Child of the Northern Spring (Guinevere Trilogy)

by Persia Woolley

  The dogs made their way over to us and threw themselves down, one on each side. Cabal moved into the shelter of Arthur’s arm and curled up comfortably there, while Caesar sat at attention on the other side of me, guarding us much as Ailbe might have. Not even the presence of a large and noisy bumblebee could lure him away, for he only snapped at it once and shook his head quizzically. Altogether it was a peaceful summer idyll, and I thought lazily of days and years to come spent in this kind of gentle luxury, as though it could go on forever.

  When we rejoined the group at the drill field Arthur handed me the leashes, said something about having dinner together, then vanished in the direction of the encampment of the Companions. Most of the riders had left the field, heading down to their camps with the news about stirrups, and the freemen were wending their way back to town along the path across the meadow. I glanced at the stragglers by the edge of the trees and found the buxom cheese girl flirting outrageously with Griflet as she packed up her wares.

  “If you’ll keep hold of the dogs, M’lady, I can help carry Frieda’s things,” he announced hopefully as I joined them.

  The blond girl glanced at me archly, obviously piqued at my intrusion, but as Griflet’s words sank in her look changed to one of open curiosity.

  “You one of the nobles come for the wedding?” she asked.

  “She’s the bride,” Griflet said quickly, caught between being scandalized at her ignorance and wanting to impress her with the importance of his connections.

  The girl flushed and bobbed a half-curtsy, and I grinned and reached out to take a small hamper from the load of things she was trying to manage.

  “That’s all right, Frieda, you couldn’t be expected to know. You have a lovely name…are you Saxon?” I asked, equally curious about her.

  “Ja,” she acknowledged, hefting the remains of the cheese onto her hip as Griflet picked up her folding table. “There’s many around these parts that are,” she observed.

  “And Saxon women are known for their beauty,” I went on, remembering the story of Vortigern’s marriage to the daughter of the mercenary leader he had invited into Britain. “Even the old tyrant was captivated, and made Rowena his queen.”

  “I’m not highborn,” the girl put in hastily. “We’re a good strong family among the Federates, and been loyal to the High King all these generations,” she added proudly.

  We made our way single file past a stand of nettles, and when the path broadened out again Frieda was watching me intently. “Without meaning to be rude, Ma’am…what is the High King like?” she asked suddenly.

  Her bluntness caught me off guard, and for a moment I was tempted to answer her with the same open frankness, admitting that I knew as little of him as she did, at least where the inner things were concerned. Instead, I shrugged and gave her a general answer which was as honest as the other would have been.

  “He’s loyal and fair and always, always thinks of his people first.”

  “Doesn’t that make it dull for you?” she asked, much to Griflet’s horror.

  Not if you’ve been raised to be a queen, I thought, remembering Igraine’s words.

  We had come to a stop at the foot of my street and I looked at my fair-haired inquisitor and smiled. She stood sturdy in the noonday sun, determined to assess for herself just what the young King and Queen were all about, and I admired her forthrightness.

  “Dull?” I repeated. “Not really, because he’s always so excited about ways to improve things and plans to make life better for everyone. And,” I added, seeing her look of skepticism deepening, “he does know how to have fun.”

  That was something the girl could understand, and she chuckled roundly. We all laughed together, and when we parted I took the dogs with me, since Griflet still had his hands full of Frieda’s table and hamper.

  Frieda made a full curtsy and wished me the best of luck for the wedding, and I thanked her and thought how different she was from what I had expected Saxons to be.

  The more I grew to know Arthur and his countrymen, the more interesting they seemed, and I ran up the stairs to the house with the happy conviction that being High Queen of Britain was going to be much more enjoyable than I had imagined.

  Chapter XXXVIII

  King Mark

  The bright web of the afternoon’s mood started to fray and tangle before evening as intimations of darker, more sinister shadows gradually intruded on my idyll.

  When we stopped to escort Igraine to the Hall for dinner the Queen Mother declined to join us. Her voice was thin and weary, and her color pale, though she assured me she was only tired. She asked me to take her young companion into my party, however.

  “Ettard deserves something more than spending her time with an ailing old lady,” Igraine said as the girl stepped forward. “It can’t be much fun to come to the Royal Wedding and never have a chance to participate in the festivities.”

  Ettard smiled shyly, her eyes shining with excitement at the prospect, and she attached herself to Vinnie like a lambkin reunited with its mother after shearing.

  When we arrived at the Hall, Arthur was standing on the steps carefully writing something on a tablet.

  “There,” he announced, laying the stylus in its groove and closing the wooden cover over it. A half-dozen children lingered near the steps, hopeful of running errands for the King, and he handed it to one with the admonition, ‘Take it to the smith at the forge down by the gate.”

  Arthur looked up as the child trotted off, and seeing our contingent, smiled a welcome.

  “Do the smiths of Logres read?” I asked, thinking it odd that a man skilled in one of the most important arts should have bothered to learn the work of scribes.

  “This one does,” Arthur confirmed. “He plans to take Orders in the Church, and so has learned Latin. It’s a handy skill to have,” he added, and I saw Vinnie nodding her head approvingly.

  The high spirits of the afternoon were still much in evidence, and he bowed to Vinnie and inquired how the “honored lady from York” was feeling. My chaperone dimpled and made a formal curtsy as she allowed that everything was splendid, particularly now that we’d reached our destination.

  Ettard stood to one side, all eyes and open mouth as she was introduced. Arthur gave her a gentle smile and said something about a garden of damsels blossoming at his court, and I asked if Bedivere had been giving him lessons in diplomacy. The girl watched our banter avidly, for it must have been very different from the convent life she was used to.

  “Looks like we’ll be eating with the Companions,” Arthur announced as Cei and Bedivere and several others joined us on the steps. “The cooks have their hands full with plans for the Feast of Nobles two nights hence. Besides,” he added, coming down the steps and leading our group across the Square at a rapid clip, “we’ll be trapped in that stuffy hall soon enough, so we might as well enjoy the fresh air while we can.”

  Bedivere contrived to walk with Brigit while Cei and an older man I had not yet met fell into step beside us.

  “This is Sir Ector, my foster father,” Arthur said casually, never slackening his pace. There was no way for me to curtsy or the stranger to bow, so we grinned at each other instead.

  Sir Ector was a man well past his middle years, his taffy-colored hair all but gone except for a fringe around the bottom of his pate. Smile wrinkles creased his face and I could imagine him as a kindly and loving father.

  He beamed at me with the good-natured smile of a man who is pleased at his son’s prospects.

  “You have no idea how much pressure Arthur had to withstand in order to find a bride of his own choosing,” he said. “His mother and I used to worry that he’d be saddled…”

  Flustered, he left the sentence unfinished, then shrugged. “Well, no matter. It’s turned out well, and Drusilla would have been pleased he chose a girl of the Cumbri.”

  I thanked him, and commented on how proud he must be of all three of his boys, at which he smiled and nodded in a
greement.

  “It’s nice to have the family together on such a splendid occasion,” he said softly. “I do not know King Leodegrance except by reputation, but I gather he is not here for the festivities?”

  I explained how hard it was for my father to travel and he nodded sympathetically.

  “Well, my dear, I guess that will mean you’ll return to Rheged to present him the first grandchild, doesn’t it? You must plan to stop at our court on the way.” He gave me the same broad smile I had seen on Arthur’s own face. “Yes, I would say well worth the wait,” he affirmed.

  Dinner was a noisy, boisterous affair around the cooking fire, full of the rowdy good spirits of warriors set to celebrate their leader’s forthcoming marriage. When I caught sight of Agricola standing apart from the rest, I called him over.

  The villa owner had brought no retinue of his own, so the Companions had temporarily adopted him and I wondered how such an elegant gentleman coped with the raucous nights that were typical of the young warriors.

  “Arthur gave me a room in the Hall, next to Sir Ector’s quarters,” Agricola responded when I asked him. “It has made my stay very pleasant indeed. And how has the rest of your trip been, M’lady?”

  “Wonderful!” I grinned.

  “I’m glad,” he said, reaching out and putting his hand on my arm. “If there is any way I can be of help to you here in the south, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

  I looked into his face, seeing the same reliability I had found in Pellinore.

  “Oh,” I said suddenly, remembering my promise to Vinnie, “there is one thing. I told my chaperone I would find a ring for her to replace one she lost…a Roman ring with a signet. She was most distressed, and I said we’d find another like it, if possible. Do you know where I could locate such a thing?”

  Agricola pursed his lips and pondered the matter for a moment. “There was a family of jewelers in Winchester my wife used to trade with…” His handsome face broke into a smile. “I’ll ask around and see if I can locate something, M’lady,” he promised.

  Arthur was coming toward us, bringing with him a horsefaced, portly creature bedecked with furs and jewelry of the most garish kind. He was flanked by a pair of warriors who looked familiar, but it took a minute to remember my first encounter with royal suitors. Dinadan was still the same, wiry and wry of humor, but the champion with the Pictish name had filled out considerably and was no longer the gangling bumpkin of that earlier visit. I smiled at Tristan and thought how much we had all changed in the last two years.

  “May I present His Highness, King Mark of Cornwall,” Arthur said smoothly as the rotund ruler bellied to a stop in front of me and went ponderously down on one knee.

  I struggled to hide my revulsion, realizing that this was a man whom I might have had to marry. It appeared that he had no sense of moderation where any of his appetites were concerned, and I wondered if he was indeed as vulnerable to his lust as Igraine’s sly remarks had implied.

  His escort had to help him to his feet and Mark smiled broadly, his stubby teeth dark and rotten-looking.

  “You’re very fortunate, Sir,” he said to Arthur, one pudgy finger slowly stroking his lower lip as he appraised me. “I can’t imagine how my emissaries overlooked this jewel.”

  “I’m afraid my Pagan ways made me unsuitable for your court,” I said hastily, hoping the truth would dampen his appreciation.

  “Yes, well…perhaps we could have changed that,” Mark suggested, and I forbore to say anything further. There was no point in riling this ally, and I had no desire to get his giant of a warrior into trouble either.

  Dinadan caught the byplay and after Tristan had knelt and paid his respects, the more worldly courtier went hastily to one knee. “Well done, M’lady,” he whispered with a sardonic smile.

  There was a sudden, violent commotion beyond the fireglow, and fingers closed on sword pommels while daggers flicked to hand. A rider came thundering into camp, bearing down on the Companions with no regard for life or limb as men jumped out of the way. The horseman brought his stallion to a wild, snorting halt just short of the fire.

  The flame leapt upward in the draft and when it steadied I saw the rider was Pellinore. He carried a bundle before him on the saddle, and the smile on his face was sublime.

  “I found her,” he cried, oblivious to the tumult he was causing. “Behold, the object of my quest, the Goddess incarnate!”

  The bundle stirred and resolved itself into a long, full cape, and when the hood fell back a girl’s face appeared, wide-eyed and grave, staring at the gathered Companions.

  “Nimue!” I jumped to my feet, amazed and delighted to see the doire of Avebury’s Sanctuary here in Sarum.

  At the sound of her name the priestess slipped from the horse’s withers and came toward me, walking as if in a trance and totally unaware of the warriors who surrounded her. The men parted as she glided soundlessly past them, a beautiful and unearthly apparition.

  “M’lady,” she said demurely, dropping to her knees in front of me, “it appears I will be with you for the wedding after all.”

  “I’m so glad,” I answered, bending down to be sure she was unhurt. The gaiety and laughter with which I started to greet her were deflected by her distant and untouchable air.

  “I believe,” she whispered as soon as I was close enough to hear, “that there is treachery afoot, and King Arthur should be warned.”

  “Of course,” I mumbled, peering into her upturned face. She stared back with the blank look of one who is in another’s power. Shock and surprise left me wordless, and a shiver ran across my grave. Whatever forces were shaping the future were living themselves out in Nimue.

  I looked around for Arthur, only to find him on the far side of the circle. He had one hand resting on Gawain’s shoulder, and from the look of it he was reminding the son of Lot that there was to be no reprisal against Pellinore during the wedding time.

  So I sat back down, wondering how soon I could get my bridegroom’s attention.

  Pellinore had swaggered into the center of the circle, laughing and boasting like any drunken warrior. He launched into some long, confused tale about a hunting dog and a white hart, and how he’d fought two other fellows for possession of this special girl.

  “I had to deal with one of ’em right heavily,” he roared, unslinging the drinking horn from his belt and holding it out for someone to fill. “But the other was her cousin, and seeing his companion felled by a single blow, he offered me not only the girl, but his horse as well.”

  The warrior roared with laughter and gestured proudly toward the bay stallion. Draining his horn, he came round to his story again.

  “Wonderful girl, just wonderful. Knew she was special right from the beginning, and wouldn’t let anything distract me once I was on her trail. Met some poor creature beside a well wailing for help with her dying mate, but didn’t have time to find out what all that dolor was about.” His mood suddenly shifted and the craggy face turned mournful. “Pity, too…when we rode back that way both of ’em were dead and all the animals had left was their heads.”

  “Oh, Pellinore,” I cried, the picture of the lovers by the fountain dancing hideously in front of me, “how could you have gone off and not even tried to help?”

  “I do not know, M’lady,” he bellowed contritely. “It must have been the fever of my quest.”

  “Pellinore!”

  Merlin’s voice came out of the dark, crisp and clear against the fuzziness of the other’s ramblings. There was no way to see him in the shadows, but his presence was so powerful it was as though a god were speaking. I felt a small pressure on my knee, and glancing down, discovered Nimue still knelt at my feet and had now raised her hand in an effort to slide it into mine. I took hold of her fingers and she clung to me tightly.

  “Have you any idea who this lady by the fountain was?” the Magician asked.

  “No, but she cursed me when I wouldn’t stop. She was fair, with pale hair and
violet eyes, and she knew my name and cursed me because I didn’t help her…Now I cannot close my eyes without seeing that face, for she reminded me of someone…”

  “I should think so,” the Wizard said, emerging from the darkness and walking toward Pellinore like a deed that cannot be disowned. “She was your own daughter by the Lady of the Rule, and both she and her lord were on their way here for the wedding when they were ambushed by bandits. You could not have done much for him, but she would not have died if you hadn’t deserted her.”

  The huge warrior rocked back on his heels, stunned. There was a long, shuddering silence, and then a deep moan began to rumble in Pellinore’s throat.

  “What was her curse?” the Sorcerer demanded.

  “She vowed I too would be abandoned by an ally in time of need, and die myself betrayed by the one I should have been able to count on. Why”—the bewildered man groaned—“why didn’t the Gods tell me who she was?”

  “That would not have mattered, Pellinore,” Merlin countered, standing squarely in front of the trembling warrior. “The Gods both bless and curse, and we do well to learn a few feeble lessons in between. By your own actions you have sealed your fate, and what is done cannot now be undone. But from now on, you need to think less often of that quest which you take such pride in and pay more attention to those who have need of other kinds of service from you.”

  Merlin put his hands on Pellinore’s shoulders, and the warrior went down on his knees, tears of contrition and remorse flowing down his face. Like a child, he had acted without thought; now he sought forgiveness with the same simplicity.

  The Wise One made the prayer of forgiveness while the rest of us looked on in awed silence. When Merlin finished Cei stepped forward and, helping Pellinore to his feet, led the sobbing man away.

  Suddenly everyone began talking, stretching, and laughing and speaking too loudly in an attempt to shake off the weight of what had just happened. I made a dash for Arthur and whispered that Nimue brought warnings of treachery. Someone had just finished proposing a toast to the bridegroom, and the crowd now was chanting his name, impatiently waiting for his bride to get out of the way. We hastily agreed I should take the priestess back to the Hall and wait for him there; it would not be possible for him to join us immediately, but I should keep this messenger of the Fates safe until he arrived.