“Cynric?” Arthur nodded. “Being fostered by Cei’s father—the same man who raised Bedivere and me. What about the coastal waters? No more landings along the Saxon Shore?”
“The usual immigrants,” Bagdemagus replied. “Though two long boats were reported, making for the Isle of Wight.”
“That is a natural landing place for them,” Geraint of Devon noted, his elegant manners and aristocratic airs in sharp contrast to the warlord’s ways. “I’m happy enough to see them settle there, if it means they no longer raid and plunder the settlements along our rivers. Particularly,” he added, “those on the river Exe.”
There was a round of laughter at that, since Geraint was fiercely protective of his holdings, and took great pride in his efforts to revive the Roman city of Exeter.
“With the Saxons contained, the trade at my wharves in Topsham has flourished,” he announced. “The freighter Palomides took was but the first of many.” In the last year three vessels filled with tin had sailed for the eastern markets, and two Byzantine merchant ships had put ashore, bringing fine pottery and silk, as well as many amphorae of wine.
“The best to be had,” Geraint assured us. “Even Cei would approve.” This brought more laughter because the Seneschal was famous for his discriminating tastes where wine was concerned.
“In fact,” the debonair king added graciously, “we’d be happy to share it with any of you who care to come visit Exeter. My Queen and I will make you most welcome—though you must leave your arms at the city gate.”
A skitter of surprise rattled around the Table at such a notion, but before anyone could question it, Arthur requested the news of Cornwall.
King Mark of Cornwall had never joined the Fellowship, so it was Duke Constantine who kept us apprised of what happened in the western country. Trade with the Irish was flourishing, Queen Isolde was still the loveliest lady in Britain, and churches were springing up everywhere. Mark himself was a devout Christian, and it appeared that his people were emulating their monarch.
Nor was this the only place such activity was noted. Agricola Longhand, the fine old Roman widower whom Arthur had made King of Demetia after he helped put down an Irish incursion in that southern Welsh kingdom, allowed that the Irish were now sending holy men, not warriors, across the Irish Sea. “Perhaps they like the climate here better,” he suggested with a smile.
There was no representative from Carbonek as their king, Pellam, had been struck down by a blow from his own sword years back, and the wound in his thigh would not heal. His kingdom had become a Waste Land, suffering from plague and drought and terrible pestilence as a result. It reminded us all how closely the fate of the land is tied to the fate of the king—only a vigorous, healthy monarch can assure a healthy, vigorous land.
One of the neighboring warlords reported that things in Carbonek were little changed: Pellam’s Pagan subjects prayed daily for the Old Gods to take him and give them a new ruler, while the Christians beseeched their deity to make him well, since Pellam was a convert to their faith. Meanwhile the land lay fallow and unused.
Next came news of the various other leaders in Wales. Those in the central mountains were generally warlords more concerned with cattle raids than matters of state, or peaceful men who counted on their steep mountains to keep their marauding neighbors at bay. In either case, they tended to be self-reliant and suspicious of anything that might limit their own power. The Courts along the coast were much more cosmopolitan, and many of those kings, such as my cousin Maelgwn in Gwynedd, maintained elaborate households and traded frequently with the Byzantine ships that came from beyond the Middle Sea.
Maelgwn was not at the Round Table, having gone to live in a monastery, but a regent reported in his stead. I tried to keep from glaring at the man; it was not his fault his king was so despicable.
Finally it was Urien’s turn to speak. Urien—the Raven King of Northumbria, fierce old warrior and proud monarch. Once he had hoped to become High King himself, and led a rebellion against Arthur at the beginning of my husband’s reign. Yet after he surrendered, there was never a better ally.
His own lands were prospering, Urien said, save for an occasional border problem with the rambunctious chieftains from the Caledonian Forest to the north. The Saxons along his eastern shore were quiet, but he was having problems with continual flooding at his capital of York—many of the low-lying buildings were no longer usable, and the river trade was not what it had been in the days of the Empire. I dismissed these as no more than the usual complaints, but leaned forward eagerly when he came to speak of my own land of Rheged.
“As Regent in Your Majesty’s place,” he began, nodding in my direction, “I’m pleased to report that the threat of murrain encountered by the farmers in the Kendal area has passed. The peasants made sure to build more and larger Beltane fires than usual on the hills this last May Day, and so far the plague has not struck again.”
I nodded and sent an appreciative prayer to Brigantia, thanking the Goddess for saving the rest of the land. Murrain can bring on famine and pestilence faster than anything else.
“The ironworkers of Furness have sent the High King a new coat of chain mail as repayment of their debt from three years past,” Urien went on, “and all is well in the rest of Lakeland.”
I watched the crusty fellow closely and wondered what he was not telling us. Although his own land was quite sizable, Urien had coveted Rheged since I was a child, and clearly enjoyed acting in my place. He would not be the first regent to shade the truth so as to keep the real monarch from hearing tales of unrest, unfair taxation, or anything else that might indicate the people were not happy with his tenure.
I also noticed he had made no mention of his wife, Morgan le Fey, and wondered if he even knew what the High Priestess was doing in her Sanctuary at the Black Lake. There was no love lost between them and I thought it possible he preferred to ignore the woman rather than keep track of her. Such an attitude smacked of the arrogant belief that if he scorned her, she would no longer be dangerous. I, myself, knew better.
Eventually everyone had their say, and the men began asking Palomides about the strange armor he brought back. From there the discussion moved to the weapons and tactics he’d learned of in the East, and before long they all trekked down to the stables to inspect his remarkable Arabian stallion, which he said had more intelligence and stamina than any other creature he’d ever ridden.
I intended to find Enid for a chat, but an overbearing matron from Cornwall swooped down on me, determined that I should accept her daughter as one of my ladies-in-waiting. I’ve never found the arrangement to be practical—most such girls are more intent on finding husbands among the Companions than helping me with the distaff side of running a court. But just as we bound the parents to us by making their sons squires, there were times when my accepting the girls couldn’t be avoided. In this case, when the woman began extolling the Christian virtues of her child, I suggested that perhaps she would be happier in the Cornish Court, where bishops and priests abounded.
“But Queen Isolde is so…” The woman searched for a word that would convey her disdain without being outright treasonous, then shrugged eloquently. “Well, there was that problem with Tristan.”
I sighed inwardly, thinking that the whole world was bent on punishing the child-bride for having once sought a life of her own by running away with her lover. That Isolde eventually went back to King Mark and had been an exemplary consort ever since was usually forgotten.
In the end I agreed to take in the girl, and told the mother to have her report to Vinnie, who had charge of the care and chaperoning of such youngsters.
Nimue had come to my side during the conversation, and she shook her head in bemusement. Nimue—the doire whom Merlin had found when she was still a young girl overseeing a holy well. She had become not only his apprentice but the great love of the Magician’s older years and when he was no longer able to guide and protect Arthur’s reign, it was Nimue who
took his place, becoming both adviser to Arthur and good friend to me.
“I sometimes wonder how you manage,” she grinned. “Just keeping track of who wants what—and why—requires the skill of a professional juggler.”
“Indeed,” I answered ruefully. “Any queen worth her salt is worn out by the end of the day. But,” I added under my breath, “there’s news I haven’t heard that needs discussing.”
“Urien made no mention of the Lady of the Lake,” the doire responded in equally hushed tones.
I nodded, glad to know I was not the only one concerned about what Arthur’s half sister might be up to. Ever since she had tried to kill my husband in her attempt to put her lover, Accolon, on the throne, I was suspicious if she lay silent too long. Accolon might be dead, but it seemed unlikely Morgan’s dreams were.
Sliding my arm through Nimue’s, I gestured toward the stairs and asked the doire to help me check Camelot’s pharmacia. Even before she answered, we were headed up to the loft.
The herbs and simples for healing are kept in a closet beyond Arthur’s and my bedroom, well away from the busy areas of the Hall. Once I unlocked the wicker cupboard and we began sorting through jars and packets, the doire and I were able to talk quite openly.
“There hasn’t been much news of Morgan since she tried to seduce Lancelot into helping her unseat Arthur,” I noted. “That was several years back, but I can’t believe she’s abandoned the idea.”
“Probably not abandoned,” Nimue agreed, holding up a vial of rosemary oil. “But getting rid of a popular king is hard and nasty work. And Morgan’s ambitions are split; on the one hand she wants the power of the throne, and on the other she’s determined to make worship of the Old Gods dominant throughout the land. But there are some who no longer trust her as a spiritual leader.”
My eyebrows went up and Nimue put down the vial with a nod. “The Lady of the Lake is losing credence among the Druids. Her insistence on giving the Goddess supremacy over all the other Gods does not sit well with our Pagan priests. So perhaps your sister-in-law is too busy trying to consolidate her own base of power to be plotting against you.”
“Perhaps,” I agreed, unconvinced.
The doire reached over and put her hand on my arm. “Have no fear, Gwen—I will let you know if there’s any indication Arthur is in jeopardy again. Now, tell me, how is Albion’s Queen doing?”
Her use of the ancient name for Britain brought a smile, and I assured her I was quite well.
“And the royal marriage?” she prompted.
“The most solid in Britain,” I assured her. Ours had been a political union to begin with, though I’d grown to love Arthur early on. And he’d come to love me, too, in his way; his distress when he thought I might leave once I learned about Mordred was proof of that. But after eleven years together I was as much a part of Arthur’s world as the sunrise, and even more taken for granted. So we laughed and argued and worked to make the Round Table a success, like parents struggling to raise a child, but never seemed to touch in more than flesh.
“What of Lancelot?” Nimue continued, her great, dark eyes scanning my soul. She was the only person, other than Isolde, to whom I could speak freely about the Breton.
“Ah, with Lance it is the opposite. We are just as close as ever, he is just as adamant about not going to bed, and I suppose we will spend the rest of our lives like that.” I gave her a rueful grin. “But I’d be lost if he wasn’t here, beside me.”
Nimue’s gaze shifted to some space between now and the future, and I thought her eyes widened briefly. Then she was bending over a tray of packets, her slim fingers riffling quickly through them. At last she wrinkled her nose and pushing the herbs away, declared that she’d send her husband home alone after the Round Table while she stayed on to help process the simples for our medicine cupboard. With that we went to join the rest of the folk in the Hall, but I wondered what she had seen that made her think she should remain at Camelot.
The feast that night was typical of our best hospitality, and afterward our own bard, Riderich, gave over the Harper’s Stool to the visiting storytellers of other monarchs. Before long the Hall rang with the ancient tales of glory and bravery, of famous heroes and the Gods who guided them. Most of the performers told their stories in the time-honored way, accompanying the well-loved words with runs of notes or an occasional chord, until Riderich’s pupil, Taliesin, set his small Irish harp on his knee. Then the sounds became melodies as he poured forth songs every bit as charming as any that Tristan himself might have sung.
We listened, enthralled, for among Celts there is no force more powerful for invoking peace or pride than music. When the magic of the young man’s playing died a ways, Urien’s bard, Talhaern, rose to his feet and requested that we allow Taliesin to come study with him. Considering that Talhaern was called the Father of Inspiration, it was a fine compliment. I wondered if he knew how many people thought Taliesin was a changeling child, more fey than mortal, and that he was sometimes taken with fits, when strange words poured from his mouth. But perhaps that wouldn’t matter, all storytellers being somewhat mad, and the look of joy on Taliesin’s face was marvelous to behold, for he was convinced he was destined to sing songs powerful enough to make the very Gods weep.
Next morning I was up early, seeing to the foods that would be put out for those of our guests who wished to eat before leaving on their journey home. As I headed for the henhouse to collect the eggs, I caught sight of Enid walking slowly along the parapet above our wall. Dropping my basket by the hutch, I went bounding up the stairs to join the new Queen of Devon. But I stopped cold when I saw the expression on her face.
Enid—dark and pert, with a quick wit and fearless tongue; the girl who’d married the most eligible bachelor king in Britain. That Geraint was a brilliant military leader and she well known for looking askance at brash warriors made for much speculation about their match. But that wouldn’t account for the misery that surrounded her now. I lifted my skirts and ran along the parapet toward her.
“Enid, whatever is the matter?”
She looked up at my voice, then half turned away until I caught hold of her shoulders and the words came pouring out. “Oh, M’lady, I don’t know what to do. Geraint and I can’t seem to get pregnant, and it’s not for want of trying.”
Her brown eyes were shining with tears, and we stared at each other without reserve, two women suddenly sharing a similar sorrow. She leaned her head against my shoulder and I put my arms around her as she began to sob.
There was no need to speak of the confusion and hurt barrenness brings forth; the soul-searching and recriminations, anger and fear and silent, desperate bargaining with the Gods—I’d known them all myself. So I held her close while her pain overflowed in weeping.
“What is Geraint’s reaction?” I asked when the crest of her tears had passed. Enid might not be my daughter, but I would certainly speak to her husband if he was adding to the problem.
“It doesn’t seem to upset him, M’lady, though I’m sure he feels it in the normal sense of missing being a father.”
She was silent for a bit, and I thought of Arthur. My inability to produce offspring hadn’t bothered him at all, for he had little interest in children and all his time was consumed with the Cause.
“It feels as though there’s a big hole in the center of my life that nothing else can fill.” Enid didn’t try to cover the despair in her voice. “How can I fill the emptiness, M’lady?”
“Take in a child,” I told her firmly. “One in need, as Mordred was in need.”
She sniffed loudly and fumbled for her handkerchief. “Does he know?” I searched her face, wondering how much she knew. “About his mother’s death and all,” she went on. “We heard, even in Devon, that Morgause met an unseemly end.”
Unseemly end? The miserable woman deserved everything that came to her, whether she was Arthur’s other half sister or not. But of course I couldn’t say that out loud, so…
&nbs
p; I shook my head and chose my words carefully. “I don’t think he’s heard. Bedivere threatened to personally thrash anyone who breathed a word of it at Court, and the boy’s never brought the subject up. Gawain looks after his little brother some; took him north to Edinburgh on this trip to meet with the Picts. But mostly I oversee his everyday life.”
“Has it met your need, M’lady?” Enid inquired hesitantly.
“Aye, that it has.” I brushed the last of the tears from her cheeks and smiled. “We spend our mornings together. I give him riding lessons, or take him on errands, and then we study Latin. His mother had him tutored in both reading and writing, before she died, and this arrangement seems to please everyone—though he’s far fonder of the reading than I am.”
“As I recall,” my erstwhile lady-in-waiting said, giving me a droll look, “you’d rather tell a tale yourself than pick over some old scroll. Maybe, like Bedivere, your second calling is to be a bard.”
“With my voice?” I grinned, horrified at the notion of trying to sing anything. Since neither Arthur nor I could carry a tune, we made it Court policy to keep our mouths shut and not assault the household’s ears. “No need to invite a palace revolt,” I concluded.
Before we climbed down the stairs and returned to the Hall, Enid paused to take my hand in gratitude. “Thank you, M’lady,” she said softly.
The court in front of the Hall was filling with horses and squires waiting for their nobles to leave, so I hurried inside to the rest of the guests and Enid went to find Geraint.
Later, when the two of them came to say their formal good-byes, I gave the new Queen a special hug. For a moment she drew in her lower lip as though to keep from crying, then, with a toss of her head, turned to smile at her husband. Brave, stubborn, fighting to keep self-pity away—I nodded my approval, confident she was becoming a Queen worthy of the title.
Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn Page 6