She watched him with a critical eye, noting the flex and stretch of muscle in his arms and back as he drove the round skin-covered craft against the current. Sometimes an eddy would spin them, and Artor needed all of his strength as well as skill to get them back on course. He was sweating freely by the time she told him to stop.
The coracle spun round once more, then began to drift gently back towards the city whose smoke hazed the river below them like a shadow of the clouds. Artor rested the paddle on his knees, still breathing hard.
“Do you feel better?” she asked.
For a moment he stared; then his exasperation gave way to wonder.
“In fact, I do .. . .”
“There is nothing like vigorous action to relieve strain, and you have been under a great deal, my child.” He spent much time outdoors and his color was good, but she noticed more than one thread of silver in the brown hair, and there were new shadows around his eyes.
“I have never been required to plan a campaign of peace before,” he said apologetically. “In war it is easy. If a man has a sword at your throat, he is an enemy. Here, I have only allies, who think they know what is needed better than I. I might believe them—if they could only all agree!”
Igierne laughed. “It is not so different among my priestesses on the Isle of Maidens.” For a few moments they were silent, watching the ducks dive into the reedbeds as they passed. Then she spoke once more. “Tell me, is it easier to move the boat upstream or down?”
“Down, of course,” he answered, one brow lifting in enquiry.
“Just so. Think—is not everything easier when you move with the current instead of fighting it?”
He nodded. “Like charging downhill.”
“Like this wedding—” she said then. “Guendivar is the woman whom the fates have ordained for you. To make her your wife you don’t have to fight the world. Let it be. Relax and allow her to come to you.” She stopped suddenly. “Or are you afraid?”
He knew how to govern his face, but she saw his knuckles whiten as he gripped the oar.
“She is so young, Mother. She has never heard the ravens singing on a battlefield, or seen the life ebb from the face of a man you love. She has never known how fury can seize you and make you do terrible things, conscious of nothing until you come to yourself and see the blood on your hands. What can I say to her? What kind of a life can we have?”
“A life of peace,” answered his mother, “though you will not have done with battles entirely while the Picts still ride southward and Eriu sends warriors across the sea. It is because she is innocent that you need this girl. You need say nothing—let her talk to you.. . . She will be Tigernissa, High Queen. Men fight for land, but the life of the land is in the waters that flow through it. The power of the waters belongs to the queen. It is for her to initiate you into its mysteries.”
A gull swooped low, yammering, and when it saw they had no food, soared away. They could smell woodsmoke now, and on the shore the wharves of Londinium were beginning to come into view.
“The river has great power. See how swiftly we have returned? Beneath all the eddies, all the flotsam that rides its surface and the ruffling of the wind, the deep current of the river rolls. It is the same with the squabbles of humankind. Worship as you must for Britannia’s peace, but never forget how strong these waters are as they move so steadily toward the sea.. . .”
The night before the wedding it rained. At dawn, clouds still covered the sky, but as they thinned, they admitted a little watery sunshine. When Guendivar came out of the palace, the wet stones of the pavement were shining. She gazed around her, blinking at the brightness. At that moment, even this place of wood and stone was beautiful. Her escort was already formed up and waiting. When they saw her, they began to cheer, drowning out the clamor that marked the progress of the groom’s procession, already two streets away.
Her mother twitched at the hawthorn wreath that held the bridal veil. Its fiery silk had been embroidered with golden flowers. More flowers were woven into the crimson damask of her dalmatic and worked into its golden borders in pearls. Jewels weighted the wide neckband and the strip of gold that ran from throat to hem. It was a magnificent garment, fit for an empress of the eastern lands from which it had come—everyone said so. But it was so heavy Guendivar could hardly move.
Her mother gripped her elbow, pulling her forward. For a moment Guendivar resisted, filled with a wild desire to strip down to her linen undergown and make a dash for the open fields. How could they praise her beauty when her body was encased in jewels like a relic and her face curtained by this veil? It was an image they shouted for, like the icon of the Virgin that was carried in procession at festivals.
But she had given her word to Artor.
“She comes! She comes—” cried the crowd “—the Flower Bride!”
Stiff as a jointed puppet, Guendivar mounted the cart, its railings wound with primroses and violets and its sides garlanded with eglantine. As it passed through the streets, people strewed the road with all the blooms of May. They brightened the way, but could not soften the rough stones. Guendivar gripped the rail, swaying as the cart jolted forward.
They turned a corner and came into the square before the church, a modest whitewashed structure dwarfed by what remained of the imperial buildings that still surrounded it. The hills of the Summer Country seemed very far away.
The groom’s escort was already drawn up beside it, and the bishop waited before the church door, his white vestments as heavily ornamented as her gown. Even Artor was cased in cloth of gold that glittered in the pale sunlight. We are all images, she told herself, existing only to play our roles in this ceremony. But what force could manipulate kings for its pleasure? The people, perhaps? Or their gods?
The cart halted. Guendivar allowed them to help her descend, and her father, grinning as if she were his sole invention, led her to the church door. Marriages were blessed by the Church, but they were not part of its liturgy. Still, the porch of the church seemed a strange place for a ceremony. Through the haze of silk she could see Artor, looking as stiff and uncomfortable as she. Bishop Dubricius cleared his throat, gathering the attention of the crowd.
“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Espiritu Sancti—”
Guendivar felt her heart beat like that of a trapped hare as the sonorous Latin rolled on, a river of words that was sweeping her and Artor both away.
Only when the sound ceased did she rouse. Everyone was looking at her, waiting for her answer. Could she, even now, refuse? But as she gazed frantically around her the sun broke through the clouds, and suddenly all the world was a glitter of light. She shut her eyes against that brilliance, but behind her eyelids it still blazed.
“Volo—” she heard her own voice say.
There were more words, and then the deep murmur of Artor’s reply. The priest bound their hands, turned them to show themselves to the people, whose joyous response smote the sky.
Then Artor led her into the darkness of the church for the nuptial mass.
The scent of flowers hung heavy in the hall, mingling unpleasantly with the odors of human sweat and spilled wine. From the high table on the dais at the end of the basilica, tables had been set end to end in front of the walls. Upon the benches of the king’s side, all the princelings of Britannia, and on the queen’s side, their wives and daughters, sat packed like pickles in a crock.
Morgause took another drink from her own cup, breathing deep to let the sharp fumes drive the other scents away. When the last of the Roman governors abandoned his post, the items he had left behind included some amphoras of good wine. It was a little past its prime—Artor had been right to use it now. She sighed, aware that the wine was making her melancholy. When she was a girl they had drunk wine like this in her father’s hall, but in times to come they would have to swill like barbarians on mead and heather beer.
A clatter of steel on shield leather brought everyone upright as the sword dancers marched in. Som
e of the male guests leaped from their benches, reaching as if they expected to find their own weapons hanging behind them on the wall. Morgause grinned sourly. These were the champion dancers among her husband’s tribesmen; it pleased her to see these fat southern lords, if only for a moment, feel afraid.
The dancers’ tunics, though clean, were of rough wool, and the earthy hues woven into their mantles dull against the bright colors of the princes, but their swords flashed in the torchlight. Singing, they formed two squares. Shields lifted into position, and they began their deadly play.
The singers who had been performing earlier had almost been drowned out by the hum of conversation, but the sword dancers riveted everyone’s attention. Even the little bride, who had been picking at the slice of roast boar with which Artor had served her, put down her knife to stare.
“They are Votadini?” asked the woman beside Morgause. She was called Flavia, invited because she had been foster-mother to Artor.
She nodded. “They come from a clan on our border with Alta Cluta.”
“They are most . . . energetic . . .” Flavia replied. “Your husband must be proud. But I do not see him. Is he well?”
“Well enough,” answered Morgause tightly, “but his joints pain him too much to make such a journey.”
“Ah, I understand—” Flavia grimaced in sympathy. “I came in a horselitter, and still it was two days before I could walk without wincing! It is the price of growing old. Of course you are still young—” she said after an uncomfortable moment had passed.
Morgause thought of her own aches and kept silence. On her other side the mothers of the bride and groom were deep in conversation. Morgause had stopped resenting having to sit below Guendivar’s mother, when she realized that Petronilla, puffed with pride though she might be, would save her from having to talk to Igierne.
“And what do you think of our new queen?” asked Flavia.
Morgause bared her teeth in a smile. “She is pretty enough, but very young—”
Young enough to be Artor’s daughter, if he had been married off at the age I was. Young enough to be a sister to Artor’s son.. . . Medraut had begged to come with her to the wedding. He was quite self-possessed for a nine-year-old—she had trained him well, but instinct counselled her to wait. Medraut’s time was yet to come.
“But you yourself were married at much the same age, were you not, and to a much older man?” Flavia commented, far too acutely.
And now I am tied to an ancient who is good for nothing but to sit by the fire, while I am still in my prime! Morgause thought then. It would serve Guendivar right if she found herself in the same situation with Artor. It could happen—Leudonus was proof that some warriors lived to be old.
“It is not her age but her intelligence that will make the difference,” Morgause answered tartly. “A pretty face alone will not hold a man’s interest for long.”
“Then we must hope that she can do so, for my Arktos was always a conscientious lad, and I suspect he will remain faithful, whether she loves him or no.”
Morgause regarded her thoughtfully. Igierne, for all her lofty sentiments, knew less of her son than this woman who had raised him. She leaned forward until she could see the middle of the table. The bride had given up all pretense of eating and was looking distinctly uncomfortable. Her face was flushed as if she had drunk more than she was used to. Morgause suppressed a smile.
Carefully she swung her legs over the bench and stood. “It is time I visited the privies,” she said loudly. “Would anyone like to keep me company?”
Guendivar’s eyes focused suddenly. “I would! If I drink any more I will burst!”
Petronilla looked pained, but she assisted the bride to disentangle her robes and rise. There was anxiety in Igierne’s eyes as as well, but what could be more natural than for a sister-in-law to escort the new queen?
Artor looked up, smiling with friendly concern. His companions had been seated at a lower table, but Gualchmai had left his place and was leaning with his arm draped across the top of the king’s chair. He nodded politely to his mother, but his eyes were watchful. Morgause smiled blandly and took Guendivar’s arm.
The old Roman lavatory facilities were still in use. Beyond them, a corridor opened out onto the colonnade. When they had finished and washed, Morgause paused.
“The air in the hall was so hot and warm; I still feel a little faint. Will you bear me company for a few moments in the fresh air?”
“Gladly—” answered Guendivar. “I had been hoping for a chance to speak with you,” she added shyly. “You are still a reigning queen. I suspect there are things you can tell me that I will need to know.”
Morgause peered at her through the darkness Shouts of laughter echoed faint from the hall. Could the child possibly be as ingenuous as she sounded?
“Do you love Artor?” she asked suddenly.
There was a constricted silence. “I agreed to marry him. I will do my best to make him happy.”
Morgause considered. In these garments the girl looked like an overdressed doll, but she had good bones, and her hair, a reddish gold that curled to her waist, was beautiful. Did Artor want an ally or an adorer? If he had chosen Guendivar for her pretty face, she would not hold his interest for long.
Duty was an unexciting bedfellow, but a good companion. What would this girl find it hardest to give? It occurred to her that it would serve Medraut better if Artor did not find too much comfort in his queen.
“My brother is not a bad man,” she said thoughtfully, “but he has been a king as long as you have been alive. He is accustomed to obedience. And he has been at war for many years. He will want diversion. Amuse him—be playful—feign passion, even if you do not feel it. And if he seems cold, well, you will be surrounded by virile young men. If you are discreet, you can use them for your pleasure. It has worked well for me.”
And that was true enough. But Artor was not Leudonus, who had known very well that his marriage was a political alliance, and never expected more. In Alba, the lustiness of the queen was as important as that of the king. And Alba was not a Christian land.
“You are young,” said Morgause, “and know little of the body’s demands. But as you mature you will find that a woman has needs too, and kings are very busy men.. . .”
A door opened and light and shadow barred the colonnade.
“They have missed us,” Guendivar said quickly. “We had better go in—”
“But of course,” answered Morgause. “You are the queen, and you command.” But as she followed Guendivar back into the hall, she was smiling.
A murmur of appreciation greeted Guendivar’s entrance. Morgause hung back a little, noting the gleam in men’s eyes as they watched her come. This one would not have to entice men to her bed if she decided she wanted them—they would be lining up at her door. The remains of the feast lay about them like a looted battlefield. Men had drunk enough now to want something else, and tonight, all their lust was projected upon the king.
“Don’t you think it time the little bride was bedded?” she said to Gualchmai as she passed. “She is ready, and he should not make her wait too long.”
Some of the other men heard and began to bang their mugs against the planks of the table. “To bed, to bed—let Artor prove that he is king!”
Guendivar’s face was nearly as scarlet as her gown, but even the women were laughing.
“Very well,” said Petronilla with what dignity she could muster. “Come, ladies, let us escort the queen to the bridal chamber and make her ready for her husband.”
Shouting and singing, the women crowded around the new queen and bore her away. But Morgause remained, waiting in the shadow of a pillar as the masculine banter became ever more explicit, until the king was blushing almost as hotly as his bride.
Presently she saw the little nun who had been Guendivar’s chaperone returning to tell them she was ready.
The men, for a moment abashed by her grave gaze, grew quieter. Mor
gause stepped forward.
“And will you also, sister, wish me joy?” Artor asked. “I thought you would be with the women who are helping Guendivar—”
“Oh, I have given her my advice already—” answered Morgause.
“And have you any counsel for me? Your sons have been as frank as farmers with suggestions on how I should practice a husband’s craft.”
If he had not mentioned her sons, perhaps, even then, Morgause would have kept silent. But she smiled and slid her hand gently along his upper arm.
“But you already know how to deal with a woman, dear brother, don’t you remember?” she said very softly. “And you have a son to prove it, begotten ten years since at the feast of Lugus. His name is Medraut.” Still smiling, she took his face between her hands and kissed him.
His lips were cold, and as she released him, she saw, bleak as the morning after battle, the dawn of desolation in his eyes.
The bed linen smelled of lavender. Guendivar ran her hands across the cloth, smooth with many launderings, and sighed. The linen was old, like this chamber, whose stones seemed to whisper tales of those who had lain here in the years since the mud huts of the Trinovantes were replaced by the stone and plaster of Rome.
She sat up, wrapping her arms around her knees. What am I doing here? She belonged in the open land of wood and field, not in this box of stone. Even the silk nightrobe in which they had wrapped her seemed alien. Weather permitting, she preferred to sleep bare. She considered pulling the garment off, but her mother had impressed upon her the need to behave modestly—it would never do to shock her new husband, after all.
Guendivar found it hard to believe that a man who had been living in military camps for half his life would be disturbed by bare skin. Did Artor really believe that she was the simpering maiden her mother had counselled her to be? She tried to remember their single conversation—it had seemed to her then that it was because she had red blood in her veins that he had liked her.
As she started to untie the neckstrings she heard shouting from the corridor and her fingers stilled. They were coming. Suddenly the garment seemed not a constriction, but protection. She pulled up the bedclothes and sat staring as the door swung open and torchlight, dimming the flicker of the lamps, streamed into the room.
The Hallowed Isle Book Three Page 9