Child of the Northern Spring (Guinevere Trilogy)

by Persia Woolley

  But Brigit was right, of course, and by the time autumn came again I had put aside all but the memory of my dreams. Lavinia kept me too busy to chafe about lost freedoms, and I dared not think about either the past or the future. Only, sometimes, on a clear summer night when the stars were flung in a web across the northern sky, I remembered the ride home from the Sanctuary and the love that should have been.

  Chapter XXV

  The Betrothal

  During the next year life at Rheged’s court was placid and slow and dull. I stayed with the household at the big house in Carlisle, diligently studying Latin, turning out pieces of neat embroidery, and occasionally doing mathematical problems. This last activity was based on the concepts Cathbad had taught, and it confused Vinnie considerably. That may be one reason I enjoyed it.

  There did seem to be an increase in visiting royalty, particularly after Arthur’s treaty with Urien was signed. Mostly our guests were kings looking for a wife for themselves, their sons, or, sometimes, their grandsons. Once in a while women came too: protective mothers or sisters whose eyes assessed everything about me and my surroundings even as they babbled on about inanities. In general, however, the men came alone.

  Occasionally my father took me on state visits if the weather was good, the atmosphere right, and he felt I could learn something of value. I appreciated the chance to get away from Carlisle and found the interplay of personalities and politics among our northern neighbors fascinating. It was certainly more challenging than needlework, and I made an effort to learn the various dialects in order to understand the nuances of diplomatic discussions.

  When Vinnie began to feel I was well in hand, she attacked the problem of the Church. At one time there had been a notable congregation in Carlisle, and the building they had constructed specifically for holy use still stood, half-roofed and moldy, but a church nonetheless. My governess set about trying to revive interest, not only among the local people but with the leaders of the Church itself. She sent off wooden tablets with letters inscribed inside, begging, pleading, and cajoling any clergyman she had ever heard of, and was eventually rewarded with a letter from London saying that a man from Saint Ninian’s monastery would be sent to Carlisle to act as pastor for the flock. I had never thought of Christians as sheep, or holy men as tenders thereof, but Vinnie assured me that in Rome that was how things were done.

  I agreed to accompany her to the festivities surrounding the bishop’s arrival after she promised me that it wouldn’t commit me to anything in the future.

  I was hoping the new leader would be Father Bridei, the Pictish monk we had hosted at Loch Milton, but he turned out to be a narrow, crabbed man who scowled at the world in principle and looked through women as though they didn’t exist. I couldn’t help wondering why some Christians were loving and caring toward their fellowmen while others were constantly judgmental and difficult. There didn’t seem to be an answer, and in the end I thanked Vinnie for her concern over my soul and kept a fair distance between myself and her religion.

  It was Vinnie’s contention that women must live and work in their own separate world, and more and more I found myself sequestered in what she called “the women’s quarters.” It was so far from the mainstream of activity that I often didn’t know who was visiting or when they arrived. So it was without any warning that I came into the Hall for dinner one night and found Merlin seated in the guest position next to my father.

  Making a hasty curtsy, I took my place on the other side of the King, and wondered what had brought Arthur’s Magician to Rheged. At least it was too late in the year to be war plans.

  Watching the Archdruid, I remembered Kevin’s comment that he should have been named for the owl; silent, unblinking and all-knowing, he even cast a shadow akin to those of the deadly predators of the night. I was glad my father was seated between us, as I hadn’t the slightest idea what to say to our guest, and from his distant attitude, I suspected there was nothing he cared to say to me.

  And I was even more surprised to find him in the State Chamber when I answered my father’s request to join him after dinner. I tried to suggest that I would return later, but my father stopped me.

  “No, no, child, I…that is, we called you here specifically. Merlin would like to speak with you.”

  My father gestured toward a chair, and I sank into it, looking slowly back and forth between him and the Enchanter.

  “There, now, girl,” Merlin said gruffly, “you needn’t fidget so. I just wanted to know how old you are.”

  I would have been less astonished if he’d asked me about dragon eggs, and I stared at him like a dolt. Surely he could have gotten that information from my father.

  “I’ll be turning fifteen this December,” I answered, wondering why he began nodding.

  “Early December?” he inquired, and when I nodded in return, he muttered something about archers and lack of tact.

  Finally, however, he turned to my father and solemnly thanking him for our hospitality, declared that he thought he’d go to bed. I stood respectfully as he swept out of the room and then looked to my father in total bewilderment.

  “Whewww…” My parent took in a deep breath and brought his shoulders up around his ears, then slowly lowered them as he exhaled and nodded for me to come closer. “I think, Gwen, that you’ve just been chosen to become King Arthur’s wife.”

  “What?” The word ricocheted off table and wine flagon, map chest and tile floor.

  “That’s what Merlin was here to ask about…whether or not I would consider such a match. I told him I’d have to talk with you.” He was looking at his hands, and the silence between us sagged of its own weight.

  “Well?” he finally asked.

  “Well, what?” The wind was starting to return to my lungs, and with it a raging torrent of half-formed words and actions. “Are you asking how I would feel about it? Are you seriously thinking I would consider it? Are you going to send me away from Rheged whether I want to go or not? I thought we had an agreement…”

  “Indeed,” he said dryly, “that’s why this is a conversation rather than my simply telling you what you will do. So let’s begin at the beginning. Just what are your objections to marrying the High King?”

  “Objections? I don’t even know him. I’d have to go all the way to Logres to marry him, and live among strangers. I don’t want to be High Queen…I just want to stay here in Rheged, with my own people. And most important…” I paused, giving the next point extra emphasis. “According to the treaty, if I leave Rheged, Urien can stand for king after you’re gone…and I don’t want that.”

  “All right,” my father conceded, “let’s pour the wine and go over these points more closely. It’s time to decide whom you would prefer.”

  “Prefer?” I squeaked, feeling the future close in on me.

  “Yes, prefer. I will not tell Merlin that you refuse his offer without telling him that you have voiced a preference for someone else. Matters are awkward enough as it is, without our turning down the High King out of hand. Now, you’ve met most everyone who’s sent word saying he is interested…so let’s go over the list and see what is the best we can do for you, girl. Preferably,” he added, “over that glass of wine.”

  So I filled the goblets, and we spent the rest of the evening considering the merits and drawbacks of every marriage alliance possible to me. I had no idea that so many men were interested, and the range of age was so broad as to be comical. Even after we ruled out those who were more than five years younger than I and any who were already approaching the half-century mark there was still a list far longer than I had expected.

  Foremost among them was Urien’s bid that I marry his son, Uwain.

  “This,” my father pointed out, “would bring our two kingdoms together, and put an end to the tension along the borders. But I cannot imagine that such a match would be a happy one for you. The boy is still young, and although Urien is a good leader, he’s overbearing in nature, and he places blood
and kinship ties above all else. He’s a better man to have as an ally than an enemy…but he would want to run everything, and when the time comes, would simply shoulder you aside and name himself regent until your children are grown. No,” he concluded, “far better to see you married to the High King, who is powerful enough to keep Urien in line, than to have you under the thumb of the smaller, pettier ruler.”

  I nodded, thinking that a marriage to Uwain would also make me daughter-in-law to Morgan le Fey—a fate I wasn’t sure I could handle.

  “Then too,” my father went on, draining his glass, “King Caw has always wanted to see you bound to one of his brood. He’s recently suggested his youngest as consort for you.”

  “Gildas?” I snorted indignantly, remembering all too well the whining boy who had pestered me unmercifully on a state visit the previous spring. Narrow-minded and priggish, he was the last person I would have expected to be interested in marriage.

  “I think he’s more talk than action,” I suggested. “Besides, his eyes are set too close together. He’ll probably sire ugly children.”

  My father nodded, and a bit of humor crept into his voice. “I always thought he was too scholarly for you, somehow.”

  We went through several more families, mostly from the north, and then Gawain’s name came up.

  “Not,” my father added hastily, “that he’s asked for you. But if you fancy him over Arthur, we might make inquiries…”

  I burst out laughing, remembering that whirlwind of redheaded determination that had stormed through the summer at Threlkeld Knotts.

  “Surely you’re not serious?” I asked, and for a moment my father actually laughed aloud.

  “It would be rather like tethering a pair of Soay sheep together,” he said. Then he sighed and made a face.

  “Maelgwn of North Wales would like to gain this kingdom someday; because of his kinship to your mother he expects to claim the regency when I die, particularly if you’re reigning in some distant kingdom. He has even suggested that he would put aside his present wife if you would consent to marry him and consolidate our countries now.”

  I gaped at my parent in disgust, and he reached over and laid a hand over mine.

  “Now, now, girl, I told him it was not to be considered; that I wouldn’t bother you with such an unseemly request. Watch him carefully in the years to come, though. He’s a greedy devil who sees his kingship as a right rather than a trust, and people as things to use and manipulate instead of individuals worthy of respect. I fear that his fame will be as a tyrant, and his legacy a bitter one for any land he rules.”

  I filed the thought away for future reference, and we moved to the next name on the list of suitors.

  By the time the wine flagon was empty and the oil lamps were beginning to smoke, my father and I had agreed on one thing: of all the marriages possible to me, the proposal from Arthur was the least fraught with difficulties. Not only that, it solved the problem of how to turn down Urien’s son without hurting his pride, and it meant that Rheged would have the additional protection of the High King’s special interest.

  “But why,” I asked wearily, “does the High King even want to ask for my hand? What possible advantage is there for him?”

  My father sighed and looked into his empty glass.

  “You’re a Cumbri, and what better way to put an end to any northern resentment than by marrying a northern girl? Of course, Merlin also says Arthur was quite taken with you when he came to visit after the Great Battle, so it isn’t an offer made entirely for political reasons…”

  “Maybe not for him,” I grumbled, “but I have no other reason than politics to accept him. It is not what one would call a love match; not at all like the relationship between you and Mama, for instance.”

  There was a long pause, and my father stared disconsolately at his hands.

  “Believe me, child, if there were one among the prospective suitors you preferred, one you really wanted to wed, I would not hesitate to tell Merlin no. But we have considered every one of them and from what you say, there is none for whom you have any particular fondness. It is a hard thing to ask you to marry for duty when I myself know how special a love marriage can be…”

  His voice trailed off and he looked up at me helplessly, his face full of compassion and concern.

  “There is another factor, Gwen, that must be taken into account. I am not…not as young as I used to be. There are days when I can hardly stand, and I tire far more quickly than is natural. The Medicine Woman does the best she can, but the potions no longer kill the pain, and I would feel more comfortable about your future if you were wedded to a strong young man who I knew would take care of you. It may not be the same as finding a ‘love match’ for you, but it’s the next best thing I can provide…”

  And so, in the end, I agreed that come spring I would go south to become High Queen of Britain.

  ***

  That was six months ago, and now, in the woods beyond my tent, the cuckoo was riotously announcing that spring had truly arrived.

  Too wakeful to stay abed, I got up and slipping on my cape, went to the door of the tent.

  The sky was spangled with an abundance of stars. The men of my escort lay sleeping round the campfire, except for the sentry who sat near the horses.

  The night was calm, and not too chill, so I leaned against the ropes and stared up into the sky. Behind, in both time and space, were my childhood in Rheged and the love I had once so longed for. Ahead lay the conflicting strands of my moira…queen in a court I didn’t want, wife to a husband I didn’t know.

  But here I wafted free of both worlds, touched by each but confined to neither. There was a promise of adventure I’d not appreciated before, for I was going into lands I had never seen, toward places I had heard of only in song. My future with Arthur might be circumscribed by formal Roman manners, but that was still a fortnight away, and it would be foolish to waste these precious days so involved with either past or future that I missed the present. Besides, I needed to be alert and responsive in case something remarkable occurred to change my destiny.

  At the outskirts of camp a man appeared, exchanged a word with the sentry, then made his way toward the tent. Even before he spoke, I knew it was Bedivere.

  “You are up late, M’lady,” he said, pausing when he saw me.

  “It’s a lovely night,” I answered quietly.

  “Aye, and it will be an early dawn. We have a long day tomorrow, so you’d best get your sleep.”

  I nodded, wishing there were some way to share with him the elation that was growing inside me.

  Going back to bed, I smiled drowsily as Kaethi’s voice echoed softly in my ears: “…a vast panorama, wherever you happen to be.”

  Chapter XXVI

  Arthur

  The light mood of adventure carried into the next day. With my farewells behind and the excitement of new horizons ahead, I rode with high heart and quickened interest.

  A ramshackle settlement was strung out along the riverbank, and we wound through it with little comment from the townsfolk, though a few who recognized the badge of the Red Dragon called out a greeting, and the smith by the river ford hailed Bedivere by name.

  Next time Arthur’s lieutenant came to ride beside me, I asked him how the man knew who he was.

  “I spent some time here last year.” Bedivere gestured round the circle of hills on the horizon. “Manchester’s at a natural crossroads, and now that Arthur plans to establish a Royal Messenger network, this could be the northern hub. Getting news from one end of the realm to the other is very important; during the Time of Troubles the Imperial Post died out, so we have to start all over again on our own. I came up to see what could be done.”

  Bedivere’s enthusiasm was contagious.

  “Does it look possible?” I asked hopefully.

  “Of course. Arthur likes to say anything is possible. But in this case it also seems likely. I think we’ll have it fairly well established by next
year.”

  I had never thought about the need for a network of communication, and the full implication of such a system gradually dawned on me.

  “He really does intend to be King of all Britain, doesn’t he?” I said with some astonishment.

  “Provided we can stop the Saxon advance,” Bedivere affirmed with a nod. “He worked hard to establish the British truces so we could put our energies into fighting the Sea Wolves. Your father’s treaty with Urien was instrumental in getting the rest of the Celtic kings to work together. Hopefully now the Britons will fight Saxons and not each other.”

  The mood of the day was so peaceful and calm, it was hard to imagine we were threatened by enemies who slaughtered for the seeming pleasure of it and sometimes flayed their foes alive.

  “Are the Saxons really as terrible as they say?” I asked, realizing I’d never even seen one.

  “It depends,” he answered, urging his horse to a more rapid pace as the Road opened out to the west. “There are some who have been living on the Saxon Shore for generations, ever since Vortigern invited them in as mercenaries. Those are the Federates; well-settled farmers who are loyal to Britain. And there’ve been peaceful Saxon settlements around York since before the Legions left.”

  I remembered Vinnie’s comment: “People no better than pigs, living in scooped-out hollows in the ground.” Naturally, with her family’s Roman heritage she took a condescending attitude toward the squatters who gathered in clusters outside the walls of her native city. But she’d never mentioned any trouble with the local Saxons, only the invaders.

  “Why do they keep coming in?” I wondered.

  Bedivere thought a minute. “I suppose the land is better than what they have on the Continent. They’re good farmers, once they put down their weapons, and they prefer the lowlands—the water meadows by the rivers—instead of the hillsides and highlands our own people like.”

  That seemed odd, for I couldn’t imagine anyone intentionally settling in the mire and marsh most lowlands offered. And sheep, of course, are not fond of wet feet. Maybe they didn’t have sheep.