Child of the Northern Spring (Guinevere Trilogy)

by Persia Woolley

  I assumed that as long as I didn’t bring up my intrusion into Morgan’s bedroom it would be ignored. As a Celtic queen she had a right to bed with anyone she chose, provided that she not desert her people. I saw no reason to mention the subject to her or anyone else, and so was surprised when Cathbad came to my room that night with a curt message from the Lady summoning me to her quarters.

  I was tempted to send him back with a reminder that even High Priestesses can’t command royalty. But for Arthur’s sake I held my tongue and went off to see what she wanted.

  Morgan was sitting in one of the high-backed chairs, her hands clenched on its arms. She dismissed her attendants and turned to glare at me.

  “I allow no one the right of judgment over me, except for the Goddess,” Morgan announced, not even waiting for me to sit down.

  “I have neither need nor desire to judge you,” I answered, nettled that she should speak so harshly without cause. She obviously had as little understanding of me as I had of her.

  “Oh, come now!” The scorn flicked along the edge of her words. “Don’t expect me to believe you aren’t going to tell Arthur, and possibly my husband, about what you no doubt think you saw. And certainly it’s too tasty a bit of gossip not to be delivered to the teatime circle.” She rose and began pacing around the room, full of the same indignation I had seen on the first day of her arrival. “Between the men thinking treason and the women tut-tutting in moral righteousness, it will be impossible for Accolon and me to stay on here.”

  “Nonsense,” I flared, vexed by her attitude but still determined to smooth matters over.

  “Oh, don’t try to deny it,” she interrupted. “I know your type…just like my mother, always doing the ‘proper’ thing and criticizing those of us who are more honest in our responses. What a dull, boring lot you are…goody-goodies looking for the best side of things, or Christians looking for sin and corruption! Between the bunch of you, you’ll dissect every word and action and make our lives miserable without even understanding whom you’re dealing with.”

  This time when she glared at me, I glared back.

  “That’s all your own imagination, Morgan, and if you’ll let the subject drop, I promise you I won’t tell anyone…I haven’t yet, nor will I in the future.”

  “I don’t believe it,” she stormed. “Not considering how cozy you are with that Christian Irish lass, or the upstart doire from Avebury! I’ll just thank you not to mention it to my mother; with her health as poor as it is, it might kill her.”

  Thunderstruck, I stared at Arthur’s sister. For the first time I saw dearly and fully how arrogant, insecure, and egocentric she was. Threatened by anything that might interfere with her ability to control the world, she reacted constantly to her own prejudices instead of the reality around her.

  Her assessment of me might be below contempt; I could shrug that off as her prerogative. But that she thought I would jeopardize Igraine’s life for a bit of bedroom tattle was another matter entirely.

  My anger overrode any desire to maintain a peaceful relationship, and rising with all the dignity at my command, I spoke slowly and firmly:

  “When you have gotten yourself under control, Morgan, I shall be willing to receive you; meanwhile, I don’t have time to deal with your histrionics.”

  I turned and walked out of the room, catching only a glimpse of the disbelief on her face.

  Surely, I told myself, a good night’s sleep would calm her down; when she remembered I too was a Celtic queen, she would see that there was no need to fear my undermining her with anyone at court.

  But once again Morgan surprised me, stealing away with Accolon in the middle of the night. When Bedivere told me early the next morning, I was shocked and appalled, for this was far more dangerous than simply bedding the young warrior. Ill-considered and foolhardy, it was a deliberate flouting of the King’s command during wartime. Morgan’s action was so close to treason it could set the entire court in turmoil.

  Fortunately, the Lady’s defection was totally eclipsed by the arrival of a messenger later that morning.

  The Irish campaign was over and Arthur was returning home.

  Chapter XXXXIV

  Glastonbury

  The world turned gray and flat and I felt the horizon contracting around me, leaving nothing but Bedivere’s voice.

  “A wound, Gwen…only a surface wound, not a broken skull or a lost arm.”

  The lieutenant was holding both my hands, and I concentrated on his face, desperately trying to see if he was hiding worse news.

  “I tell you, Arthur would not dissemble. And if it were a bad wound, the messenger would have said so. You can’t hide that sort of news from these people. A king who’s fainting while he’s dictating his message isn’t going to be reported as simply ‘inconvenienced’…and that’s what the report said.”

  It was tempting to believe his soothing tone and reassuring words. Color began to creep along the edges of things, and the smell of fresh-harvested hay came through the open window as the world took proper shape again.

  “The campaign is over for the year. The war has gone well, with only a last few remnants of the enemy remaining in Wales…and now your husband will be coming home aboard his own naval vessel.” Bedivere’s voice was bold and confident. “He’ll be coming into harbor at Giastonbury like a proper world traveler.”

  “And we’ll give him a hero’s welcome,” I cried, swinging from panic to euphoria. Pulling my hands out of his grasp, I clapped enthusiastically. “We’ll have pipers and drums, and a parade, and—”

  “I don’t think he really wants that,” Bedivere interjected quickly. “Arthur’s always said triumphs should be for the soldiers who did the fighting, and since most of them are coming home by land, he wouldn’t think it fitting to hold a celebration at Glastonbury. Besides, it’s just a sleepy little fishing community, even smaller than Sarum.”

  “Don’t play with me, Bedivere!” I rounded on him, my voice gone hard and firm as the truth dawned on me. “He’s too badly hurt to sit a horse, or he’d be leading the men home himself. How bad is it, Bedivere…how bad?”

  My friend glanced down at his hands, then nodded slowly.

  “Bad enough to lay him up for most of the winter, I suspect. They say it’s starting to heal already. He was always in command of the men…no need for heavy drugs. Thank goodness it happened at the end of the campaign.”

  “How long have you known?” I asked, trying to keep the fear under control with good solid information.

  “I heard just this morning, Gwen.”

  He looked at me with such candor, I had to believe in his truthfulness.

  “So when do we meet him?” I asked.

  “Well, they should be in Glastonbury by the end of the week. I’ll just slip over there with a couple of wagons and—”

  “And leave me behind? Oh, come, now, do you really think I’d be willing to stay here and wait for him to be delivered like a load of hay?”

  Bedivere grinned at that, and though he made a halfhearted attempt to persuade me to stay at Sarum, he finally agreed to let me come. I suggested we take the litter, because it was more private than the cumbersome wagons and the curtains could be closed if we didn’t want the people to see how “inconvenienced” their king was.

  Instinct told me not to be too obvious about this trip, so I went to the stables early the next morning to saddle Featherfoot, preferring not to take the showier Shadow.

  Nimue was already there, also wearing tunic and breeches, as if planning on traveling herself.

  “You need someone to attend you, M’lady,” she said calmly, “and Ynys Witrin used to be a center of worship in the Old Days. There’s a holy mountain there, with a Spiral Sanctuary at the top that is sacred to the Mother. I would like to perform certain rites in honor of Arthur’s safe return…and ask Her blessing on your own fertility,” she added gently.

  Whatever objection I was going to voice melted at her last comment, and I s
miled at her, grateful for her thoughtfulness and glad of the companionship.

  We made good time on the Road, and it was just coming on night when we reached the causeway that crosses the marsh separating Glastonbury and the Tor from the rest of the world. In the dusk a mist was rising, floating low over the silent waters. It came no higher than the horses’ bellies, and the animals waded through it as though gliding effortlessly toward some appointed future.

  In the distance a light took shape as a group of riders came toward us, torches held high against the encroaching night. Featherfoot’s ears flicked nervously toward them, and I wondered who would travel in so strange a fashion.

  The doire and I dropped back next to the men at the litter, turning away from the oncomers lest we be recognized. Bedivere had trotted out to challenge the approaching party when Nimue suddenly lifted her head, a glad smile brightening her features. Reining her mount sharply around, she rode quickly toward the newcomers, for Merlin had come out to meet us with an escort.

  The Enchanter led us to a small, rustic inn at the foot of the Tor. We shared a light supper, and I questioned Merlin about Arthur’s condition.

  “He will be home by the hearth for some months” came the answer. “But after a summer of campaigning, it will do him good to rest for a while…probably plan the tidying-up operations needed next year. Don’t worry,” he added, looking off into some other space, “his tide’s still coming in strong, and won’t be turning to ebb for many more years.”

  It was a simple statement, made without drama or fanfare, but Merlin was Britain’s Seer and Arthur’s personal Sage, so I accepted his reassurance gratefully.

  The next day dawned crisp and fresh, and I woke up filled with anticipation. Grabbing a chunk of cheese from the sideboard, I went outside to do some exploring.

  The inn was situated at the mouth of a small, steep valley that nestles between a soft hill on one side and the sharp conical rise of the holy mountain on the other. Apple trees heavy with fruit covered the lower flank of the Tor, and as I entered the orchard, Nimue’s laughter came lightly from a little house hidden within it. It seemed that Merlin had chosen a fitting spot for his nest.

  After picking a pair of apples, I began to climb the long, angled ridge that leads to the top of the Tor. Partway up a rock juts through the turf, and I sat down to enjoy my breakfast.

  Shiny as polished silver, the waters of the marsh and lake stretched in front of me as far as I could see. The new gold of autumn was reflected along the channels, where alder and willow marked the river courses like a tangled maze. Waterfowl of all types made their homes here: tufted ducks and dabchicks, moorhens and occasional herons. The presence of such large flocks made me think of Solway’s wintering hordes; truly the Gods had blessed Logres as richly as Rheged, and I sighed happily at the realization.

  When both apples were eaten I got up and stretched, noting the broad terraces that lie along the sides of the Tor. Clearly they formed a pattern of some kind, though they didn’t cross the ridge I was standing on. For a moment I was tempted to follow them, until I remembered that this mountain was the scene of ancient rituals. I scrambled up the steep ridge instead, leaving it to Nimue to follow the paths that called forth the Goddess and Her Otherworld temple.

  From the summit of the Tor the world spreads out below like a map laid flat for reading. Here and there, other hilly islands poked up through the water, the fields along their tops rich with ripe grain. Some were reflected in the glassy lake, while others stood with their feet shrouded in mist. Across the water a flock of lapwings and golden plovers rose thousands strong, frothing the air with their wings and banking into and out of sight as the sunlight held or lost them on some gliding turn. They were so joyous I raised my arm in silent salute, glad of the fine omen for the day’s beginning.

  It was then I saw it, the ship that was coming slowly through the waters in the northwest. Shading my eyes, I peered fixedly at the vessel. Tall and wooden, it looked like the one that had gotten stuck in Morecambe’s sands, and appeared to be heading in our direction. When a puff of wind lifted the flag and the Red Dragon slowly bellied in the breeze I let out a wild yell and went racing down the ridge.

  “It’s here…Arthur’s ship is here,” I cried, dashing toward Merlin’s retreat without thought of discretion.

  Nimue and the Wizard were standing together at a table scrutinizing a scroll covered with antique writing. They were so engrossed in their study I stopped in the doorway, suddenly shy about rushing rudely into their world.

  “Well, come in, M’lady, and close the door, please. No point in heating the whole outdoors.” Merlin gestured toward a seat by the hearth, and Nimue poured a cup of cider for me as the Enchanter rolled up the scroll. “It will take another hour for them to reach the wharf at Wearyall Hill, so you may as well sit down and wait.”

  After the first wonderful excitement of knowing Arthur was truly almost home, our actual meeting was anticlimactic. Surrounded by a cadre of young men, my husband was carried ashore on a stretcher, looking gray and spent and terribly weak. When I reached his side and dropped down beside him, he took my hand, but he focused all his attention on Bedivere. They exchanged greetings, the most immediate of news, and a few words of welcoming banter before we began the slow march back to the hostel. I continued to hold Arthur’s hand, and from time to time he squeezed my fingers sharply when some misstep jarred the stretcher, but that was all. It was only later, when he was well settled in a clean bed and everyone else had left, that he looked specifically at me and smiled.

  “I was not wearing the cape,” he noted dryly, “so it’s still quite presentable. In better shape than I am, as a matter of fact.”

  I took his hand again, pressing it to my cheek.

  “It’s just so good to have you back home alive,” I whispered.

  “Are you…that is, are we…?”

  I had so many months before dealt with my own disappointment at not being pregnant, it took me a minute to realize what he wanted to know.

  “No,” I answered.

  “Pity,” he sighed, closing his eyes as if for sleep. “With this wound, I won’t be able to remedy that situation for some months, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s all right,” I reassured him, reaching out to stroke the hair back from his forehead. “There will be more than enough time for a whole flock of bairns come spring…Well, maybe not all at once,” I added when he raised one eyebrow. “Now, you go on to sleep and we’ll talk of the future when you’re more rested.”

  He nodded, still without opening his eyes, then murmured, “Did Morgan come with you or is she still healing those at Sarum?”

  “No…” I temporized, wondering if he considered his own wounds bad enough to need her special touch and confused as to what to tell him about her departure. I didn’t want to mention her dalliance with Accolon, for if the High Priestess and I were ever to repair this most recent rift, she would have to have recognized that I was not a meddling, judgmental tattletale. As to the question of her defiance in leaving, Bedivere would be the best one to report that to the King. So I simply said that Nimue had come instead, and planned to perform a special rite on the Tor.

  Whether Arthur heard me or was already asleep I couldn’t tell, but the subject of Morgan didn’t come up again, much to my relief.

  When Arthur had rested fully and was better able to handle the sway and lurch of the litter, we traveled back to Sarum. Things were much as we had left them, though on our second day home, Igraine asked permission to pack and return to her convent, and nothing that I said could dissuade her.

  “Bedivere can spare an escort now, and with Arthur back, the two of you will be needing time alone to get into the habit of ruling together,” the Queen Mother said firmly.

  By the end of the week she was all packed and came to Arthur’s chambers to say a formal farewell. I tried to leave them alone, thinking that privacy might give them a way to express their feelings more openly, but both raised su
ch a cry when I excused myself, I ended up staying. Later, as I walked with her to the litter, Igraine reached out and took my hand.

  “There is probably no way to make up for the wrongs my children think I’ve done to them, all in the name of love. But it helps to know that you’re beside him, and that you at least don’t think ill of me…” She smiled at me sweetly. “You’re not only going to be a fine queen, you’re a delightful daughter in my old age.”

  We hugged each other then, like true mother and daughter, and I begged her to let me know if she needed anything, ever.

  “Of course,” she answered, “and you must promise the same.”

  After she was seated in the litter and the horses started forward, she waved one last time. Beside her, Ettard wept silently, unable to hide her sadness at leaving court. When the entourage had left the Square I hurried off to find Brigit, my own face wet with tears.

  With Morgan gone, Brigit had taken over the running of the hospital and had recruited Frieda to assist her.

  “If I can work with Morgan’s Celtic gods, I can certainly work with Frieda’s Saxon deities,” my Irish friend announced. “Besides, the girl has been here day and night since Griflet was brought in. She needs something to keep her occupied, and we need the additional help.”

  “How is the boy?” I asked, taking one end of a newly washed bandage and rolling it up for future use.

  “Bad…very bad. I’m not at all sure we can save him.” Brigit spoke briskly, having no time to decry the unfairness of fate, then looked over at me with a wry smile. “But we’ll not give him up without a fight.”

  As matters turned out, Griflet mended more rapidly than Arthur, and by Samhain he was up and walking about, coming in to visit the High King every day and working constantly with the dogs.