by M. K. Hume
Like her father before her, Endellion had pondered the inevitability of old age. The first lines of age had crossed her eyes and the back of her neck; her hands were more bony than before and childbearing and gravity had caused her breasts to sag a little. She had no wish to live forever, though, even if she could be promised the wonders of eternal youth.
‘Many persons would welcome such a life – but it’s not for me,’ she murmured without thinking.
‘Your pardon, Endellion?’ Severa asked seriously, as she raised her head from a length of linen that she was valiantly attempting to hem. Most girls and women of quality learned to sew beautifully by their tenth year, but Severa’s strong hands had proved to be an exception to the rule.
‘I’m sorry, Severa, I was just thinking aloud. A spent leaf fell at my feet, so I couldn’t help but notice its beauty, even though the poor thing was about to die. So many people want to live forever, but I’m sure that our bodies would wear out and cause us terrible pain that would last throughout our interminable, deathless lives. My father, who lived to a great age, would often say that we should be wary of the dreams that we hunger after. He believed we would rue the receipt of God’s gifts if we were granted our hearts’ desires without some qualification.’
Severa glanced around at the soft green grasses, the pear tree heavy with ripening fruit, the wildflowers, and the cabbages growing thickly along the atrium path. With careful eyes, she surveyed the two-storeyed palace.
‘Living forever in this palatial home in Corinium would be very comfortable, Endellion, but to spend eternity in a dirt-floored and verminous hovel would be a different proposition. Imagine having to labour long and hard for all eternity.’
‘It would be horrid, Severa – a particularly cruel Hades. I can’t really imagine what it would be like to slave in the darkness of the lead mines or to fish in the rough seas of the ocean for long periods of time. I’ve never experienced true hunger or the agony of thirst. I can understand the suffering of others, but I’ve never had to suffer myself.’
The queen sighed as she considered her own good fortune.
‘My father believed that the old gods were tricksters who offered the people what they thought they wanted. At any road, girl, I’ve done enough moaning and groaning for one day. Still, I wish that Aeron was safely at home.’
With a feeling of regret in the pit of her stomach, Endellion recalled the many years of separation in those years when Aeron had followed Magnus Maximus on his campaigns into Gallia. Maximus had been the long-time friend of her father, King Caradoc of Tintagel, so Endellion was familiar with the background of the Roman commander who had been executed by his enemies some twelve years earlier. Her father had been a tribal king noted for his statesmanship, his expertise as a military commander and his success as regent of Britannia during the period that Maximus had carried out his foray into Gallia. Caradoc’s reputation had endured for the twelve years that had elapsed since his death.
Those twelve years had passed in the blinking of an eye. Endellion still struggled to accept that both her father and Flavius Magnus Maximus had been dead for all that time. Aeron had told her that these two very different leaders had been favoured by Fortuna and were gifted, or cursed, with mercurial powers. The gods had loved them, but both men had paid a price for the favours of Heaven.
The queen glanced around the atrium of the Roman-style villa that was used as Corinium’s royal palace. Endellion could recall the features of Llew pen Adwen, the king of these lands, who had been no older than her present age when he had died at the hands of the wild savages from Hibernia. His dowager queen, Llian, was still domiciled within the palace. The death of Llian’s much-loved husband had meant that Endellion’s own husband, Aeron, had reluctantly assumed the throne, despite the resultant loss of his freedom.
‘After all, I had adventures enough during those years when I was dragged along in the wake of Maximus’s army. I knew sufficient excitement to last a lifetime,’ Aeron had told his queen during a quiet and contemplative conversation. ‘My sleep is still disturbed whenever I have dreams of my escape to Britannia, after Maximus was defeated in Italia. I thought at the time that you had been irrevocably lost to me.’
‘My father admired the words of Socrates, the Greek philosopher, who said that the throne of a kingdom was a burden that could be compared with a cup of poison,’ Endellion had responded. ‘It seemed crazy to me that any man could steal that cup willingly, but he convinced me that possession of a throne seems wonderful as long as you don’t have to bear the responsibilities that go with the task. The ruler is expected to serve as well as rule and the poisoned cup can destroy those who sip from it.’
Endellion possessed firm views on duty and responsibility, and she recalled how she had lain with Aeron in one of the grand rooms of the villa before the commencement of King Llew’s funeral and the presentation of her husband to the Dobunni people as their new king. Aeron had refused to take immediate possession of the king’s quarters. ‘I think it’s best for the grieving queen to have a short period of normalcy before we ask her to move to her new abode,’ he had said with his usual compassion. Endellion had agreed without hesitation but, as events transpired, Llian had been invited to dwell with Aeron’s queen as a permanent resident in the palace, where she would remain as an honoured guest comfortably ensconced in her own suite of rooms. Her old servants were permitted to serve her in her widowhood and she was able to instruct Endellion in the multitude of tasks that a queen must learn to embrace.
Now, four years after those sweeping changes in their circumstances, Endellion and Aeron had settled into Corinium with dutiful hearts, as they worked hard to earn the love of the Dobunni tribe. The servants were soon reporting to the citizenry that the queen worked at menial tasks just like any poor housewife would have done, while she spent hours of her day reviewing the many duties involved in organising the household in an earnest, practical fashion. The population of Corinium were gratified too to learn that the dowager queen was blooming as she cared for Endellion’s growing brood.
Endellion’s pleasant reverie was interrupted by the entry of a slight, boyish girl of some ten years, who skidded to a halt on the stones of the atrium as she tried to slow her headlong run.
‘Mother, please order Pridenow to leave my hair alone,’ Endellion’s eldest child, a daughter called Orla, demanded once she caught her breath. ‘Please tell him to stop! He’s already cut off a part of my plaits.’
Orla was yet to grow into the beauty that her facial bones promised. Long-legged and boyish, she had the black hair of her mother and the same green eyes. She had recently taken an interest in more feminine pursuits for the very first time, so the mutilated plait was a matter of some hot and impatient tears.
A little boy pounded through the room in chase of his older sister, head down like a charging bull as he attempted to keep up with her. He was so angry that he didn’t realise his mother was present until he ran headlong into her wicker mending basket and, with a sudden gasp of pain from a scraped shin, realised that he was in trouble again.
Pridenow was seven, an active little boy with a chubby, arresting face and mobile features. Endellion’s heart almost stopped with love and the fears she felt for his future.
Pridenow possessed a pair of clear, light-grey eyes that were so unusual that those persons who met the boy for the first time were often confused by those deceptively transparent and colourless windows into the soul. Endellion had first seen those eyes when the child was presented to her, still covered in blood and mucus, immediately after his birth. She remembered her father’s repetition of the prophecy made on the night of Endellion’s conception by her birth-mother, Saraid, the Wise Woman of the Red Wells, who had long since passed into the shades. The crux of the prophecy had been passed down to Caradoc’s sons and, in turn, would be repeated to Caradoc’s grandsons, for Saraid had assured the great king that a grey-eyed
man would, one day, enter the court of one of the Dumnonii kings. All of Caradoc’s male heirs must be dissuaded from travelling to Armorica, or following any leader who promised glory in the wars that were waged in Gallia. The grey-eyed man must be dissuaded from precipitate actions, or the Dumnonii tribe would suffer untold disasters, as would the other tribes of Britannia. Caradoc had left a short but deadly message for those men of his clan who would follow him into the future.
Would Pridenow grow into that grey-eyed man? At seven, he was far too young to carry the fate of the nation on his chubby shoulders if Saraid’s prophecy had been true.
Like most men, Aeron was inclined to make light of Endellion’s fears. ‘There must be more grey-eyed lads in Britannia, especially in those tribal outlands where northerners had mated with British women,’ he reminded her. ‘I doubt that Pridenow would be the boy your mother referred to when she described the hero destined to become Britannia’s saviour. It’s more likely that the witch-woman was speaking of later times in the future of the British people.’
She had nodded, unable to find any flaw in her husband’s reasoning. Aeron was such a logical man that she had been persuaded by his certainty. But she was Pridenow’s mother; she had kissed his scabbed knees better when he fell and she had spread arnica on his bruises. She had chided him when he tumbled out of trees, even as she anxiously checked his sturdy little body for broken bones. Even now, his clothing made up the bulk of the mending in her basket, for he tore his shirts and outgrew his trews so quickly.
Despite Aeron’s best intentions, Endellion had arrived at her own decision regarding Pridenow’s wellbeing. Even if the whole world might suffer as a consequence of her actions, she would never permit her son to travel to the continent. She had heard the stories about her mother’s gifts of the Sight and she knew, from bitter experience, that this inherited talent was real. Her own dreams had seemed threateningly real, even when she couldn’t understand their meaning, because they were either revelations from an unknown past or predictions of a distant future.
Saraid had been presumed dead long before Endellion had met her future husband, for the Wise Woman of the Red Wells had vanished into the depths of the forest leaving her neat little house a deserted shell. When Endellion was ten years old, Caradoc had sought Saraid only to find her round stone cottage was in ruins, the remains open to the sky. Storms and inclement weather had torn away the thatch and rotted the rafters. But Saraid’s carefully tended roses had grown wild, to clamber over the stone walls in a fountain of scarlet and heart’s-blood red.
In his infancy, Endellion had been certain that her changeling son would die. Yet here was her grey-eyed boy, alive and well. Moreover, he belonged to a bloodline that should exist long into the future. But if Pridenow was invited to Gallia, Endellion would know that Saraid had truly seen the shadows of days that had not yet dawned.
As Endellion considered her children’s squabble, a ripe pear fell from one of the branches of the tree in the atrium.
‘Come here, Pridenow. Why are you tormenting your sister? Orla is so much bigger than you that she isn’t allowed to strike you back. I had thought better of my young man.’
The little boy blushed resentfully and scowled with rage. Although incensed with his sister, he felt a sense of shame because he had been too angry to consider that Orla had been forbidden to retaliate.
‘I’d forgotten, Mother. Orla told me I was a runt with fish eyes. She said my eyes are the same colour as some of the dead pilchards that are laid out in the baskets at the marketplace. My eyes aren’t like those of a dead fish, are they?’
Endellion knew she mustn’t show any partiality if he was to develop into a strong and honest young man. ‘That’s not an excuse, Pridenow. You must never harm a girl, no matter what they might say or do.’
‘But that’s not fair!’ Pridenow exclaimed. ‘She’s bigger than me!’
‘But you’ll grow faster than she will, so now is the time when you must learn to treat women with care and respect. Never believe that men’s size permits them to beat their wives and abuse their daughters.’
Pridenow shook his head miserably.
‘I still don’t think it’s fair,’ he muttered, but Endellion could tell that her son had understood everything she had said and so she was confident that Pridenow would gain something worthwhile from her lesson.
‘Just look at Orla’s hair!’ Endellion held up the offending plait. ‘A girl’s hair is a reflection of her physical beauty and you’ve managed to mar hers by chopping pieces out of it. It will take years to grow back again. Did you mean to make her unhappy?’
‘No, Mother! But she made me really, really angry . . .’ Pridenow’s excuses trailed away into silence.
‘Right, young man, I have a small task that you will carry out for me. But, before that, I want you to apologise to your sister for your rude behaviour.’
Endellion waited while the small boy kicked restlessly at the tiles on the floor of the atrium until finally he apologised to Orla with a sheepish smile.
‘Now, young Pridenow! I want you to climb the tree and pick the last of the pears for me. You can also gather the bruised fruit lying on the ground.’ Endellion pointed imperiously at an old, plaited basket. ‘But, before you begin, I want you to listen while I speak to Orla.
‘What really happened, Orla? What made Pridenow so angry? He’s not normally spiteful!’
‘Nothing much, Mother. He’s always very touchy, so it’s difficult to joke with him.’
Orla was attempting to look guileless, but the girl was unable to lie worth a tinker’s curse.
‘Is that the truth, Orla?’
‘Nearly, Mother . . .’ She twirled her cut plait around her forefinger and searched her mind for a plausible excuse.
‘Tell me, Orla, or perhaps I should ask your brother for his version of this tale.’
Orla capitulated. Her mother watched and waited as the girl explained what had really transpired.
‘He was upset when I made some jokes about his eyes. I heard Gwyneth talking to the other servants about wolves’ eyes. She was joking, but she said that Pridenow was a very nice little boy, considering he carried the blood of the wolf god in his veins. I was only repeating the maid’s words, Mother, so I couldn’t have known that he’d be upset. When he yelled at me, I said his eyes reminded me of a dead fish.’
Endellion’s lips twitched, but she forced herself to raise one eyebrow and look sternly at her daughter. Orla suddenly realised how cold her mother’s green eyes could be.
‘What am I to do with you, Orla? You’ve called him a wolf and a dead fish at the same time. Pretty insults to throw at your younger brother, aren’t they?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Orla whispered.
‘Pridenow has heard the same thing said by thoughtless servants for as long as he can remember. I’ve heard many stupid insults over the years about any number of people. I’ve heard that blue eyes are cold, brown eyes are lusty, black eyes are wicked and hazel eyes are indicators of a foolish nature in their owner. I’ve also been told that blond hair is a sign of barbarism, in which case your Aunt Severa is barbaric. Black hair like yours has often been compared with the tresses of witches, while red hair is universally believed to belong to those with an evil disposition. Do I need to explain this nonsense any further?’
‘No! Not at all, Mother,’ Orla whispered in a contrite voice, while Pridenow hid a grin behind his hand.
‘You’ll have to learn to ignore gossip because it’s usually unkind and often wrong. Yes, wolves do have grey eyes, but they are creatures of the wild and they live in families, just like we do. Like us they also live together in love and loyalty. Your family is the most important thing in your life, and your family members will always come to your defence, so you must do your very best not to hurt your brother’s feelings.’
‘I’m sorry, Mother. I didn’t stop to think.’ Orla turned to her brother. ‘I’m sorry, Pridenow. I was trying to irritate you because you are always following me around. I don’t really think you’re like a wolf at all. Or a dead fish.’
Now that honour had been satisfied on both sides, Pridenow began to collect the last of the fruit from the pear tree, his furious anger now forgotten.
Once Pridenow had picked the last of the pears, both children presented the fruit to Endellion and accompanied their mother to a long, separate room where all cooking for the villa was carried out. Fire was one of the great enemies of family life, with the exception of Saxon attacks and disease, for the flames that baked their bread and roasted their meat could easily kill them if it escaped from the stone fire pits and ovens.
In the warmth of the stone-floored kitchen, Orla and Pridenow peeled the pears which were cooked and made into a honeyed treat with some of Endellion’s precious condiments, odd little aromatic sticks from far-off eastern lands. As the concoction was placed into a fire-blackened pot of water and swung over the hot coals, she prayed soundlessly that her brood would always remain safe.
‘It’s time that Severa was wed, Endellion, but who will take her?’ Aeron asked his wife one night as they were sharing some companionable silence in the scriptorium. Like Endellion, he was extremely fond of the well-born orphan who had always been the responsibility of the Dumnonii people, firstly in the capable hands of King Caradoc and, after his death, in the care of the only mother she had ever known, Endellion.
‘Yes, husband. She has passed her nineteenth year and should have been wedded for several years by now, but waiting for the right man never caused me any harm.’
Endellion was referring to the long courtship between herself and Aeron that had resulted from her husband’s adventures with Severa’s father, Flavius Magnus Maximus, during the emperor’s forays into Gallia and Italia. Although Endellion had met Aeron when she was barely eleven years of age, Maximus’s ambitions had kept them apart until she was, in the eyes of her world, an old maid.