Child of the Northern Spring (Guinevere Trilogy)

by Persia Woolley

  “Did you get hurt?” I asked, looking anxiously at Brigit.

  “She lost her new ring,” Brigit explained.

  “It would never have happened if I’d been in the litter,” the matron whispered tremulously. “And now it’s gone forever.”

  “Oh, Vinnie, I’m so sorry. Now, now…don’t cry,” I added, putting my arms around her.

  “But it was real Roman work,” she wailed, her dumpling face collapsing with woe.

  “Shh…we’ll find you a new one when we get down south; there’s bound to be other ‘real Roman’ jewelry in Winchester.”

  I had said the first thing I could think of to comfort her, and it seemed to work. She drew back, a wan smile showing through the stream of tears.

  “Would you really do that for me?” she asked. Standing there with her face all wet and her lower lip trembling, she looked amazingly like an overgrown child.

  “If we can find one, Vinnie, it shall be yours,” I promised.

  For a moment I thought she was going to start weeping all over again, but her sobs turned to hiccups, and she reached up to pat her hair into place.

  “That’s very sweet of you, Missy,” she said primly. Then, suddenly, she dimpled. “I suppose I shall have to start calling you M’lady, now that marriage to the young King is assured.”

  The idea was so absurd that I laughed, and began to say that wouldn’t be necessary when Brigit cut in sharply:

  “We all will, and we should be getting used to it now, on the road.”

  Brigit’s tone was completely serious and I looked over at her, startled. It seemed preposterous that members of my family should start calling me by a title instead of my name. I wanted to protest, but Brigit was nodding her head emphatically.

  “We’ll be less likely to have slipups at court if we’ve been doing it for a while,” she said firmly while Vinnie daubed at her eyes.

  It occurred to me that perhaps Brigit was right; certainly it would be a good idea not to go into the strange court unprepared. So I agreed, reluctantly.

  Later, when we were alone, I whispered to Brigit that I didn’t want any of this “M’lady” nonsense when we were in private. She just smiled, and gave my hand a squeeze.

  It was midday when Arthur swung round to pick us up. The baggage train had been on the Road since barely sunup, and when we caught up with them I was amazed to see how many people now walked along behind. As we came down the Road they parted to let us through, cheering and laughing when they recognized Arthur and sometimes even calling out my name. We waved and smiled and saluted them in turn, and later, when we were riding sedately at the head of the party, I asked Arthur if this was the reception he usually received along the Road.

  “No, never!” he said with a chuckle. “Most of the time I can come and go with a small party of men and no one notices. Or those who do don’t pay much mind to us. I think,” he added, glancing across at me, “that it’s your presence which brings them out this time.”

  “Me?” It seemed an unlikely notion.

  “Of course. News that I would take a Cumbri wife was bound to spread through Wales like wildfire, and now they want to see for themselves what you’re like. For people to whom the blood tie is more important than anything else, there’s much prestige in knowing one of their own has been chosen High Queen.”

  “Is that why you chose me?” I asked calmly. The question was neither impulsive nor premeditated, but something that came naturally in the conversation. Yet as soon as the words were spoken I regretted it.

  He turned and looked at me with the level gaze we had shared at the end of the race when we first met.

  “I asked you for the same reasons you accepted me,” he said simply. “Britain needs a queen, and you need a husband. What we do with the future is up to us.”

  I stared back at him, looking hopefully for an indication of love or tenderness, but he only grinned and added gruffly, “Whatever else may be involved, we’ve made a good start. And neither of us will lack for a riding companion.”

  The tension in me relaxed and I smiled, glad at least he thought it a good beginning. Perhaps, as my father had said, the loving would follow.

  Traffic on the Road was growing heavier. Sometimes an hour went by without our meeting anyone, and then a whole series of travelers would appear, spread out in clumps for the next mile or so. Most people stopped to stare at our cavalcade, moving off to the verge and occasionally saluting politely if they recognized the badge of the Red Dragon.

  A beekeeper, his precious hives carefully wrapped in linen and straw for the journey, hailed us with great good cheer. Bees are always a good omen, and I was sure he would sit down next to his charges this evening and carefully describe all that he had seen and heard on the Road this day, for the little golden honey gatherers have to be kept advised of everything that affects their owner. I wondered how he would describe us, and what the bees would think.

  As the afternoon lengthened we came within sight of Wroxeter, a city whose foundries and forges had once been famous throughout the Empire. Yet now the city gates hung open, and neither guard nor curious civilian watched us from the walls.

  “It’s deserted,” Arthur explained. “Abandoned. Since the Time of Troubles, there’s not enough people to man the walls, nor enough trade to keep them fed, so they return to the land. You’ll find more such places in the south; wastelands that are slowly rotting into oblivion.”

  “But why?” I shook my head, trying to understand.

  “That depends on who you ask. The Christians say it’s God’s punishment for the sins of the people. The druids say it’s because the Old Ways went ignored. The soldiers who follow Mithra say it’s for lack of sanitation…and I,” he added with the lift of an eyebrow, “say it matters less why it has happened than what we do about it. We need to rebuild the communities, and salvage what we can. It’s the same throughout Logres; where the cities have died the people have scattered, gathering around leaders who have gone to live in hill-forts such as that one.”

  He gestured toward one of the strange islandlike hills that rose out of the landscape around us.

  “The man who’s claimed the Wrekin for his own observes the Old Ways and sees no reason to return his people to a city that has been deserted for twoscore years now. He’s a friend of mine, by the way,” Arthur added, “and I promised to spend the night up there with his family. Do you want to come too?”

  “Of course,” I responded. “Wouldn’t he be insulted if I didn’t?”

  “Hard to say.” Arthur shrugged. “The leaders of the Welsh Marches are an eccentric bunch; each local king is master of his own hill, and may or may not care whether we grace his hall. Knowing Pellinore, he’ll be delighted to meet you; I’ve never seen such a man for the ladies. Or for spawning sons. And if they grow up to be like their father, I’d be pleased to have them fighting for me in the south.”

  I eyed the Wrekin. It looked to be a natural stronghold, set well apart and difficult to scale.

  “Will this be considered a State Visit?” I asked, wondering how we’d manage with the litter.

  “In a way,” he said with a chuckle, “but we’ll take just a light guard with us. I don’t fancy hauling our whole party up that trail.”

  I nodded, wondering how Lavinia would react to that.

  When we made camp Arthur saw to the evening’s plans and took Caesar out for a run while I talked with Vinnie and Brigit. My governess balked at the idea of letting me go off unchaperoned, but she also had no intention of riding anywhere on horseback, so she dithered about in a flurry of conflicted concerns.

  In the end Arthur himself convinced her I would be safe both from outside enemies and from himself. And as the day began to fade, our small party of riders left the camp and headed for the ancient hill-fort.

  Chapter XXX

  Pellinore

  Halt!”

  The command echoed through the evening like the croak of a hoodie crow. We paused atop the Wrekin’s t
rail and were immediately engulfed by a flock of noisy, curious children who swarmed out to challenge us before we reached the outer walls.

  There must have been a dozen of them, ranging in age from early teens on down, and they were dressed in a ragbag of warm but mismatched clothes such as get passed from one youngster to another. I couldn’t tell if there were any girls among them, but it was easy to see that there were at least two pairs of twins.

  Arthur patiently reined to a stop and identified us, extending his hand with the Dragon Ring for verification. After a moment’s consideration the troop gave way and allowed us to continue.

  “Are you really the High King?” the oldest one asked, running beside Arthur’s horse and looking up at him skeptically. “I thought you would be older.”

  Arthur made a grave face. “Does this suit you better, son?” he inquired, pitching his voice low and looking sternly down at the lad.

  “Maybe…” the youth said, unconvinced.

  When we reached the gate I turned to stare out over the land below. A tumble of hills and ridges floated in the evening mist, shading from slate and charcoal to palest black against a salmon sky. It was a silent sunset, and still, as though the earth were holding her breath. Nothing moved, and one could well imagine sleeping giants waking and coming to stalk the land.

  The stone wall of the fort loomed before us, offering warmth and protection to anyone bold enough to call it home, and as we filed through the sturdy gate I made a little prayer of thanks to the Spirit of the Place.

  The children surged around us in the courtyard.

  “Here, boys, make way for our guests!” a young woman cried, hurrying from the doorway of the main house and attempting to shepherd the troop out of the way. She carried a plump youngster on her hip, and it was plain to see from the swelling of her dress that she expected another very soon.

  “Is he really King Arthur?” piped up one of the smallest.

  “He certainly is!” answered a great booming voice from the barn. Our host plowed his way through the gaggle of youngsters. “And mighty good to see you,” he declared, beaming.

  Arthur slid from his horse and the two men embraced in a jovial hug. Arthur himself was not a small man, but this giant engulfed him like a friendly bear.

  “Well come, comrade,” Pellinore said, pounding the High King on the back. “We only just got your message this morning, so didn’t have time to plan anything. There is venison on the spit, however.”

  The older man turned and scanned the rest of our party as Arthur stepped forward to help me from my horse.

  “Thought you were going to bring the Cumbri girl with you,” Pellinore rumbled, glancing back in our direction. Arthur had just set me on the ground, and Pellinore’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “By the Goddess,” he swore lustily, “I mistook you for a page!”

  “It’s not the first time that’s happened,” I answered with a grin as Arthur slid his arm around my waist.

  “Guinevere, may I present our ally and battle comrade, Pellinore,” he announced formally, then added, “and his band of future warriors.”

  The boys were suddenly all shyness and silence, the older ones fumbling through their bows and the youngest staring at me in open awe.

  “And this is my wife, Tallia,” Pellinore offered, extending a hand to the woman around whom the children clustered. She looked hardly old enough to have borne so many offspring, and as though to answer my thought, Pellinore said, “We were married after the Great Battle…be three years come harvest time…and she’s already given me one strapping infant and there’s another due any day.”

  The young woman blushed and dropped me a deep curtsy, her homespun skirt dragging in the dirt of the unpaved court. That, I thought, is real dignity, and I liked her immediately.

  Once inside the Hall, Pellinore called for ale, and after we were seated next to him, proceeded to introduce his tribe individually.

  The oldest, his skepticism now mollified, stepped forward proudly. At fourteen he gave every indication of becoming the same sort of giant as his father. Pellinore informed us his name was Lamorak, and the boy bowed formally to Arthur.

  There followed an assortment of others, ranging from thirteen down to toddlers, and from the look of them they had had several different mothers.

  Probably, I thought with a glance toward Tallia, this man sires enormous offspring and the poor women don’t survive bearing them. It made me glad Arthur was not Pellinore’s size.

  After the children had been presented there were warriors and companions to meet, and freemen as well, for our host had invited those who lived close by to join the festivities. Then, as the meat was carved and the trenchers passed around, talk turned to the boy Lamorak.

  “Naturally I’d like to keep him here by my side,” Pellinore boomed, “but he has dreams of coming to your court one of these days.”

  The lad blushed shyly, but held his head high and proud.

  “If the son is like the father, I’d better look out,” Arthur replied with a grin. He went on to tell how Pellinore had bested him severely the first time they met, back before the Coronation. “Knocked me clean off my horse, and broke my sword as well,” he concluded.

  “I had both weight and experience on my side,” Pellinore allowed gruffly. “Probably wouldn’t be able to do it again.”

  “Not if what I hear is true,” Arthur answered, and proceeded to tell him about the riders up around Ribchester and the change they had made in their tack. “That should give even the lightest warrior an edge in combat,” he concluded.

  “Sounds interesting,” Pellinore agreed, ripping one last shred of meat from the joint he was holding and tossing the remains to the pile of dogs that scuffled for scraps by the fire.

  “Bedivere’s bringing one of the boys down to Winchester in time for the wedding,” Arthur continued. “I want to see the system for myself as soon as possible. Why don’t you join us for the festivities, and get a look at it too?”

  Pellinore nodded thoughtfully, and glanced about the circle of his men.

  “Any reason why I shouldn’t go south for a month or so?” he called to one of his lieutenants, and after scowling over the question for a moment the man shook his head.

  Pellinore’s big face broke into a broad grin and he turned to his wife. It was obvious she couldn’t accompany him this far along in the pregnancy, but neither did he want to stay home when adventure called. So he looked at her fondly and inquired, “What shall I be bringing you back from the city, my love?”

  “Yourself—alone,” the young woman answered with a knowing laugh which caused all the older men in the circle to roar with pleasure. It was clear she was aware of her husband’s roving ways, and the success of their partnership seemed to be based on her acceptance of them.

  Talk turned then to reminiscences of the Great Battle, and how Pellinore had taken on King Lot single-handed after the rebel kings had fought Arthur’s troop to a standstill.

  “It was a brave thing to do, my friend,” Arthur said. “And it may well be I owe that battle and my crown to you.”

  “’Twas only common sense.” Pellinore shrugged. “Everyone else tired and stalemated, and here comes Lot, late as usual and riding in fresh to the fray. I was not only the one closest to him, I was also about the only one equal to his size, and I wasn’t going to risk having him cut you to pieces just because I’d already done my share of skirmishing.”

  He proceeded to tell of the encounter, stroke by bloody stroke, and I watched the boys’ eyes grow round with admiration and the warriors nod and suck their teeth as they heard the tale retold. Strategy I could appreciate, or logistics, but I found it hard to understand the allure of recounting each batter and blow. I glanced at Arthur, who was listening intently, and made a note to ask him about it later.

  “Perhaps, my dear,” he answered as we walked back from the midden in the moonlight when the feast was over and it was time for bed, “you don’t understand it because you don’t
have to live by the sword. If your very survival depended on that split-second move, the instant response, the ability to tip the balance of leverage in your own favor, I wager you’d be fascinated…or at least respectful…of anyone else’s prowess. If Pellinore were a richer man, he’d have a bard to tell his tale for him, but as it is we all relive it because he relives it.”

  “Do you live by the sword?” I asked.

  “Sometimes. I won’t rule by it, that much Merlin has already told me. And learning to use military power wisely was the first lesson of the Civil War. I would have gone against anyone, anywhere, in my eagerness to put down the rebellion, if Merlin hadn’t pointed out I would only waste valuable lives and time that way. One must live by the law of the situation, and if our enemies attack with the sword, I shall defend Logres and Britain with it, whether I wish to or not.”

  His voice was quiet, but very serious, and looking at him in the flat light of the full moon, for a moment I saw the face of a craggy old man, gray and weary beyond measure. His kingship lay like a blessing and a curse upon him, and his brow was furrowed with sorrow. Those deep-set eyes, sad as they were, still gleamed with his dream, and a rush of love and tenderness rose up in me.

  Something crowded my mind…something I should tell him…something that would help. I reached out to touch his cheek, my eyes filling with tears and my throat aching to say the words that would heal his anguish.

  “What’s this? A bit of moon madness struck you?” he teased, catching my hand and turning toward me. “What ever would your governess say?”

  “I don’t know,” I whispered, as much to the Goddess as to my companion, for the aura of the Other still clung round us. I had never felt anything so powerful before, and while I didn’t understand what it meant, it was clear our moiras were intertwined for a lifetime.

  He pulled me to him and kissed me soundly. My arms went around his young, strong body, reaffirming the youth and vigor of him. Cupping my buttocks firmly, he half-lifted me to him, and my mouth opened willingly to the insistence of his tongue. Bright tingles of desire erupted in my throat, plunging in delicate showers through my body to my loins. We were wrapped together like a couple at Beltane, and I held both present and future in my arms, aware of the ardent young man of the moment and the great sustaining force of Britain’s resurrection in the years to come.