Whatever doubts Arthur had disappeared, and by the time we sat down to dinner he and Gwyn had gone over all the mares in the barn and determined which ones might be suitable for breeding with the stallion.
During the meal Gwyn’s bard regaled us with stories of the witch of Wookey Hole, who lived in a nearby cave with a pair of goats.
“My da saw her once—face all twisted as she stared into a polished crystal ball,” the bard recalled. “Carries the thing at her belt and uses it to make charms.”
I was wondering if she might have some spell for fertility when Gwyn spoke up, his dark eyes riveted to my face. “People don’t go near her cave, however—there’s terrible groans and screams come from that cavern now and then.”
I shivered and made the sign against evil and in the firelight caught sight of Lancelot doing the same. He may not have much respect for me, but at least he paid the Gods their due.
“Tomorrow,” Gwyn announced with a sudden, toothy grin, “I’ll take you through the Gorge. Wonderful place; fairly reeks of the first days of creation.”
In the morning we took the path that leads down into a canyon between steep limestone walls. The gray-white stone is ridged like giant columns, seamed with balconies and festooned by vines and trees that cling to every ledge. As we followed the dancing stream deeper into the chasm, the hanging gardens towered over us. I had never seen such naked grandeur at close range and joined the rest of the household in marveling at the strangeness of it—even the arrogant Breton seemed impressed.
Gwyn continued with us to Glastonbury, talking about his plans.
“Have a notion to build a Hall on top of the Tor.” Both his tone and the cavalier wave of his hand made it sound like child’s play.
I thought of the great hill that rises abruptly above the marshy lake. Nimue, who is a priestess in her own right, says the Mother Goddess has an invisible shrine on the highest level of the Tor. The idea of erecting a home in that holy space seemed cheeky in the extreme, unless Gwyn was himself related to the Gods in some strange way. I studied him surreptitiously, noting the slight stature and gnarled features. He caught my gaze and gave me a broad, knowing wink before I could look away.
Lancelot also watched the fellow with a quizzical interest. Having been raised by the Lady, the Breton was no doubt well versed in the ways of the fey.
Yet when we paused at Glastonbury it was Lancelot who went into the chapel in the vale, stooping slightly to make his way through the low door.
“Would you care to pay your respects as well?” the hermit who tended it asked me. “It’s sacred to the Mother, you know.”
It seemed odd for a Christian holy man to dedicate this little thatch-and-wattle church to the Goddess who was already worshiped on the hilltop. “The Mother?” I repeated.
“Why, Mary, the Mother of Jesu,” came the answer.
I hastily declined the invitation but wondered why Lancelot would want to visit such a place.
“Merlin came and went among the Christians, sharing ideas and asking questions,” Arthur reminded me. “Maybe Lance is curious in the same way.”
“Maybe,” I conceded, thinking it a peculiar trait in a warrior.
***
We made a detour to inspect a deserted hill-fort above the tiny town of South Cadbury. The fortress was as old as Liddington, and almost as big, for within the ramparts the hill rose and rippled toward a high plateau. The buildings were too ruinous to use, but someone—Arthur thought perhaps it was Uther—had made an effort to refurbish the defensive wall. We pitched camp at the edge of an oak grove that had grown up around the remains of an old Roman temple, and after dinner Arthur and I took our blankets up to the top of the plateau, a little distance from the rest.
The evening was clear, and the sky arched deep and black and glittering with stars above us. We talked softly before sleep, our half-whispered words fluttering away in the darkness as we slipped into silence.
Wrapped in a half dream, the whole of Albion stretched out around me, turning slowly like a lovely lady preening herself from every angle before the mirror of my mind. I saw the golden scarps of Cotswold, the green sea surge of the downs and the giant arches of ancient elegance rising from the steaming swamp of Bath.
Yet the heart of Britain remained hidden, shifting like a rainbow in the mist—even beyond the power and majesty of Cheddar Gorge and the vast watery plain around Glastonbury, there was something dearer, closer to the core of life. Slowly she unveiled it—the homey steading carved from the forest, the cluster of a village, the shepherd’s bothy and the shanty of the fisherman. They glimmered in my memory like the faces I had seen on the Road, a prismatic portrait of the people who called me Queen.
Nearby a nightingale called, its sweet, haunting cry piercing the dark.
Between the tiny bird song so close at hand and the vast, echoing spaces within the firmament, stood the human dream. Whether it is for a good harvest or the making of treaties, the return of a love or the prayer for a live birth, every heart moves toward a goal that weaves into the fabric of time, adding threads of gold or coarse wool, twisting, knotting, becoming part of a pattern too big for mortals to comprehend.
I felt the dreams of the people beating softly all around me and knew that I was as committed to them as Arthur was committed to the Cause. It was a deep, stirring realization, and my spirit moved toward wonder while I lay in my husband’s arms.
“They call this the Land of Summer,” he whispered quietly, as if he feared to wake me. “I guess that makes you my Queen of the Summer Stars.”
The words spun round me in a dream of my own, and I smiled to myself, afraid to respond too openly lest he never express something so tender again. It was the closest Arthur had ever come to a term of endearment, and it filled my heart with absolute delight. Someday, I thought drowsily, he might even decide he loved me.
***
As we rode through the fertile, red-earthed fields around Exeter, Geraint came out to greet us. Although he was younger and less polished than his mentor, Agricola, one could see why Arthur had made him the King of Devon—not only was he a military genius, he had an air of competence mixed with good high spirits.
“Aren’t you the dandy!” Arthur exclaimed, admiring the young man’s green silk tunic and linen breeches.
“You haven’t heard about the trading ship from Byzantium?”
“No!”
The new monarch grinned. “It arrived right after the gales—put into my port at Topsham with a full cargo, including bolts and bolts of silk. The wardrobes of the West Country nobles are now quite resplendent.”
The ship had also carried wine and glassware and delicate pottery from the factories on the edge of the Black Sea, as well as a young Greek slave who played haunting melodies on a strange musical instrument. Geraint had bought the lad, and after a sumptuous dinner it was the music of the Pan pipe rather than the stories of the harp that we listened to. There was dancing and clapping and games of chance and skill, and I noticed that the King of Devon flirted with Enid more than a little.
“Proud as those peacocks he keeps in the garden, and twice as handsome,” my lady-in-waiting quipped as she helped me get ready for bed. “But he’d be better off thinking less of military glory and more of the kitchen; the room’s smoky, the oven doesn’t work and there’s no paving around the well in the courtyard.”
“Perhaps,” I suggested, “what he needs is a wife to set his domestic scene right for him.”
“A man like that isn’t wanting for marriage, just a good manager.” Enid slipped my amber-and-ivory necklace into its sheepskin pouch and grinned mischievously. “Still, he does cut a splendid figure.”
And Geraint was a splendid host. He showed us through the buildings being repaired, proudly pointing out the marbles that had been rescued from the ruins. On the second day he provided a picnic on the strand, where
we all discussed the possibilities of refurbishing the Topsham wharves in order to accommodate trade with merchant ships.
Arthur squinted down the estuary toward the distant Channel. “With London lying in no-man’s-land, ungoverned by either Saxon or Briton, we need to develop another port. Someday we may want to resume trading across the Channel.”
“What could you possibly send to the Continent?” Enid asked. “Shears for the barbarians?”
Since the hordes that had toppled the Empire were famous for going unshorn, her comment brought a burst of laughter from Geraint. “We could always barter for soap,” he suggested. “They may be shaggy louts, but I’ve heard they’re clean.”
“So it’s soap you’re needing?” Enid countered. “Frieda taught us to make that years back…I’ll give the recipe to your cook.”
“You’re welcome to stay and make it yourself, if you’ve a mind.” There was a playful challenge in the King of Devon’s voice and Enid cocked an eyebrow in reply.
“I’m sure I’d be welcome to do many things, M’lord, but I have no hankering for being a servant. Cooks you can hire, me you cannot.”
Gawain, who was fond of bantering with Enid himself, choked on the wine he was swigging, and Arthur had to pound him on the back. The dogs commenced barking uproariously, and everyone was laughing as we stood up and dusted the sand from our clothes. Only Ettard remained silent, staring thoughtfully at the King of Devon—but then, the convent girl was never noted for her sense of humor.
***
As the time for the wedding approached, Geraint led us out across the vastness of Dartmoor, clearly delighted to show off his new land.
Dartmoor’s high plateau is a wild expanse of bog and heath, whipped by wind and scoured by the shadow of clouds. Deserted except for the ponies and deer and a few wild sheep that graze along the edges of deep-cut streams, it whispers of times forgotten…strange rocks thrusting upward through thin soil, trees twisted and crabbed by the harsh wind, and the long-abandoned remains of huts too small to house humans.
“Homes of the Ancient Ones,” Gawain explained, making the sign against the Unknown. “They call themselves the firstborn of the Gods and caper in skins beneath the moon.”
I glanced over at the Prince of Orkney, wondering how much he knew about these folk. Kevin had encountered them in Ireland and had taught me to recognize their signs, though they avoid towns and Roads and contact with most mortals.
“Was this where they lived?” I asked.
“More like where they left,” Lancelot interjected. “They withdrew when the Legions spread across Albion, and now live in the Hollow Hills with the sidhe. It is not wise, M’lady, to disturb them.”
Condescension dripped from the Breton’s voice. I started to tell him I already knew a good bit more than most about the creatures that are kin to the fey, but the lieutenant had turned his attention back to Arthur. So I swallowed my words and railed inwardly at the arrogance of the man.
***
If the heights of Devon’s moor are wild and lonely, the spread of Cornwall’s land is rich with farms and people. Green fields stretch right to the edge of the sheer coast, and beyond those cliffs the waters of the sea twinkle blue and emerald and sometimes even amethyst.
As we made our way to Castle Dore my mind filled with questions about the young bride. Isolde had been in Cornwall for well over a month, and presumably she and Mark were past the first uncertain days of shyness or infatuation. Each should know if the marriage was ill advised by now. The fact that no one had moved to cancel the wedding indicated that all was well.
Still, I was uneasy…Igraine had summed it up years ago: any man who seeks to marry a lass young enough to be his granddaughter is weaving the web of his own heartbreak.
***
I hoped Mark would not wake up to discover his dream had become a nightmare.
Chapter VIII
Celtic Sun
Blessings of the White Christ on you.” The King of Cornwall spread his arms in greeting, a smile wreathing his great horse face. “The splendor of my realm is at your disposal—may God give you the appetite to enjoy it.”
We had not seen Mark since our wedding feast, and as he came down the steps from his wooden hall I was glad to find him less repulsive than I remembered. He still looked like an overfed ox bedecked with gold and jewels, but his blue silk tunic was clean and his white beard neatly trimmed. Most notable of all, he no longer conveyed the sulky petulance of a spoiled child.
The man had gone to great lengths to make this a memorable occasion and proudly recounted his efforts.
“The only thing I couldn’t get was a Roman bishop for the services—they all said it was too far to travel. But I’ve furnished my priest with new vestments of the best silk, so that makes up for it a little.”
I remembered the Byzantine trader with a smile—he seemed to have traded enough shining cloth to stretch from here to Topsham’s wharf!
There was no church big enough for the ceremony at Castle Dore, so Mark had a temporary chapel built around a Pagan holy spot, blessing and rededicating it to the new religion. The side walls and back were woven of willow wands laced with flowers and bracken fronds, making a pretty little nook that was open to the audience on the fourth side. The ground was strewn with rose petals so deep they drifted like snow about the base of the altar, and the whole looked like the handiwork of the fey.
“After all,” Mark confided, “a girl only has one wedding, and I want Isolde’s to be perfect.”
His tone was positively reverential. I wondered again what this Irish girl was like. There was much speculation about her among the guests, but the bride stayed in her chambers the entire day before the wedding, so we could do little but wait ’til she appeared at the ceremony.
The morning of the wedding came fair and shining, the perfect beginning for a summer day, and Mark was beside himself with joy as he showed us to our place. Off to one side a harper played softly, but a quick glance showed it wasn’t Tris. I wanted to ask where the Cornish hero was, but just then the priest signaled for the ceremony to begin; with a beneficent smile Mark went to take his place by the altar, and we turned to catch a first glimpse of the bride.
It was Tristan who led her forth to her nuptials.
Covered from head to foot by yards of sheer white silk, Isolde moved like a wraith down the aisle that had been cordoned off with purple ribbons. She clung to the warrior’s arm and he narrowed his stride to keep measure with her tiny steps as he guided her to her groom. Stopping once, she raised her face to the Champion; for a moment there was utter silence as he stared down at the hidden features. Then he patted the hand that clutched his arm and gently urged her forward.
The harper left off strumming when the two of them reached the altar and the ritual began.
Tris gave the girl away and discreetly withdrew. There was a deal of praying and vow making, and Mark put a huge gold ring on her delicate finger when the time came. With a grand flourish the priest pronounced them man and wife and gestured for the King of Cornwall to unveil his prize.
We all gasped as the silk fell away. Standing before us was an exquisite beauty with black hair, violet eyes, and alabaster skin. She was small as well as young and looked not at her groom, but at the audience, seeming to search for a familiar face among so many strange ones.
Mark enveloped her in a tentative hug and made a gentle effort to kiss his bride. Isolde adroitly ducked her head forward, receiving his lips on the top of her hair as though she were his child, not his mate. Yet the King beamed happily when he presented her to the gathering.
The Cornish people roared their approval, but I turned my gaze away, unable to meet the eyes of the girl who continued to scan the crowd. Although her new husband clearly adored her, there was not a trace of emotion on Isolde’s face.
Mark brought her to stand before us.
<
br /> “Behold the great beauty of Cornwall.” His voice rang with pride as she curtsied politely.
“May your marriage be blessed with many children.” I tried to make the words light and merry, but my heart plummeted when Isolde looked up—it was clear she had been crying not long before.
How many hours of weeping, I wondered. How many half-formed schemes and frantic dreams of escape had the Irish child spun? If she was this unhappy, why had she not spoken out and demanded return to her homeland? Was it possible they would refuse to take her back? And how could the Queen of Ireland have sent her daughter off to Britain without any assurance that the girl would at least like her royal spouse?
Isolde’s maid, Branwen, hovered at the bride’s side as though fearful her mistress might collapse.
“Is there anything I can do?” I asked when Isolde turned away. Branwen paused for a moment and it struck me how alike the two young women looked, though Branwen was obviously a little older.
“No,” she answered stiffly, “both my cousin and I were raised to honor the duties of a royal marriage.”
Ah, yes—even in Ireland one finds those famous Celtic queens!
The feasting lasted well into the night, with bards and acrobats and pipers entertaining between rounds of food and drink. Servants brought forth huge quantities of ducks and geese, dove and partridge. There were fish of every conceivable kind, cooked in a variety of ways—stuffed, steamed, filleted, skewered, roasted, or poached. And the wine was dipped out of two enormous craters that stood in ornate tripods. Cei took a cautious sip, then cocked an eyebrow and raised his goblet in compliment to the bridegroom. It seemed that everyone, except perhaps Isolde, was having a fine time.
I looked about for Tristan, expecting to find him with our Companions. Being so tall, he was normally easy to spot, but this evening he had become invisible.
“Haven’t seen him since he and Dinadan tiptoed away during the ceremony,” Arthur allowed. “No doubt the two of them are setting up some prank for the revelers.”
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