Child of the Northern Spring (Guinevere Trilogy)

by Persia Woolley

  Carlisle always makes me uneasy, for though the ways of Rome are fading from current custom, the structures remain like old skeletons that cannot be avoided. The walls that surround the city are as stern and precise as they were when the engineers first laid them out, and the ghosts of Legionaires haunt the shadows. The people have softened and modified the town much as mosses blur the edge of a rock by a stream; now it is the traveling peddler and the local farmer who set up shop in the half-ruined colonnades, and when the Great Fair is held in August the people who laugh and sing and dance in the streets think of themselves as Cumbri, not Romans. But in spite of that, I tended to avoid the big house on the bank of the Eden and spent as much time as possible at the cavalry fort of Stanwix on the hill across the river.

  Stanwix commands an excellent view, and when a watchman in the tower called out that the army was in sight, Kevin and I scrambled up to the battlements to see for ourselves.

  Already people were running toward the Road, shouting the news to neighbor and stranger alike. They were all converging on the east gate, chanting joyfully: “Hail, the warriors!”

  Flag bearers were approaching from the south, riding with the arrogance that victorious men always wear. Rheged’s banner rippled high and proud above the rest, and below it a harper, no doubt one of Edwen’s students, rode with them and sang the praises of the returning heroes in fine Celtic style. As official bard, Edwen himself would be riding with my father.

  The King’s contingent was still some way off, so Kevin and I clambered down from the rampart and ran to join the exuberant welcome.

  My heart swelled with pride when my father rode through the gates behind his honor guard. Looking as fit and hardy as ever I could remember, he radiated, if not joy, at least a kind of full satisfaction. I pushed through the crowd, and when he saw me running along beside his stallion, he reached down and helped me scramble up before him in the saddle. It wasn’t quite the same as being a triumphant warrior myself, but close…close enough to satisfy me.

  We had a simple family dinner that night, for the public feast would follow in two days’ time. Gathered cheerfully along the trestle tables, we listened to the details that would soon be immortalized in Edwen’s lay: how Ban had brought his forces across the Channel in order to help the son of his childhood friend Uther; how Merlin had shown Arthur the need for tactics rather than bravura and finally how the rebel kings had sued for peace and, gathering their defeated forces together, had followed Arthur to York, where the formalities of surrender were observed.

  It was there, in Urien’s capital, that Merlin announced a new Lady had been chosen by the druids: Morgan le Fey, wife of King Urien, would be High Priestess at the Sanctuary.

  “What’s she like, this highborn lady who will take the place of our own Vivian?” someone asked, and my father pursed his lips thoughtfully before responding.

  “She has a notable presence,” he said at last, picking his words carefully, “very dark and intense. And I gather that she will be much more active than her predecessor. We talked at the feast, where I assured her we would protect the Sanctuary now as in the past. I found she has many strong opinions and a kind of driving energy that will not be gainsaid. It’s possible she expects to play a major role in her brother’s reign, and she certainly seemed to take him in hand at York. She could be very useful to him. And Cathbad tells me she is well thought of among the druids,” he added.

  Something in my father’s voice gave me the distinct impression she would not be an easy person to have dealings with.

  Later, when only Kevin and Brigit and I remained at the board, Kevin told my father the story of Balin’s death. The adventure had been kept a secret until the King’s return, but now that I saw his expression go from concern to admiration for Kevin’s courage, I wished the whole household could know how much the Irish boy should be admired.

  “What a tragic ending to a grotesque story,” my father mused, when the tale was finished. “Perhaps,” he suggested softly, glancing round at us, “it’s kinder not to mention this to anyone else. The war he inadvertently started is over; a new and vigorous Priestess has now succeeded the old one, and there’s no point in sullying either memory further.”

  I nodded my assent grudgingly, wishing there were some way to keep it secret and still see Kevin receive the honor due him.

  The Victory Feast was held in the City Square, with cooking fires set up in each comer and the casks of wine and ale arrayed next to the fountain. Edwen told The Triumph of Arthur, binding even the rowdy swineherd’s children into silence with his powerful ballad, and afterward there were many “Well come home” toasts and much singing and dancing.

  The general opinion was that Arthur had won not only the battle, but the admiration of his subjects as well, for his acceptance of Urien as an ally was said to show a gracious heart as well as a good head for political realism.

  There were reports that Lot’s widow, Queen Morgause of the Orkney Isles, had presented her children to the young High King at York, where everyone had gathered once the Great Battle was over. She had thrown herself and her sons on Arthur’s mercy, and asked him to accept the older boys at his court. She reminded him that they were his nephews and, by Celtic law, his heirs. Arthur took the boys into his household, promising to train them as warriors and Companions. I wondered how Gawain felt about serving the man his father had died fighting.

  There was much speculation about Morgan le Fey. That she could command such power when she was not yet past thirty was impressive, and those who had mocked the last Priestess as being old and feeble suddenly ceased to make fun of the Lady’s presence. Cathbad was very well pleased with her appointment, for she was a fine healer, and gave promise of becoming a strong spiritual leader as well.

  After the food and dancing, the druid announced his plans to go to the Sanctuary in order to welcome the new Lady. With the summer ripening there was more than enough work to keep us children occupied, so my father allowed we could do without him until fall, but would hope to see him back among us when the bracken turned to copper on the fells. We wished him on his way and thought no more about it; it never occurred to me that he would never be my teacher again.

  During the next week the country began to return to the routine of peace, and we made plans for our sojourn in the fall. It had been some time since we had wintered in the north so it was decided we should return to The Mote and then make our way westward to the various settlements beyond Wigtown Bay.

  The day before we were to leave my father and I headed out to Stanwix together, for Featherfoot’s foal would be staying here in the horse fields and I wanted to say goodbye.

  It was a fresh, clean morning following a night’s rain and the city was full of summertime bustle when we came out of the big house on the river’s edge. The farmers’ wives had put up their awnings in the Square, where they brought eggs and vegetables, new cheeses and bundles of fleece to trade with the people who live within the confines of the city and must rely on others to grow their supplies for them. The sound and color of the market swirled around us.

  As we passed the fountain, a courier wearing the badge of the Red Dragon came riding through the gates and hauled his horse to a clattering stop when he recognized my father.

  “I have a message for Your Highness,” he said, saluting hastily. “The High King wishes to meet with you to discuss a very important matter. He will arrive day after tomorrow, and he brings with him King Ban of Benwick as well.”

  “Bother,” grumbled my parent.

  Never one to enjoy the sociable aspects of court life, he was clearly piqued at the inconvenience this sudden intrusion would cause, and I could see him mentally juggling this change of events with our plans to go north.

  “Did he say what this is all about? Or how many retainers we shall have to put up? Or when he plans to leave?”

  “I don’t have the details, M’lord, but they’re traveling light, with not more than half a score of men total, and I
gather they won’t be staying long, as King Arthur plans to head for Strathclyde from here.”

  My father sighed and turned to me. “Better tell Brigit we’re to expect company, and remind her we must look to the wine,” he announced, then added in an undertone, “Tell her not to unpack everything just yet, however.”

  By now Brigit was as accomplished at running the domestic side of our life as Mama had been, and my father left all such details in her capable hands.

  Preparing for a visit from the High King was no small matter. It seemed impossible that we would be able to get everything organized in time, what with Nonny muttering about no proper notice while Brigit and Kaethi, Gladys and I frantically tried to decide just what would be needed for whom.

  Kevin went off to fire up the old baths, making sure there was plenty of charcoal to heat the water and checking for any major leaks in the plumbing from the aqueduct. Gladys and Brigit took charge of the menu, while Kaethi and I poked about in the storage rooms trying to find enough chairs and tables, good bedding and bolsters to make our guests comfortable. We were able to outfit the guest bedrooms, and even provide oil and toweling for the baths, but there simply were not enough chairs to accommodate all the visiting dignitaries.

  “Are those couches I see, over there in the cobwebs?” Kaethi asked, peering through the dim light at a collection of discarded furniture.

  I clambered through the jumble of stuff left over from who knows how long ago and managed to pick out a number of couches and several low tables. They were covered with dust and showed the years of neglect, but turned out to be sturdy nonetheless. After a quick conference with my father, it was decided that if the visiting kings were as Romanized as everyone said, they would feel right at home eating in the Latin fashion.

  I eyed the couches dubiously when they were set up in the main hall. Kaethi laughed and said it just proved how much a daughter of the Cumbri I was; if I were a true Roman citizen I would appreciate learning to eat while propped up on one elbow. Nonny announced that she would not be in attendance at all that night, as she preferred to take a plate to her room rather than dine with people too lazy to sit upright. My father made a few attempts at getting up and down from one of the couches and, groaning, concluded that perhaps he could simply sit on the end of it.

  “Why don’t you use your carved chair?” I asked, thinking that the host’s comfort should certainly be more important than the question of fashion.

  “And find myself looking down on the High King? No, no, my dear, that would not do. Perhaps with enough cushions under me, my bones won’t rebel too much,” he sighed.

  The next day I was returning from the fountain where I’d gone to fetch a bucket of water for Gladys, when I heard a sound like nothing I’d ever encountered before. A pair of riders had come through the gates and were blowing on battered metal horns which must have been left behind by some Legion commander.

  The noise was so unusual, it took me a minute to realize that the kings had arrived earlier than we’d expected.

  The people who rushed out of shop and shed to throng the Square were a far cry from a gala reception, and I was carried forward in a wave of turnip vendors and butcher’s apprentices all eager to get a glimpse of the new High King. When I tried to hang back, my bucket was jostled so badly it spilled half its contents, so I stood there, barefooted in a pool of water, looking like any scullery maid as the entourage bore down upon us.

  The horses were so close I could have touched them; gleaming like satin, they were well fed and powerful, though I noticed that none were as big as my father’s stallion. When the trumpeters had passed, I found myself staring into the ruddy face of a young man, and for a moment I wondered if this was the High King of Britain. But he wore the wool of a common laborer, and while I’d never seen a High King before, it didn’t seem reasonable he’d go about in workman’s clothes.

  Next to him rode a Celtic chieftain bedecked with armbands and a gold torque. Proud as Lot but much leaner, he was a fine tower of a man, with fair hair and deep blue eyes that crinkled when he smiled down at me. His face was clean-shaven, except for a great sweeping mustache that curved down around his mouth and extended past his chin, and both his bearing and his jewelry made plain his royal status.

  Behind them came a figure so thoroughly wrapped in a great cloak that one couldn’t see more than his eyes, and I looked down involuntarily when he turned their flintlike stare in my direction.

  A handful of guards rode at the rear and then they were gone, sweeping into the courtyard of the big house and leaving the rest of us to wonder and puzzle as to who was which. Either the High King was not as young as everyone had said, or he’d decided not to come at all.

  Our guests paid their respects to my father immediately, then went off to soak in the bath. Kevin attended them from the time they arrived, and only later joined me in the kitchen.

  “The Sorcerer is with them,” he reported, helping to fill the wine pitchers. “He never said a word, but he watches everything like a hawk.”

  “I know; I saw him in the Square as they rode in. No wonder he’s called Merlin,” I answered, thinking of the beautiful but deadly bird that nests on our fells. I wondered if the Archdruid made a practice of swooping down on his prey in midair as those birds do.

  “More likely he should have been named for the owl,” Kevin responded, “wise and silent and wrapped in the shadows of night.”

  I had just time to skip upstairs and change my clothes before dinner, and sat as patiently as possible while Nonny tried to make my hair do something halfway civilized. She wanted me to wear Mama’s armband, but Kaethi pointed out that it wasn’t really fitting, as I was not old enough to be presented and so would only be serving tonight. I ran back down to the kitchen in time to pick up a platter of venison liver for my father’s table.

  This was a visit of state, not a Council meeting, so the banquet hall was less crowded than might be expected. The people around my father and those nobles of Carlisle who were mindful of their Roman heritage happily made use of the couches, but the rest of our people sat on their rugs here and there between the tables, their wool and deerskin clothing in odd contrast to the linen finery of the guests. It made for a very peculiar mix indeed.

  I balanced the tray as carefully as possible and knelt to put it on the table around which my father’s party lounged. A sudden wave of shyness kept me from looking up at our guests, lest they recognize me from this morning in the Square.

  “Ah,” my father was saying, “here is my daughter, Guinevere.”

  Drat! I thought, biting my lower lip and knowing there was nothing for it but to raise my gaze.

  It was the merry blue eyes of the chieftain that swam into focus in front of me, and they danced and sparkled most wickedly as he nodded solemnly at me. There was absolutely no doubt that he knew we had met before, and I felt my breath catch in my throat as I prayed he wouldn’t mention it.

  “And may I present Arthur, High King of Britain,” the Celtic king said, his rich voice making a royal gesture of the words. He turned, smiling at the youth next to him, and I blinked in consternation; it was the ruddy-faced boy, no longer garbed in rough wool but still looking like any young man of the land.

  “Oh…” I said stupidly, not knowing what else to do.

  “You have beautiful hair, child,” the King from Brittany went on, the amusement clear in his cordial tone. “It has the red gold of the hawthorn in autumn, and is a fitting crown for the Princess of Rheged.”

  I blushed in spite of myself and wondered how on earth I was going to get to my feet when my knees seemed to have turned to honey.

  Somehow I managed it, and I fled back to the kitchen to help Gladys, determined to avoid returning to the Hall. I hadn’t the slightest idea what to say to any of them, and all I wanted to do was stare in fascination at the Breton leader.

  As the meal was coming to an end, Brigit thrust a pitcher of wine into my hands with the firm admonishment that the Kin
gs would expect me to pour for them after dinner.

  King Ban is just another warrior, I told myself, covertly watching the three heads of state before I crossed the room to them. Yet in spite of that, I was immobilized when he smiled at me, and forgetful of the wine I was pouring, found myself unable to look away from those laughing eyes.

  “That’s a handsome flagon,” Arthur broke in, rudely raising his goblet until the rim pushed against the spout of the pitcher, forcing the flagon up. Glancing down, I saw how close I had come to disaster, for the goblet was in danger of overflowing. I glanced at the High King and smiled gratefully.

  “Mama told me it came from Egypt,” I responded, somehow finding my voice. “The blue on it is enamel.”

  He reached out to take hold of it, leaning forward to study the decoration on its lid. Compared with King Ban, Arthur was but a boy; pleasant enough, but not very memorable. Only the gold-and-garnet Dragon Ring marked him as a powerful king. It was possible that when he matured he would be more impressive, and I suddenly wondered whether he would adopt the Roman habit of going clean-shaven or attempt to grow his own long mustaches when his beard came in more fully.

  A strange feeling began to crawl along my neck, gradually becoming a chill as I turned to find Merlin staring at me. Reclining on the far side of Arthur, the King’s Wizard appeared to be taking note of everything that went on although he neither moved nor spoke. The pressure of his implacable look made me shiver, and I hastily retrieved the flagon and finished filling the goblets.

  Edwen brought out his harp and began the songs. At first he played the simple melodies the common folk enjoy, then later retold The Triumph of Arthur in the High King’s honor.

  I found Kevin seated in the shadows and settled down next to him, glad of a chance to watch the gorgeous chieftain with impunity.