

  He looked around at the warriors who stood at the back of the audience, and a few responded by clapping their hands or stamping their feet.

  “Not only that: the boy appeared as if from nowhere, conjured up suddenly by the Magician. There was no question of his moving up through the ranks, his learning of military arts upon the field, his earning the privilege of fighting beside other kings. No background, no experience, no proof of fitness…no, I say, no, no, no!”

  He had worked up to a controlled fury, and his whole body radiated indignation. I thought surely the son’s wrath had been nothing compared with what his father must be capable of.

  “If this Romanized stripling would aspire to be High King, let him earn the right in battle, on the bodies of his slain foes…on mine, if necessary!”

  Quick as lightning Lot’s hand was at his belt and his dagger flashed in an arc that left it embedded in the hard-packed earth at his feet. For the space of half a minute it vibrated there, the echoes of its silent challenge shivering through the people.

  “To arms, to arms!” someone cried, and a roar of approval followed instantly. Lot’s men were cheering now, and not a few of our own brave fighters joined in, joyful with the promise of released tension. I stole a look at my father, who sat hunched over his wine cup, watching the proceedings with a thoughtful frown. Compared with the splendid figure cut by the King of Orkney he looked old and frail, and my heart went out to him.

  As the cheering died down, the King of Rheged raised his arm for silence.

  “King Lot, you speak persuasively. And the points are well taken. But I wonder if we are forgetting the more important enemy. We have had reports that the Saxons are preparing another invasion from the Continent. Isn’t it more prudent to unite against these, our known enemies, than to splinter our forces by internal squabbles? The Saxons, after all, are a threat to every British kingdom, and would be cruel masters if they succeeded in conquering us because we are too busy killing each other.”

  “Do not lecture me about the Saxons, my man.” Lot’s tone had changed to one of camaraderie, and he spoke as if the two kings were old friends. “Or about the Picts and Irish, for that matter. Who knows better than I, a king of two countries that are separated by lands long held by the hostile Picts? It is no easy matter to rule in two places at once, particularly with unfriendly forces in between.”

  He laughed proudly and after retrieving his knife, looked confidently around the gathering.

  “Were it not for the sea wisdom of my Orkney sailors and the fine shipwrights—and good forests—of my Lothian people, I would not even be able to move between my two capitals. A kingdom divided is always in danger. And that comes back to what I was saying: we must have a leader who unites us, who can be trusted to look to the needs of the Celts, and take the field with our men in battles of a common cause.”

  “Do you, by any chance, have such a man in mind?” My father’s voice was mild, with only a slight hint of irony. “Perhaps yourself?”

  For a moment Lot hesitated, and I expected him to slide over into the fanciful bragging and bravura so dear to the warrior’s heart. But he was playing a more important game and now turned deftly back to the Council.

  “I cannot say I would not be honored if the title were offered me. But in truth, I think there is another who not only is as experienced as I, but commands one of the largest armies in the whole of Britain. Not only that, he is a Celt by blood and by training, and is married to a Celtic princess of the south. There is no taint of bastardy there, no twist of Roman ambition or question of military aptitude. Of all the British leaders he is most qualified to be High King, and most strategically placed to counter the Saxon threat. I am proposing Urien of Northumbria as our next High King, and seek your support as allies in this matter.”

  I caught my breath in surprise and dismay, and glanced quickly around the gathering to see what sort of reaction there would be. If Lot expected a spontaneous outburst of support, he was roundly disappointed. His rhetoric had been among the best I’d ever heard, and his arguments well presented, but there were few among my father’s warriors who had not sustained some sort of wound from our neighbor, and they were not ready on such short notice to embrace Urien as their future overlord.

  Our men shifted uneasily in their places, scratching their chins or adjusting belt buckles with averted eyes and sullen mouths. Lot’s crew assessed the change in mood and left it to the leaders to bridge the awkward gap.

  “Ah, yes, Urien,” my father said smoothly, moving in his chair so that he was leaning against the other
arm. “Your brother-in-law, as I recall.”

  Lot shot him a quick look, then smiled broadly. “Yes, indeed. Urien and I were each lucky enough to marry a daughter of Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall. These are the legitimate offspring of Queen Igraine’s first marriage.” He stressed the word legitimate ever so slightly, for Igraine was also mother of the young Arthur by her union with Uther. “Through our wives we are bound to the south, as well as the north, and one could argue that this is another point in favor of uniting behind Urien.”

  “And these sisters, Morgan and Morgause, are they not also kin to Cador, present Duke of Cornwall?” my father asked.

  “Half-siblings only,” came the quick reply. “Cador is much older, being born of Gorlois’s first marriage. No one disputes that he has a rightful place in Cornwall.”

  Lot was growing irritated at this recitation of genealogy, for like most warriors he was interested only in those lines which were of use to himself, and found the reciting of other kinships cumbersome and unnecessary.

  “But,” my father continued in a conversational tone, “doesn’t that suggest that an alliance between your wife and her half-brother in Cornwall would be most likely? And since Cador of Cornwall has backed the claim of the young Arthur, isn’t it reasonable to assume that the sisters might also honor his claim?”

  “Absolutely not!” Lot’s voice rose to its full pitch and he turned back to the Council, seeing his way onto firm ground. “It is a matter of history that Uther, our recently dead High King, took Igraine by stealth, even at the cost of her rightful husband’s life. And the first thing he did upon marrying Igraine was send her daughters away. Are they now bound to show allegiance to the son of a man who so roundly displaced them when they were but children? Uther tore apart a legitimate royal family, replacing a loving father with his own lust-driven self and casting aside the children of the man he’d killed.”

  There was a growl of appreciation from the throng, who had been raised in the lore of blood ties and family pride, and knew full well that an insult from one generation will carry to another unless there is restitution made.

  “I’m not sure that ‘cast aside’ is the best way to describe his marrying Morgause to you,” my father interjected with a note of amusement. “It appears to have been a good thing for both of you; she has a proud king for a husband, to take care of and protect her, and you are the father of, what is it…three sturdy young princes?” He nodded approvingly toward Gawain.

  “Four it is now. Yes, four boys of fine mettle arid proud spirit.”

  I had never seen my father play with another man in the way he was playing with Lot, and I experienced the same sort of fascination that one finds in watching an adder approach a toad.

  The King of the Orkney Islands moved from righteous indignation over his wife’s lost patrimony to the glowing pride of a man who sees his sons as reflections of himself and so is well satisfied. He called off the names and virtues of each child: Gawain the brave, Gaheris the cunning, Agravain the proud, and Gareth, whom he classified simply as the youngest. They were obviously the great joy of Lot’s life, and he boasted about each in turn until the crowd began to lose interest and my father intervened.

  “You are indeed a man to be envied,” he said pleasantly. “And we appreciate hearing your news and listening to your ideas. But the day grows long, and many of my people will want to get back to their steadings by dark, so perhaps we should adjourn the Council.”

  “And what of the question of Urien?” Lot asked, caught fully off balance. It was not a propitious time to request a vote on whether or not the people of Rheged would join him in challenging Arthur’s claim to the throne, but he was loath to let the subject drop entirely.

  So the matter was opened for discussion, with freemen asking questions or making points of their own. There was little interest in giving our neighbor more power, and when the vote was taken, the result came out strongly in Arthur’s favor.

  “I would hope,” my father said solemnly as he prepared to close the Council, “that this question will be resolved soon, for internal bickering will not benefit anyone but the Saxons, and I have heard that Arthur is likely to be invested with the Sword of State next spring.”

  “Not,” grumbled Lot, “if I have anything to do with it.” But he swung back to his seat and took part in the formalities that ended the Council with a fair amount of grace.

  It was only much later that night, when I took my father the mixture Kaethi made up to ease him into sleep, that I was able to ask about the Council, and whether or not it had pleased him.

  “Pleased…No. I would rather there were no need for such a Council. But considering the nature of King Lot, perhaps it came out well.”

  He shrugged and turned from the small window where he had been looking out across the moonlit forest to the vale below. The people on the hillside had settled down for the night, and Lot’s party had already retired since they would be leaving early the next day. The air was still, but the heat itself seemed to have lifted, and in the quiet of the night the world that lay before us was calm and peaceful.

  “Remember, my dear,” he said, moving to his favorite chair and gesturing for me to be seated, “every man, and woman too, has some vital flaw. Perhaps it is sad, or perhaps it is a blessing, but it is there in every human being.”

  He sighed and rubbed his fingers along one temple as though to dispel some painful thought.

  “Lot’s flaw is pride. He has all the bravery of a hero, and the love of glory and honor that we Celts have always cherished. But he is too proud to see that times, and needs, are changing. I fear he will stop at nothing to deny Uther’s son the High Kingship.”

  “And you,” I asked, “you think Arthur’s claim is just?”

  “As just, I suppose, as any other that could be made. At times like this, justness is not quite so important as the finding of a leader the men will rally to. There’s been nigh onto threescore years of confusion and infighting, what with Vortigern discarding anything that wasn’t Celtic, and Ambrosius coming back and trying to reinstate Roman ideas. Uther was a small blessing in our lifetime, if only because he didn’t worry so much about internal affairs, and did concentrate on the Saxon threat.

  “Uther caused a further split with his taking of Igraine, and now things are in danger of becoming polarized between north and south. Yet in spite of that heritage, Arthur seems to have gained the support of many of Uther’s followers. And he has the Enchanter with him, which bodes well. Merlin has shaped the events behind British history for more than a generation now, and while I cannot credit all the stories that I’ve heard of him, he seems to see some greater purpose than most of the rest of us can.”

  My father sighed wearily and reached for the cup I had brought.

  “I do not like sessions such as today’s; they leave me tired and feeling very old. But I’ve spent three days with Lot, finding where his weaknesses lie because it was important that the people see them clearly. One must always take stock of the man you’re dealing with, and if you give him plenty of time and courtesy, he’ll usually show himself plain enough.”

  He took a sip from the cup and then closed his eyes. “I had hoped the people would see how much his wife Morgause is involved in all of this, but while he alluded to her loss because of Uther’s marriage to her mother, there was no real substance to catch hold of. From what he told me privately, however, she’s a real wildcat, full of black powers and terrible rages, and I imagine the two of them make a lively team. And she bears no love for her young brother Arthur, that much I’m sure of.” He sighed then, and opened his eyes. “One must always be careful when pressing any man as closely as I pressed Lot, especially if it’s on a matter as touchy as his wife. And if you’re dealing with an Orkneyan, you can be sure his pride will get involved.

  “Did you see,” he asked suddenly, “how quick that dagger flew? It was embedded a good quarter of the way up the blade in a trice! Now, that is a man to respect, and be wary of
. Even when he was younger Nidan could not have beaten that, and Nidan’s the best man with a knife I’ve ever had.”

  He shook his head in genuine admiration; then, glancing down at the cup, finished off the contents and gave it back to me.

  “Stuffy business, politics,” he opined slowly. “Always taking place in close quarters, with too many twists in the thinking. If I had my way, we’d hold all Councils on horseback, down there by the lake, or up where the river runs bright across the rocks. Only the sky for a roof, and a man’s word direct and honest, as the Gods meant it to be.”

  “Now who’s sounding like a classic Celt?” I said, laughing, and it brought a smile to his eyes.

  We chatted a bit more, before I took leave of him and walked slowly back to the house I was sharing with the other women. Politics, I had decided, was not my favorite pastime.

  ***

  The memory of such innocence made me smile in spite of myself. What had I known then of politics, or expediency, or the fact that sometimes a pattern of events is simply bigger than oneself?

  Well, I thought fiercely, let other royal women expect their lives to be defined according to the political tides of the time. This Cumbrian lass would not be among them. At least, not willingly.

  Chapter XVII

  The Coronation

  Bedivere led us down out of Bowland’s wood with the storm clouds roiling behind and the town that guards the Ribble valley just ahead. The checkered sign of an inn offered welcome refuge, and as we turned into the courtyard I noticed a group of horsemen in a field across the way. They appeared to be young men who charged back and forth on horseback in spite of the weather, and they made up for their lack of discipline with noisy shouts and great enthusiasm. They hardly looked up when we arrived, and it occurred to me how closely one’s fame is linked to geography, for we had reached the outer edges of Rheged and I knew no one here.

  The inn was large and well appointed, with a number of guests already seated at the tavern’s tables. Merchant travelers and artisans from east of the Pennines mixed with the usual flow of market people from north and south. The texture of their dialects was as thick and warming as the mutton stew we ate, and I leaned back against the bolsters at my corner table and watched the people from the safety of my newfound anonymity.