I raised my head proudly and tried to answer as an adult: “Yes, Sire, it is agreed.” All I was promising was that I would be polite to future company, and that was a long way from agreeing to marry someone.
But if I thought the question of my future could be put aside and forgotten, that hope was washed away with the first blood of menarche which came flowing from me the next day.
Thick and dark and unmistakable, it clearly branded me as a woman. Other girls, such as Gladys’ daughter, might find promise in the transition from child to adult, but as far as I could see it only meant my days of freedom were numbered. Even the ancient rites, held in the shadow of the sacred Stones and full of chants and whispers and glad anthems to womanhood, didn’t cheer me up. I took my anger to bed with me and cried myself to sleep like a baby.
My father and I rarely saw each other during the next few months; he continued traveling through the countryside holding Councils on Arthur’s treaty, and I wandered about the court, unable or unwilling to think of anything else but the fact that Kevin was missing.
I worked in the kitchen with Gladys or tagged about after Brigit, but the only outings I went on were occasional berry-picking excursions with the younger children. I told myself that I didn’t go riding because Featherfoot’s leg needed to heal, but in reality there was nowhere I wanted to go, nor anyone I wished to be with.
The only solace I found was in the belief that Kevin would return when the winter had passed. I lived and relived our last ride together, endowing every comment, every action, every nuance with worlds of meaning that only he and I could understand. In my mind, we had sworn our love and promised our devotion; I had no doubt but that he knew how miserable I was without him, and that his love for me would bring him back. I could not believe we would not be united come spring.
As the leaves began to fall, the court moved up the coast to Carlisle and the final plans were made for who was to stay there and who was to come with us to the north. I watched the activity as one in a trance, forgetting how recently I had looked forward to returning to The Mote.
The morning before we were to leave, Brigit and I were summoned by my father to the State Chamber. I was shocked at how tired he looked; gaunt and graying, he seemed to me to have aged a decade since the beginning of summer.
“Ah yes, Gwen…” he said with a small start, as though surprised to see me there. “How have you been?”
“Well enough,” I answered noncommittally.
“Good, good,” he said, shifting in his chair and looking directly at me. “Goodness, you’re turning into quite the young woman.”
When I didn’t say anything, he glanced hopefully at Brigit.
“Your father and I have been talking recently, Gwen,” my friend began, “about a portion of your education that’s been overlooked. Oh, you know the basics of spinning and weaving and such, and you’re good in the kitchen. But, well…now that it’s time to think about your future, there’s all sorts of things about court life you should be taught.”
There was an uncomfortable silence, and I wondered why this sudden interest in further education. There was something here that involved more than spending additional time with Cathbad.
“I’ve met a widow from York, a very proper lady with a good Roman background,” Brigit went on, “and we’ve discussed it with her already. Your father and I agree she’ll make a good chaperone for you. I can’t run the household and be your governess too, and there’s all manner of things she can teach you that I can’t.”
Brigit was looking at me earnestly, and I bit my tongue, determined not to say anything until I understood what was actually happening. It was beginning to smell like a trap, and I wished fervently there were some way to get up and back out of the room without their noticing.
“She’s willing to come live at court,” my father put in hastily, “so it isn’t as though you’d be sent away somewhere. And there’s probably much we can all learn from her.”
“But what about Cathbad?” I asked, wondering how an old Roman matron and a young Celtic druid would get on together.
“Cathbad’s been very helpful these last few years,” my father responded, frowning slightly. “And I hope he’ll stay on with us at court. But you need a different kind of instruction now.” He was slowly turning Mama’s ring as he searched for words to phrase his thoughts. “You need a woman now, a lady who can give you the background for taking your place as queen at a court of your own. Someone who can teach you Latin, and etiquette, and how to read and write…”
His voice trailed off and he looked at Brigit for confirmation.
“There’s a great many things you’ll need to know in a large court, Gwen,” she said gently. “Things we haven’t even thought about here.”
“But I don’t want to live in a large court,” I said, slowly getting to my feet. “I don’t ever want to leave Rheged. Rheged is my home, my own, my world. It’s where I belong, where I want to be.” I had begun walking round the room, gathering energy from the sheer physical activity. It helped to ward off the feeling of being tangled in something I couldn’t even see.
“These are my people, just as I’m their Someday Queen,” I flared, fiercely laying claim to the title Kevin had given me when we were children. “And I don’t need to learn Latin to talk to them. Why, most of our subjects don’t know Latin at all.”
No one said anything, and as the silence pressed in on me I turned and flung myself back onto the bench. “Besides, I’ll never, never learn to eat lying down!”
My father’s eyebrow lifted at that, and leaning forward, he promised solemnly that we would never become that Roman.
There was more discussion then, about monarchs’ needing to know Latin for reasons of state and diplomacy, and how Rheged must be prepared to take her place in the High King’s plans, and it became very clear that the whole thing had already been set in motion. I felt like the fox kit: angry, indignant, and quite unwilling to be tamed. At least he had a burrow to run to.
Finally, seeing no way to avoid this new development, I retreated into silence. Surely, I told myself, when Kevin returns we’ll get matters straightened out.
So Lavinia came to court. Small and plump, she wore her hair carefully curled and smelled of a perfume that she regularly sent for from a merchant in Marseille. She was neat to the point of distraction, and took over the management of my life like a mother hen trying to keep a duckling out of water, and with about as much success.
The first morning after her arrival I woke to find my tunic and breeches gone, and a simple long dress hung carefully on the peg where my clothes should have been.
“Tunics, particularly tunics of bright colors,” she told me firmly, “are for ladies of ill repute. And no decent woman ever wears breeches. I can’t imagine what your nurse was thinking of, letting you run about here like a barbarian, or worse.”
I wondered what the “worse” was, but she was busy opening Mama’s chest and sorting through the dresses that were stored there.
“We’ll use those things which are appropriate, and make over the rest,” she said cheerfully. “Of course, the really fine things will be saved for later. You’ll be a grown-up one of these days, and then you’ll need some fancy garments.”
I stared at the beautiful things edged with lace and encrusted with embroidery, and vowed I wouldn’t be needing them soon.
The idea of sleeping in a room with unglazed windows was almost as much of a shock to Vinnie as my wardrobe had been, and it became a matter to be attended to at once. She moved to the smaller room that had been Brigit’s, where at least the windows were intact, and Brigit took her place in the bed across the room from my own.
Nonny was still officially my nurse, but she had become more and more muddled, confusing me with Mama all of the time now and reminding me of scrapes and adventures that happened long before I was born. Occasionally she peered intently at Lavinia and blurted out strange comments, such as “What’s the matter with that wom
an’s hair?”
Vinnie took it in stride, treating the old Cumbrian nursemaid like the childish crone she had become. At least she didn’t seem to take offense.
My days suddenly filled with household lessons of all kinds. Vinnie took charge of the keys to all the cupboards and insisted I make the rounds of every closet with her.
“A really fine court has linen sheets,” she announced, looking skeptically at the plain but adequate woolen blankets we used.
“Hasn’t anyone here ever heard of Samian ware?” she asked, staring incredulously at the contents of the dish cupboard.
I tried to point out that we did have a few red bowls, but she just shook her head sadly.
“Ah, it’s not like the old days, child,” she sighed. “Why, even after my mother’s family came to Britain, they used nothing but the finest ceramics from the Continent. Of course, it’s much harder to get anything of quality since The Troubles began.”
I heard a lot about the days before The Troubles, when trade with Rome had flourished and one found libraries and jewelry shops and glass emporiums throughout the Empire. Vinnie’s own grandmother had been born in Rome, and used to recount stories about that city’s magnificence. Rome was still the arbiter of sophistication and civilized behavior in Vinnie’s mind, and compared with it, our northern part of “The British Province” was very backward indeed.
By the time Cathbad returned, our routine was well established, and while the druid was made welcome at court, he was also informed that my education had been given over to the widow from York.
I was not present when he was told, but was in the Hall when he strode out of my father’s chambers, his fair countenance dark with anger.
“’Tis a poor thing when a daughter of the Cumbri is taught only Roman ways,” he commented curtly, glaring first at Lavinia, then at me. “And the day will come when you’ll regret it, Missy, mark me well.”
He continued through the room and out the doors, never stopping to bid farewell to anyone. I was sorry not to have a chance to tell him this hadn’t been my idea.
After Vinnie’s arrival the bulk of the household stayed in Carlisle while my father traveled through the north, still intent on being able to give King Arthur some final word on the proposed treaty come spring. I suspected he was using that as an excuse to escape the changes in our home life, for while Lavinia didn’t insist on couches, she did introduce both finger bowls and hand towels at meals within the first week of her arrival.
Once she was established, my governess broached the subject of my learning to read and write. I rebelled openly at that, and we reached a compromise only when it was agreed that Brigit should learn with me, both for companionship and because she herself wished to have those skills.
I longed for the freedom of my former life, looking back not only to the adventures with Kevin but also to Cathbad’s lessons. I missed his explanation of things, the long walks in the woods when the weather was good, and the tales of other countries and times. They all became part of a dream I returned to over and over in my fantasy.
By now I had convinced myself that Kevin would come back at Beltane, when the general amnesty held and he need not fear reprisals for our misadventure with the Lady or his running away. It was the one thing that made the rest of life bearable.
Slowly the months went by. Winter came, and the Market Square stood empty and quiet for weeks at a time. The cold was bitter that year, and more than one night I awoke shivering, not because I was cold but because Kevin was out there in the darkness somewhere, without family or home or warmth.
Travelers stopped off at court occasionally, and now and then word came from my father, but compared with the years of travel and festivals, of close interaction with the people and great evenings of feasting and singing, life had become dull and dreary. I waited patiently, watching the sun come back after the Midwinter passed and clinging to the idea that Beltane would mean the return of all that I longed for: freedom and laughter, and most, of all, Kevin.
Vinnie was determined that I learn needlework of every kind, and before long a stack of embroidered pieces began to accumulate. Yet I noticed they were never made use of, but carefully folded and placed in the cedar chest Vinnie’s grandmother had brought from Rome. Finally I asked why these things were stored away instead of being used.
“But child, they are for your wedding. They’ll be part of your trousseau.”
I stared at her blankly, wondering why she thought I’d need a trousseau. When my father and mother had run away, there hadn’t been a trousseau; it had all happened much too fast for planning. Depending on who told the story, it was as much a matter of abduction as elopement. When Kevin came for me I wouldn’t bother with a trousseau either, so all this time and effort was to be for naught. It seemed ridiculous to spend my days putting bits of embroidery on cloth I would never use, and I whiled away the long hours imagining what the Beltane meeting would be like.
Sometimes I thought he would ride up suddenly on Featherfoot and, sweeping through the startled crowd, pause long enough to help me onto her back; then together we’d be off before anyone realized what was happening.
Or perhaps he would take his place among the farmers and craftsmen waiting for darkness and the circle dance, when we’d come together with only a small exchange of secret smiles. With everyone whirling about in the flicker of the bonfire light, we could slip off into the shadows like any other couple, and be gone before anyone else noticed.
Obviously, no matter how we met again, it would not be part of the orderly routine of Lavinia’s “proper” court.
As the days lengthened, I noted the increase of travelers on the road with a secret excitement, sure that each day brought my love closer.
The weather turned beautiful at last: balmy and mild, with a haze of alder blossoms swaying above the river. I looked forward to this Beltane with more enthusiasm than I had known in my life before, and even agreed with Vinnie that I should wear a long dress for the occasion, complete with the bright girdle of woven silk and the enameled barrette from Mama’s jewel box. This was, after all, a very special occasion.
Once I was dressed Brigit brought me the mirror, and I looked at my own reflection with surprise. The hair wasn’t copper, nor the face serene, but I saw a young woman, not a girl, looking back at me. Somehow I’d grown up enough to take my life into my own hands, and while I’d never be a queen, I would be spending the rest of my life with someone I loved. That more than made up for any loss of royal status.
The bells on the ends of the girdle gave off a sweet tinkling sound as I moved, and I laughed with the realization that this might well be considered my bridal dress.
On the Sacred Hill the Need-fire sprang to life almost immediately, and the night of dancing commenced.
The joy and promise of the new season swept away all trace of winter’s pall as we spun around and around the miniature sun that flamed in the center of the circle. The heat of the fire and fertility pulsed through the universe, roused and rousing to a long, sustained fever. Couples came together, twined with longing and release from winter’s oppression, and one by one they vanished into the night. I followed them with my eyes, longing, begging, willing Kevin to come to me now. Occasionally other men held out their arms to me, but they weren’t the Irish boy so I smiled and shook my head.
Too soon the bonfire ebbed; the dark skeleton of charred logs collapsed, sending forth fountains of sparks against the night as it fell into piles of glowing coals. The livestock was brought forward; cows and pigs, all the horses, sheep and geese, even the randy goats and stupid chickens, all carefully driven through the embers while the husbanders called down the blessing of the Gods as protection against illness in the months to come. I watched each dark figure, poised to throw myself into his arms, yet none of the men was the one I sought, and a faint, fine rasp of panic began to draw across my nerves.
I waited, trembling, until the very last group of revelers began to return to town. Afraid
to stay there by myself, I joined them, chanting and singing as the new-lit torches were carried back to our various hearths.
Now, I thought wildly: now is the time, Kevin. You must step forward before we reach the fastness of the stone buildings, where I could never escape without a fuss!
I searched urgently among the faces of every group we came upon, yet all I found was the high spirits and good-natured jesting of everyday people who had the freedom to live their lives as they chose, without the constraints of royal obligations hemming them in.
When the final celebrants retired, I made my way slowly up to bed in a state of shock and disbelief. Kevin had not come, and some part of me knew, now, that he would never return. The knowledge numbed my heart and made my eyes blur, and I trudged down the passageway without hope or desire or any interest in the future.
Brigit was turning back the covers, and she began to help me undress, commenting sleepily about the May-dance to be held on the morrow. As she folded the silk girdle the bells jingled one last time; all the dreams of what could have been lay broken in that light, silvery sound, and the dam of my sorrow burst in a rushing sob.
“Why, Gwen, what is it?”
Without waiting for an answer she gathered me in her arms, while the whole of my misery poured out in a torrent of tears and gusting gulps. She listened carefully, rocking me as a mother rocks her child, while I put words to my fears, my guilt, and remorse over Kevin’s departure and the whole of the hopes I had built in the months since then.
“He’ll never come for me, will he, Brigit?” I whispered, wrung out with weeping and despair.
“Not likely, Gwen, not likely,” my friend answered, still holding me close. “You must put aside the belief that he’s alive, for he is gone as surely as if he had died, and you have to go on and create a separate life for yourself.”
I thought wearily of days full of perfect little stitches and fancy linens, and years spent dutifully sitting by the hearth; I could not believe I was expected to accept such dullness as a substitute for living.
Child of the Northern Spring (Guinevere Trilogy) Page 26