Child of the Northern Spring (Guinevere Trilogy)

by Persia Woolley

  “What’s a wedding without a feast?” Arthur grinned. “We’ve just moved everything up a couple of days. This way everyone will have eaten by the time we’re ready to leave tonight, and we’ll take whatever’s extra with us on the road. We can make better time if we don’t have to forage and cook, and there’ll be no need for fires that give away our position. Traveling by night, we could get as far as the Severn before they realize we’re on the move. Thank goodness the moon will be new.”

  He was happy as a child with a whirligig on a breezy day, and the youngsters who ran to surround us where we came to a halt in front of the church were laughing and smiling as well.

  Swinging lightly down from the saddle, he handed the reins to one of the bolder lads who stepped forward. The boy proudly accepted the honor, shushing his colleagues and talking softly to the stallion, who continued to prance and tremble with excitement.

  Arthur stood at the foot of the church steps, looking up at me with a confidence and gaiety that were irresistible. I grinned back at him, amazed that all trace of the tension and stress from the night before had vanished. It was unclear whether his rejuvenation came from getting some rest or because he was finally able to take action, but I suspected it was the latter.

  “Did you get any sleep last night?” I asked as he raised his arms to me.

  “Sleep?” he queried. “That comes later, once we are man and wife.” He put me on my feet and gave me a quick hug.

  The curate came to the doorway of the small wooden church and scowled at us for causing such a commotion. He would have shooed us away if he hadn’t been in such a hurry to get back to the altar, where the Archbishop waited to begin the Mass.

  “Sir…uh, Father,” Arthur called out, taking the steps two at a time and pulling me along behind him. “We need to see the Archbishop immediately.”

  “What about?” asked the priest, obviously unaware who we were.

  “A marriage. Our marriage. It’s urgent.”

  “I suppose you’ve been celebrating the Goddess under the hedgerows and only just now realized the consequences,” the holy man said testily, looking suspiciously at my cape, which certainly could have covered a multitude of sins.

  It was all I could do to keep a straight face, and Arthur was grinning from ear to ear.

  “Not at all, Father. Just tell the Archbishop that the King wishes to see him…now!” he added, holding out his hand with the Dragon Ring on it. After staring in open-mouthed amazement, the priest bowed hastily and went skittering off into the church.

  Arthur was waving to a familiar figure who loped across the paving stones toward us.

  “It’s good to see you here, M’lady,” Bedivere commented, giving us a sweeping bow as he came to a stop at the base of the stairs. “I gather the Priestess wouldn’t listen to reason?”

  He and Arthur exchanged quick news about what had happened with Morgan and the progress of the spits; then Arthur laughed cheerfully.

  “You’d best send a page round to the Queen Mother, and to Gwen’s house, to tell them if they want to attend the wedding they’d better come quick. And be sure to tell Merlin too, and Nimue. I think you’ll find them together.”

  Bedivere cocked an eyebrow and I wondered if he was aware of what was happening to our Magician.

  “Oh,” I added as he turned away, “tell Vinnie to bring the veil, and a comb as well.”

  “And the smith,” Arthur added. “Be sure he knows he’s welcome too. Poor man, he’s been at his forge a day and a night; seems the least we can do is invite him in for the ceremony.”

  Bedivere was already running down the steps, and he waved an acknowledgment, then whistled to the flock of children, who rushed to follow him toward the Hall.

  In the middle of the Square, a woman with a tray full of breads paused when she saw the horse, then cautiously made her way around him to come and stare up at us. She looked vaguely familiar and I tried to remember where I’d seen her before.

  “Lor, if it isn’t the King!” she exclaimed, recognizing Arthur and dropping a quick curtsy.

  The motion upset her tray of goods, sending buns and biscuits tumbling helter-skelter to the ground. It was a moment before the disaster came to her attention, for she stared at Arthur just as Cabal had when they first met, absorbing his presence as though it were life itself.

  At last she glanced down at the scatter of her loaves and with a rueful grin began picking them up. It was then I recognized her as the woman hawking bread at the stirrup demonstration. Her frazzled air and general good nature had struck me on that day as well, for she gave the impression that no matter how many disasters might trip her up, she would rise above them with a kind of unflappable humor at the ludicrousness of life.

  I hurried down the steps to help her, joining in the scramble to retrieve the errant rolls. She accepted my help without a second thought, though at one point she sat back on her haunches and tried to poke a flyaway strand of hair back into the knot on the top of her head.

  “Ain’t he grand?” she marveled, staring up at my bridegroom.

  I was no sooner on my hands and knees than the Archbishop arrived at Arthur’s side, huffing and puffing in amazement as he looked first at his king then and down at me. Arthur made the introductions and I bobbed my head in respect, deciding that true dignity lay in continuing to help my subject without question.

  The bread lady stopped to gawk at me while Arthur conferred with the holy man, and by the time the Archbishop nodded in agreement, the bread had all been retrieved.

  Arthur turned to our subject with a wonderful smile. “Go tell your family, and neighbors, and anyone else you meet, they’re all invited to the Royal Wedding,” he said, carefully not looking at me as I stood up and dusted off my hands. “The whole town is invited if they can get here in time.”

  The woman stood there staring back and forth between the two of us, her face reflecting amazement, disbelief, and sheer delight as she grasped the situation. With a joyful shout she threw her tray in the air and went running back the way she’d come. I watched the loaves go bounding across the pavement a second time, then looked up at Arthur, who grinned and shrugged and reached out for my hand.

  And so it was that we were married before a stunned and sleepy congregation that damp April morning, by an Archbishop who decried the loss of the glorious event he had so carefully planned, but wasn’t about to make the same mistake as the Lady of the Lake had.

  Vinnie and Brigit arrived just before the service began, and since the veil hadn’t been unpacked yet, Brigit took a wreath of dried flowers from the altar and put it atop my head.

  Acolytes brought out extra candles, making the little chapel glow with light and warmth as townspeople came streaming through the door. A skimpy choir got off to a shaky start, but as more members arrived the voices blended in harmony and the sound became rich and elegant.

  When the Archbishop asked who brought this woman to be married, Merlin stepped forward and gave me away. Between Pellinore and Cathbad and now the Sorcerer, I must have been one of the most often offered-up ladies in the country, though never by my own father.

  Standing in a cloud of Christian incense, my eyes watering and nose twitching, I wished he might have been present. And while I wasn’t sure what he would think of all this, I could see Kaethi’s wry grin as clearly as if she had been with me instead of hundreds of miles away.

  Sometime during the ceremony I heard Vinnie sniffle, and at one point caught a glimpse of Nimue, her eyes huge and dark, and knew the Goddess was attending. Halfway through, Pellinore came striding in the side door, buckling his belt and all but tripping over Griflet and the dogs, who were standing in the shadow.

  There was a moment of confusion when the Archbishop asked for a ring. The holy man turned to Bedivere, who looked startled and then crestfallen and finally shook his head. Arthur let go of my hand and carefully pulled the Dragon Ring off his own finger and gave it to the priest. Someone, perhaps Igraine, gasped, but t
he ring was blessed, and then Arthur slid it onto my thumb and carefully closed his fingers over my hand.

  I looked up at him, appalled, seeing a light of triumph and satisfaction and perhaps love shining in his face. The Archbishop pronounced us man and wife, Arthur’s arms were close around me, and we were drowning in a kiss mixed with laughter and joy.

  Public event or not, hasty and confused and full of chaotic excitement, we’d made our vows before the people of the land and were now officially and forever wedded, Arthur and Guinevere, High King and Queen of Britain.

  As we turned to the congregation, the chapel dissolved in a prism of music and candles and the faces of our subjects. I saw the Saxon girl standing next to Griflet, her smile solemn and respectful; an enormous mountain of a man with the arms and shoulders of a blacksmith looked me up and down, then gave Arthur a knowing wink; the bread lady and her brood stood to one side, basking in the chance to take part in history, while the pursed-lipped cobbler gave us a big, toothy grin and didn’t once glance at our feet.

  People barely met, casually passed, or quickly spoken to mingled with the dear ones already loved: Vinnie, dabbing at her eyes; Bedivere, staying quietly in the background as usual; Igraine, with her elegant bearing and sweet smile—and of course Brigit, making the sign of the cross and then smiling that knowing-laughing-encouraging smile which had seen me through so many scrapes. My eyes brimmed with tears, and I wanted to embrace all of them, even Merlin.

  We made our way up the aisle with friends and strangers all falling in behind and the dogs barking excitedly as Griflet ran along to catch up with us.

  Hordes of people were streaming into the Square, all running toward the church as we emerged, and for a moment there was pandemonium everywhere.

  “Are we too late?” someone cried, and the answer flew back, “Naw, they’ve just come out the door, can’t you see?”

  Those who were outside came rushing to the steps while those who were inside were trying to get out, and we were in the middle of it, an island of calm in a ripping sea of enthusiastic subjects.

  “We can’t go back to the Hall,” Arthur whispered, surveying the crowd. “It’s a military headquarters now, and there’s no place for privacy.”

  “My house?” I offered, looking over the swelling mob and wondering how we would ever get there.

  There was an eddy of movement by our feet and Gawain pushed his way to the front of the throng, his ruddy face covered with sweat and a tattered bouquet of wildflowers clutched in one hand.

  “I couldn’t make the vow-taking, but wanted you to have these,” he said breathlessly, offering up the posies as if they were a royal treasure. Some had been plucked up roots and all, but at that moment they were the sweetest gift I had ever seen, and I took them solemnly and buried my face in them.

  The crowd began to cheer, and Arthur put one arm around my shoulder, waving exuberantly to our subjects with the other. Then, without any warning, he picked me up bodily and started down the steps.

  The startled populace parted to let us through, “oohing” and “ahhing” all the way to my house until we were safely inside, with the door kicked shut and the crowd outside singing and laughing.

  He put me down, and we looked at each other in silence.

  “Well,” he said awkwardly, turning to check the already closed door. “I guess it was a bit unorthodox.”

  “A bit,” I agreed as the shyness rose between us.

  “And in years to come they’ll undoubtedly claim it was much more grand and formal. You know how the bards like to exaggerate.”

  I nodded and looked down at the field flowers still clutched in my hand. Someday they would no doubt say I had been draped with jewels, and kings of great renown had attended us in a fine cathedral setting. But I knew better…I knew the truth of the matter and found it much more exciting.

  I glanced back up at Arthur, wishing he would say something loving and tender, but he was looking at me with that fixed, level stare and I turned away, embarrassed.

  “Do you want some tea?” I asked preposterously.

  He laughed then, and I caught the sidewise sweep of his glance, merry and mischievous and no longer constrained.

  “You sound like the Queen Mother,” he teased, grabbing me by the hand and heading for the loft. “We can have tea later, if there’s time.”

  We made a great heap of pillows, then flung the fur robes over them, and he pulled me down in a laughing, romping roughhouse. I barely had time to slip the dress over my head before he was ready—thick and hard and insistent, his own knowledge and need making up for whatever experience I lacked. With one fluid movement he rolled me over on my back, his thighs pressing eagerly between mine, his manhood questing and then finding its goal.

  Confused and surprised, I tried to follow the rhythm of our union, waiting for the waves of desire I had felt for him during the last few weeks to well up within me again. But there was no time, no chance to build in longing, no opportunity to share and trust the closeness of our bodies. Arthur reached the peak of his passion with a deep, sustained groan and slowly lowered his forehead to my shoulder.

  Baffled, I lay quiet beneath him, holding this stranger in my body and wondering at the absence of the kisses and caresses I had so looked forward to. He, at least, seemed satisfied, and I ran my hand gently up and down his back as his breathing returned to normal.

  At last he raised his head, and I searched his face for even a touch of the tenderness I’d seen when he was talking to the dogs.

  “I’ve looked forward to this since the moment I realized you were about to beat me in that horse race,” he said slowly, reaching out to brush a flower petal out of my hair. “You’re a remarkable woman, Gwen, and I want you to know how glad I am you’re my wife and not someone else’s. Besides, you’re the best queen material I’ve seen in years,” he added fliply, “and I think I’d better take back the Dragon Ring before you decide you can do the job all on your own.”

  His jesting made it easier to accept the lack of endearments and tenderness. I smiled solemnly and unclenching the fist which had been guarding the symbol of Britain, took his hand in my own and carefully returned the Ring of State to its rightful position.

  We parted then, stretching out next to each other in a quiet, languorous way, and as he drifted off to sleep he mumbled, “Bedivere will be coming round at midday…”

  I lay beside him for a long time, wondering if all weddings ended this way, and if we would always have this sort of bantering, good-natured play rather than the touching of two spirits. Perhaps this is really all there is to it, I thought; but the memory of Nimue’s eyes when she had looked on Merlin told me there could be much, much more.

  Arthur settled into a heavy slumber and after a while I rose quietly and tiptoed down to the main room. There was singing in the street where a small group of revelers had positioned themselves outside our door, offering a concert for their king and queen’s repose. They began a Cumbrian lullaby, and my eyes grew misty as I turned away from the window, touched by such devotion.

  The coals in the grate were still warm, so I brought the fire back to life and curled up in a chair in front of it, bone-weary but too keyed up to sleep.

  Images of the past whirled through my head, shifting from one to another as in a kaleidoscope: Igraine staring silently at the lilies and the abbess of Amesbury handing them up to me; Nimue blessing the ivy wreath before turning to place it on my head; Gawain, so proudly offering his gift of wildflowers; Arthur’s expression as he stroked the petals from my hair.

  Yet for all the blossoming of spring and hope, dark shadows crept silently round this day’s horizon: war was surging across the Irish Sea, bringing death and dismemberment and terrible, throat-swelling grief. The knowledge of it lurked beyond the fire’s glow and cast a bittersweet edge to the moment’s joy.

  Climbing silently back to the loft, I stood looking down at Arthur, trying to reassure myself it was all happening, it was all real. Lying
there with one arm thrown carelessly across the pillows, he looked more like a child than a king, wandering in a land far more innocent than the one he would wake up to. Surely no one who knew him could help loving him.

  I stayed there a long time, watching over his sleep and trying to memorize his face. I wanted to have a picture to recall across the years if need be, so that if he didn’t return from this coming battle I would be able to describe him to his child.

  When I could close my eyes and still recall his face, I began to note little things like the cowlick by his temple or the scar on his shoulder. I could imagine Drusilla trying to make the wayward hair lie flat when he was a boy, and wondered what misadventure had caused the scar…perhaps a fall from a horse, or a tumble out of a tree?

  Fear clawed its way into my throat and I moaned silently. How many things we had yet to learn about each other, and how little time…how precious little time!

  Chapter XXXXII

  The Parting

  When Bedivere came to the door at noon I let him in and caught his look of surprise that I was up and dressed while Arthur occupied the bed alone.

  “I thought he should get as much sleep as possible, if he’s leading an army out tonight,” I whispered.

  Bedivere nodded, and I climbed slowly up to the loft.

  Arthur looked so peaceful I paused, unwilling to let the world intrude on this precious scrap of privacy. Another hour or two…until he has rested and we have a chance to talk and snuggle and explore being together…is that so much to ask before the needs of the kingdom tear us apart?

  But even as I resisted waking him, he opened his eyes.

  “Bedivere’s here, isn’t he?” he asked, stretching and reaching for me at the same time.

  I nodded and sank down on the bed, too close to tears to speak.

  He sat up and gave me a half-hug. “Here, now”—he gestured toward the warm nest he was vacating—“why don’t you go back to bed for a nap? You’ll feel better for the sleep, and I’ll wake you before we leave.”