Child of the Northern Spring (Guinevere Trilogy)

by Persia Woolley

  Arthur had fallen into the Old Way with words, using the terms so familiar from days of past glory. No doubt he too had heard them in childhood.

  We sat in silence, awed by the power of one’s moira to twist the threads of life into heartbreaking irony. I was glad they did not know the truth about Balin, for every Celtic warrior dreams of living on in glorious memory, even if his ending is tragic, and who was I to steal a dead man’s reputation?

  After the fires had died down Arthur rose and we walked back to my tent together. In the dark, the scattered campfires glowed among the clearings of the woods like fairy lanterns casting golden shadows amid the trunks of ancient trees. Each glimmering pool of light had its gathering of people, like moths around a rushlight and occasionally a short laugh or sleepy exclamation floated through the night.

  “They do us honor, M’lady,” Arthur said formally, gesturing across the whole of the camp.

  “May we so live as to deserve it,” I answered, and my bridegroom nodded stiffly as he pulled the flap of the tent open for me.

  “It will be a long day tomorrow.” His voice was firm but distant, and I felt like a hen being shooed into the roost for the night.

  What ever is the matter with him? I wondered when he dropped the tent flap abruptly behind me.

  I told Brigit about Arthur’s sudden anger when I spoke of his sister and his aloofness and formality during the rest of the evening.

  “Ah well,” she said, taking the barrette from my hair once I was wrapped in a sleeping robe. “He seems a man more used to armies and bivouacs than courtship and young women. And it’s understandable for him to be concentrating on those things which are both more familiar and, in a way, more important to him. It can’t be easy, after all, to suddenly find your wedding journey turned into a kind of continuous Council, with everyone tagging along for the joy of it. He’s probably just got his mind on concerns of the realm, and doesn’t realize he’s being brusque.”

  As usual, Brigit made the problem seem simple and easily explained. Perhaps the depth of disquiet I had seen in him was exaggerated in my own mind. I smiled at her gratefully, hoping that she was right and Arthur would regain his good spirits come morning.

  Chapter XXXII

  Agricola

  Arthur’s good nature did indeed return, but we had very little time together during the next few days, as the problems of feeding the masses that followed behind us took most of his attention. Hunting parties went out each day, and lieutenants were sent into towns to pick up whatever other provisions might be available.

  As we moved farther south, we met more travelers on the Road, many of whom, like the beekeeper we had passed earlier, turned in their tracks and joined the procession. Often people who were already going south put aside their original plans for the excitement of taking part in the wedding march.

  Arthur kept us away from cities, though frequently the nobles of the area congregated there and hastened forth to greet us. A particularly large contingent was waiting at Gloucester, having come from the coastal kingdoms of South Wales.

  The southern Cumbri were very different from the hardy men of the north. Many of them had Irish names, for the men of Demetia were proud that their ancestors had come from over the Irish Sea. Clean-shaven and elegant, they generally wore bright-colored linen rather than wool, and preferred to speak Latin instead of the Cumbrian tongue.

  There were several who rode about in special conveyances called carriages, which seemed a cross between a wicker war chariot and a farm wagon. I stared at the odd looking contraptions, light enough to be pulled by horses instead of oxen but too heavy to maneuver over rough ground, and wondered what they’d be like to ride in.

  One nobleman was accompanied everywhere by a scribe. I couldn’t imagine what he needed to have written down, but Arthur said there was regular trading between these kingdoms and what was left of the Empire, and many of the wealthier still sent their children abroad for schooling.

  In spite of their odd ways I thought of them as exotic neighbors, not as foreigners, for like their northern brothers they brought an unswerving devotion to their High King.

  It had been a particularly warm and sticky day, and as we moved between a pair of fortified hills the ridge ahead began to show itself as a towering escarpment. Arthur reined in beside me.

  “We’ll have a hard climb tomorrow,” he noted, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. “How’d you like to stay at a villa tonight? There’s a fine one up ahead where we’d be most welcome. The owner’s a good man, and I’d like to get away from the crowd for a while; maybe even have a bath.”

  I’d never seen a Roman farm, though of course it was something Vinnie talked about, and the idea of staying in one of the fabled houses of luxury and elegance certainly appealed. Arthur laughed when I asked if there would be room for my women to come too.

  “Of course,” he answered. “Do you really think we could go to a villa without taking Lavinia?”

  So as soon as the plans were made for the main campsite the royal party headed off on its own.

  “There used to be a great number of villas in this area,” Arthur commented, “though most have fallen into disrepair since The Troubles. Agricola says this one was abandoned but never raided, and when he moved here after his wife’s death he was able to gather enough people to make it a working farm again.”

  “Did he originally come from the south?” I asked, wondering about the Roman name.

  “Agricola? His full name is Agricola Longhand,” my future mate responded, rolling the Celtic surname richly on his tongue. “You’ll find many southerners bear a mixture of Celtic and Latin names. It’s said to be a lively combination,” he added with a sly smile and sidewise glance.

  I blushed and ducked my head, amused at his innuendo and ashamed at being so transparent in my suspicions. I might have accepted the man, but that didn’t mean I’d blindly accept his court.

  “Whatever his ancestry, Agricola fights like a Celt,” Arthur went on. “He was one of the most helpful of Uther’s lieutenants during the Great Battle. I think you’ll find him a pleasant change from the roughshod company of these last few days, and I for one will enjoy talking about something other than past wars.”

  We turned into the entrance of a fine, formal drive which was well paved and lined with tall, taperlike trees. They stood slim and regal and black against the spring twilight, and I marveled at the neatness of them; our northern trees are bushy and billowy by comparison.

  Just as marvelous was the man who came to greet us, driving one of those carriages which skim over the land like a coracle over water. He gave us a most courteous welcome and as he led us to the house I caught a glimpse of Vinnie peeping, wide-eyed, from between the curtains of the litter.

  Arthur made the formal introductions when we all gathered in the foyer and Agricola bowed graciously. He had the firm and stocky build of a farmer, but his hands bore no calluses, and his thick gray hair was well dressed. His tunic was caught at the waist by an ornately worked belt that had been the symbol of high civilian rank in the Empire. My governess carefully patted her curls into place before being presented.

  My women and I were escorted to a suite of rooms that overlooked the central garden, where a working fountain splashed gently in the dusk.

  Vinnie examined the flowers on the table near my bed, lightly touching the curved petals that were spotted with brilliant color.

  “I haven’t seen lilies like this since I was a child,” she murmured. “Our host must have a very talented gardener.”

  I stared at the strange blossom in disbelief; its riot of color and convoluted form were so bizarre I was certain it wasn’t native to Britain’s shores.

  The cupboards and chests had been freshly aired, and in each drawer and closet were small packets of sweet, pungent herbs. I asked our host about the sachets when we gathered in the courtyard before dinner, and he smiled pleasantly, evidently pleased I had noticed them.

>   “They’re filled with lavender blossoms, which dry well and retain their scent for some time. Lavender makes a happy addition to any garden, for all that it’s more used to a warmer climate.”

  I looked at the plants growing in formal beds around the edges of the walks, recognizing comfrey and foxglove and dock for the medicine cupboard, as well as potherbs for the kitchen. But there were many more I had no name for, and I asked how he came to have such an extensive selection.

  “It was my wife who first got me interested in gardening. She came from Cornwall, where the climate allows you to grow almost anything. After I moved up here I found working in a garden to be very soothing,” he added. “And this is a good area for experimenting. Fortunately the original owners of this place had the good sense to plant it well to begin with. Did you notice the cypresses along the drive?”

  “The slim black trees?” I nodded.

  “They are real treasures,” he beamed—“as are the figs at the end of the guest wing. Wonderful trees, really! Great shady giants in the summer, with broad, flat leaves and silver-gray bark, and the sweetest fruit in the fall. Perhaps you’ve had dried figs? They keep very well and travel easily.”

  I told him no, regretfully, but Vinnie allowed that she’d had them when she was a child in York.

  “That’s been some time back,” she said primly, suddenly shy when all attention was focused on her.

  “And you’ve had none since?” Agricola inquired, to which she gave a mute shake of her head and looked bashfully at her plate. “Well, that’s easily taken care of,” our host went on, though he didn’t elaborate any further.

  Over dinner the conversation moved to our journey and the multitude of people following along behind. I sat back in my chair, secretly relieved there were no couches, and surveyed the room.

  It was a handsome chamber, airy and light. The plaster was terra-cotta in color, and someone had painted a picture of a young woman feeding doves on the far wall. I wondered if it was a portrait of Agricola’s wife; whoever she was, she was very pretty. The oil lamps that sat on the tabletops and hung from tall stands by the doorways were made of something translucent, for they glowed slightly below the bright flame of the wick.

  But what delighted me most was a cluster of large pots arranged just inside the courtyard door, for each one held a living tree. The idea of having a forest under one’s roof had never occurred to me, and I vowed to remember it for the future.

  Dinner was an excellent meal of tender young lamb that was flavored with an herb Agricola called rosemary. There were vegetables in fish sauce as well as mincemeats and a clear, pale wine our host said came from someplace known as the Pfalz in Germany.

  Vinnie’s eyes fairly brimmed with joy as one course followed another, all served on the red Samian ware she so much admired. As a final touch, each person’s wine was served in a separate glass goblet. Surely nothing could have made her happier.

  The conversation ranged over a number of topics, none of which had to do with specific battles or relived glories. Agricola talked of crops, which had been good for two years in a row now, and of the chance of building up trade with the Continent again, particularly if the ports along the Saxon Shore could be used.

  “I wouldn’t mind entering into treaties with the Federates,” Arthur said. “I’m willing to consider trusting them that far—if there were only some way to put a halt to the invasions!”

  Agricola nodded in agreement. “A great deal will depend on what happens in Gaul,” he suggested as another round of wine was poured. “I hear that the Franks are driving the Visigoths out of the coast areas, and forcing many of them across the mountains into Spain. It’s these Franks, under the king named Clovis, who keep harassing Ban and his brother in Brittany, and I hate to think what will happen if they overrun the Saxon territory to the north; it would mean a whole new flood of Saxons wanting to come here to live!”

  “I have no recent news of Ban’s situation,” Arthur said soberly as he watched the wine splash into the bowl of his goblet. “If he can hold the Franks at bay until we have Britain better organized, I’d be happy to send whatever men I can spare to defend his eastern front. He was, after all, instrumental in helping me during the Great Battle.”

  “Well,” sighed Agricola, making a strange sign I had never seen before, “with a little luck and a lot of work, perhaps the Gods will smile on both Greater and Lesser Britain.”

  We all drank to that as a servant arrived bearing a grand silver platter. It was worked with ornate designs of all sorts, and in the center was a mound of preserved fruit. Each person received a pair of the golden orange globes swimming in a thick, clear syrup, and I eyed them with the same mixture of curiosity and apprehension the lilies had provoked.

  “What is it?” I asked when the strange flavor burst in my mouth.

  “The fruit are peaches and the spice is a kind of root called ginger,” Agricola answered. “They were my wife’s favorite, and I grew quite fond of them. But ginger is becoming very hard to get, what with trade turning so chancy.

  “That’s something to consider, now that the Visigoths have fled into Spain,” our host went on, turning back to Arthur. “Spain used to supply the Mediterranean with tin, but with the barbarian disruption, we might be able to reestablish ourselves in the market. Cornwall once did a thriving trade in that, you know, and bronze workers are always looking for a good source of tin.”

  Arthur nodded thoughtfully, and Agricola went on to discuss the possibilities of trade with Constantinople. I found the man’s range of knowledge to be amazing, and when there was a lull in the conversation I asked how he had learned about so many different things.

  “My father knew the value of a good education,” he replied with a smile, “so I was sent to places which are, perhaps, not so readily accessible nowadays. I’ve seen the Pillars of Hercules, and the harbor at Alexandria, and the temple of Apollo at Delphi.”

  I was delighted to be talking with a man who had actually seen the things Cathbad used to tell of, and promptly asked, “What’s the most exciting place in the world?”

  “Britain,” came the instant reply, and he smiled fondly. “Gray and cloudy, full of mists and green forests, riotous spring days and golden rich autumns. She may be a bit bedraggled at the moment, but everyone struggles with the barbarians now; even Rome isn’t what she once was. But don’t forget, cities are only man-made, while the wonders of the Gods are gifts that survive every generation. There’s nothing else to compare with the mystery of Cheddar Gorge, or the white cliffs along the Saxon Shore, or the peaceful majesty of a moonrise reflected on the waters around Glastonbury.” And once more our host made the strange hand sign.

  “Is that the sign of a British god?” I asked, not stopping to think that my question might be rude.

  The villa owner nodded and explained that he was a follower of Hercules, whose cult was very, very old.

  “Merlin occasionally told me about the Hero God,” Arthur said.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Agricola said with a chuckle. “The Magician and I first got acquainted at a May Day rite on the hill above the Giant, back when I was a young man. Merlin was a simple druid then, helping attach the ribbons and set up the tree trunk before the dancing began. My wife and I had spent the night there, for in those days we had hopes of having children.”

  “Under a Maypole?” I asked, thinking it an awfully public spot for such an endeavor.

  “No, M’lady, we slept on the Giant himself,” Agricola explained. “The outline of the Hero, with his club raised and his member erect, has been cut out of the turf on the side of a hill in the chalk downs. It stands out clear and white against the grasses and can be seen for miles around. They say it was a gift of the Gods, to celebrate Hercules as well as the local gods of fertility. Have you no similar custom in Rheged?”

  “We don’t even have chalk to cut pictures in,” I answered, trying to imagine such a thing. “Ours are the gods of misted vales and shimme
ring water, and occasionally the Great Crown of the North.”

  “Ah, Britain,” Agricola said with a loving sigh as he raised his goblet in a toast. “You see, every corner has its own enchantments; even its own gods. I keep telling Arthur this is the most mystical of lands, and I can’t imagine why anyone would wish to live elsewhere.”

  With that we lifted our goblets in a salute, feeling doubly blessed to have such a splendid homeland.

  After dinner Arthur and I took a quiet stroll through the grounds, admiring the dark cave of shadow the fig trees cast against the star-strewn sky. It was the first time we had been alone for some days, and I reveled in the luxury of it.

  “Are the rest of the nobles at court like him?” I asked hopefully.

  “A few, but only a few. I wanted him to stay with me as a councillor, but when his wife died he decided to come live in a place less haunted by memories. He’s a fine administrator as well as a scholar.”

  “And he has no interest in remarrying? It seems a pity a man of so many sensibilities should live alone,” I commented. The soft splash of the fountain played quietly behind us.

  Arthur chuckled. “According to Bedivere there was more than one lady who would have been glad to catch his attention. But as you may have guessed, he loved his wife dearly. Perhaps if one has known that sort of union, it is not easy to put one’s grief aside.”

  I stole a quick look at him, wondering if he too had lost an earlier love, but found he was busy scanning the sky.

  “There—there it is,” he said suddenly, pointing to a constellation of stars. “Uther’s courtiers assume I was named for the Roman family of Artorius, but when I was a child Merlin used to show me the constellation which the Celts call Artoris the Bear, and tell me that’s where my name came from. In fact, he often called me Bear in those days.”

  I was scanning the skies myself, thinking I had not seen such beauty since the night with Kevin. A bird began to sing, sweet and clear, from the nearby trees and we were surrounded by a shower of song.