***
The wedding celebration included a week of games and competitions, hunting and dancing and all manner of entertainments. There was even a tournament.
The Cornish were not familiar with the long, heavy lances our Companions use, and they responded enthusiastically when Pelleas and Gawain demonstrated a jousting maneuver with them. I was glad to see that the Prince of Orkney had taken the skinny young horseman under his wing and Pelleas was thrilled to have such a famous mentor. Like a cat that responds to stroking, Gawain left off sulking over the Marhaus adventure and now showed himself to be kind and gracious to everyone. Morgause’s son could add charm to any occasion, when he felt like it.
Arthur and Mark and Geraint took time to discuss the prospect of reopening the Cornish tin mines. So far the Saxon incursion had not moved as far west as Devon, and now that the Byzantine merchants had found a ready market at Topsham, perhaps Britain could redevelop her tin trade.
Theo, the Goth who had become leader of our fleet, sat in as well, for though he and Mark had no love for each other, the onetime pirate had proved himself adept at keeping marauders from the Bristol Channel. And Agricola volunteered his knowledge of international trade. As kingly councils go, this one was quite productive.
With Arthur thus occupied, Lancelot was left with time to spare. He soon befriended Tristan, who too often sat moping on the sidelines during the festivities. The pair of them went everywhere together. They were the biggest men in the realm, except for Pellinore and his son Lamorak, and so well matched that they filled an entire doorway when they stood side by side.
“Yesterday Griflet and I watched them wrestling,” Frieda commented as we combed out the dogs one evening. “Neither was able to best the other. I wouldn’t want to tangle with either one of ’em, M’lady…no, not at all.”
I smiled at her caution, and the fact that the Breton was providing Tris with a way to work out his misery, whether he knew of the other’s hopeless love or not.
The new bride appeared to have reconciled herself to her fate and by the third day was sitting in splendor at Mark’s side. He cosseted her like a spoiled pet, picking out the best of the wild strawberries from his own plate and putting them on hers. There was something touching about the scene, but it didn’t endear the girl to me. She accepted or disdained his offerings with an imperious nod or shake of her pretty head and I wondered what sort of Queen she could possibly grow up to be.
On the last night of feasting Isolde was clearly out of sorts. Toward the end of the meal she stood up from the table and stamped her foot in exasperation.
“Tristan is the only one who can help my headaches,” she pouted. “No one else can play the Irish harp I brought with me, and you know how much I need the music for my nerves.
Mark’s face was reddening, but as the Hall grew still he smiled calmly at his wife. “Of course the harper may attend you. But you’ll have to wait until we’ve thanked our guests for sharing this occasion with us.”
“What do I care about your old guests!” Tears brimmed in those beautiful eyes. “Surely they don’t want me to sit here, ill and unhappy, just for protocol’s sake.”
Mark leaned forward and, saying something the rest of us couldn’t hear, got Isolde to sit back down, although she stared petulantly at the plate before her.
A surge of chatter swept the Hall as everyone turned to their neighbor in sudden, animated conversation, embarrassed by the events at the royal table. Seated next to Ettard, Geraint listened politely to some tale or other. I watched them casually, thinking he was the perfect noble: brave in battle, discreet at court, and full of wit as well. The convent girl alternated between simpering coyness and blatant adoration.
Enid walked past their table, tossing off a comment that caught Geraint’s fancy, and he gave a laughing response. Predictably, Ettard was not amused, though the King of Devon managed to coax a smile out of her once Enid had gone.
***
Geraint asked to come with us when he learned we were planning to continue to the Saxon Shore. “I have no Federates in Devon—the line of hill-forts that runs north along the Avon keeps them out of the west. But I’m planning to meet with the men of those forts, and I’d be honored to present them to you.”
So we left Castle Dore with a flurry of farewells and good wishes for the Road. Even Isolde put on a cheerful face, giving us a formal thank-you for the splendid silver tray. I only hoped Agricola had been right about its auguring well for the newlyweds.
The fine, gay mood of summer lasted as we made our way along the south coast of Britain like a band of revelers on a long holiday. Riding proud along the high cliffs, we all stuck honey-scented sea pinks in our hair, and sprigs of yellow vetch as well. And where the rivers dropped down to the sea in steep, shaded canyons, we rested amid oak and fern, willow and mosses. Camping beside the green estuaries, we chatted with ferrymen and fisherfolk and shared our fires with other travelers. Dagonet piped up a cheerful tune, and we’d all go skipping along the shingle shore. Arthur doesn’t care for dancing, even on ritual occasions, but I whirled, breathless and merry, with everyone else except Lancelot.
At Maiden Castle we met the convocation of warlords from hill-forts with names like Hod Hill and Castle Ditches and White Sheets. Tough, pugnacious men who were neither as open as Pellinore nor as wild as Gwyn, they had dug into their old fortifications and dared anyone, Saxon or otherwise, to displace them. Yet they accepted Arthur as one of their own, proudly displaying their troops for him and joining in the Council round the fire at night. He listened carefully to their reports of Federate activity and praised them each for being so well informed. I watched them in the fire-glow, thinking of Merlin’s promise that Arthur would be King for all Britons.
***
“Looks to be a fine year,” Geraint noted as we came into Dorchester. “Everything quiet along the Saxon Shore, and a good crop in the fields. Why, the Cerne Abbas Giant was even seen dancing on his hillside, which always means a bountiful harvest.”
“Dancing?” I queried, remembering Agricola’s description of the huge figure cut into the turf on the chalk hill. The Roman noble and his wife had once spent the night sleeping on the Giant, in the hope that it would help them have children. That seemed a chancy pastime if the thing was going to start moving about.
“Oh, yes, M’lady, dancing…the fling, I think it was. Or was it a hop-skippety?” The King of Devon cast me a sly look and broke into laughter when I realized he was joking.
Whereas the warlords were eager to pass on whatever information they had about the barbarians, we found the would-be aristocrats of Dorchester so full of smug complacency as to be practically useless.
“The Federates?” Our Roman hostess scowled at the very word. “We have nothing to do with the likes of them. They’re all over Portchester, of course-—built their squalid little huts everywhere, both inside and out of the walls. But here they remember their place and don’t bother us.” She called over a servant—whose blond coloring looked suspiciously Saxon—and carefully surveyed the fruit on the platter he carried. “It’s so hard to manage a villa these days, what with the slaves running off three years ago. Ungrateful wretches, I hope the Saxons got them!”
***
Geraint left us next morning, heading down the Roman Road for Exeter.
“I’ve come to bid you farewell,” the gallant proclaimed, reining in before my ladies. “Can’t imagine a lovelier way to start the summer than in the company of the wise, the beautiful, and the Queen. Makes me feel like Paris with the Goddesses who started the Trojan War.”
I grinned at his nerve while Ettard dimpled coyly and Enid gave him an arch look. But before she could speak he threw us a kiss and wheeling his horse around, galloped away.
My ladies stared after him, speechless, and I thought how lucky they were—unlike royalty they were free to choose among their suitors for themselves.
Remembering Isolde, I thanked Epona that my own political marriage h
ad proved so fortunate. Arthur was a mate I could love as well as admire; my subjects accepted me with the same generosity of spirit they had afforded Igraine, and the only thing lacking in my life was a child.
When we came in sight of the Cerne Abbas Giant I gaped, open-mouthed, at the white outline of a man standing with his feet apart and club raised for action. The thing takes up most of the hillside.
“Some say it represents Hercules,” Agricola reminded me, “though one can see why childless couples come here, too.”
Indeed, the Giant’s member is outlined, bold and erect for all to admire, and I wondered if sleeping on it really did help couples conceive. When I suggested we try, Arthur actually blushed.
“Seems a bit—uh—public—don’t you think?” he stammered. “I mean, it’s not as though we’re not capable…”
I couldn’t help laughing, for goodness knows he didn’t need help in his part of our coupling. Finally, after a bit of coaxing, he agreed to climb the hill with me once the rest of the camp had gone to sleep.
Later, as I gazed into the starry blackness above us, I begged the Ancient Powers to make up for whatever it was that kept me from conceiving.
But the Gods turned a deaf ear and my courses continued to come as regularly as the phases of the moon.
***
A small, nagging doubt had begun to darken my world.
Chapter IX
Saxon Shadows
As we moved into the Saxon Shore the sense of adventure grew all around us. Like the Ancient Ones, the Federates were known more through hearsay than daily life, so the promise of actually meeting some filled me with excitement.
The man who waited at the seventh milestone beyond Portchester was blond, stocky, and not smiling. His hand rested on the throwing axe tucked into his belt, and when we approached he strode into the middle of the Road as though it were his own.
His voice was no more friendly than his face, and he made a quick count of our Companions before checking the device on our banner. “Arthur Pendragon?”
“I am he.” Arthur set his shoulders and stared the fellow in the eye.
“I’m Brieda—sent to escort you to M’lord Wihtgar.”
Without further word the guide led us into the dark woods and down a dirt track to the watermeadow beside a stream. I’d heard that Saxons prefer settling in the wet lowlands, and Wihtgar seemed to be no exception.
Fields had been cleared, pastures laid out, and a stout wall of logs put up around the small settlement. The palisade was made of whole tree trunks rammed upright in the ground and was very impressive. The Saxons are said to skin their enemies alive and nail the human hides to their palisades as a warning to all others. This one held no such horror, but I shivered when I saw it nonetheless.
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid? I thought Celtic queens weren’t afraid of anything,” Arthur teased.
“Of course not, silly. There’s no bravery in doing something you don’t have sense enough to be scared of,” I answered, lifting my chin in mock defiance, and we both laughed.
To my surprise, Lancelot grinned too and I caught a twinkle of appreciation in his eyes before he looked away. It lightened my mood unexpectedly.
A horn hung from a tree at the edge of the clearing, and after Brieda signaled our arrival with it, we approached the steading. A gate swung open, revealing a score of people coming out of huts and barns—mostly blond, mostly tall, and all watching us cautiously. Even the smith at the forge stopped to stare, his stilled hammer creating an eerie silence.
We came to a halt inside the gate, the wolfhounds standing at attention beside our horses. They held their shaggy heads high and the jewels on their bronze collars winked in the sun. A mongrel of the steading gave a warning bark but neither Cabal nor Caesar deigned to notice.
The little crowd of Saxons stood off from us; no one spoke, though there was some nudging and pointing in my direction. I wondered if they had heard as many dreadful things about us as we had about them.
Suddenly a toddler broke away from his mother, gleefully propelling himself toward Cabal. “Bow-wow,” he caroled, lurching under her chin. The adults froze, though whether from awe or fear I couldn’t tell. The war-dog didn’t even blink.
With a snarl the mongrel charged through the crowd, teeth bared in challenge. For a moment I thought the baby would be caught in the chaos of a dog fight, until a Saxon stopped the cur with a well-placed kick.
It broke the tension and a murmur of comment rose around us. When the toddler began to whimper, his mother scooped him up in her arms, and Wihtgar came slamming out of his hall.
“So you are here, British King,” the Saxon called out, scanning our party quickly. “I salute your courage.”
“And I salute your hospitality.” Arthur’s tone was positively majestic. “We come in peace, and I assume we shall be free to leave in peace.”
Wihtgar nodded and began a speech about the loyalty of the Federates, invoking the years of faithful service his people had given. I took the opportunity to study the man.
He was solidly built, with graying hair and skin that was weathered to the tan of leather. An amber talisman hung from the pommel of the sword at his side, and the edges of his tunic were sewn with bright braid. Though he was obviously the lord of the place, his boots were covered with mud from the fields and there was no Roman gentility in his stance.
On a rise behind him loomed the Mead Hall, the thick planks of its walls set vertically into the ground. In shape it was rectangular, like Roman buildings, but not nearly as elegant. A steep, thatched roof sloped down from the roofbeam, which was carved to the likeness of a monster, and several sets of antlers graced the doorway in the middle of the long side. What windows there were were shuttered, not glazed.
A number of huts and hovels clustered around the main building like piglets around a sow. Squatting under roofs that came almost to the ground, they seemed too little to be used for anything other than storage.
“Well, where are your manners, oafs!” Wihtgar had come to the end of his speech and now turned to his people. “Make the British leader comfortable. Brieda, see to the horses. Gerta, take the women with you. And you, Eostre, prepare the wassail for our guests.”
The men and women began to mill, still murmuring as they crowded around me and reached out to touch my mare. Shadow, never the calmest of animals, tossed her head and tried to back away. Frieda plowed through the little crowd and, grabbing Shadow’s bridle, held her steady so that I could dismount.
“The people mean you no harm,” she whispered. “A white horse is sacred to them. They want to touch her for good luck.”
I didn’t relish having my mare pawed over by strangers, but Arthur was moving away and I was afraid of getting separated from him. As I turned to run after him a large woman planted herself firmly in front of me.
From the ornateness of the brooches that were pinned on each shoulder and the wealth of beads and chains that swagged over her bosom between them, I surmised she was the chieftain’s wife.
She was as broad and sturdy as Wihtgar, with hands that were strong and callused from hard work. I thought of the Roman matron in Dorchester; whatever “place” that latter-day noble thought the Saxons kept, it was clear the Federates defined themselves as keepers of the land.
“The guest bowers are this way,” our hostess announced. “You will be quite comfortable.”
I sent a last pleading look toward Arthur, but he was already climbing the rise to the Hall and Frieda put a restraining hand on my arm. So while the men disappeared into the main building to eat and drink, I entered the somber world of Saxon women.
The “bowers” were the outbuildings I’d noticed. There were sheds and shanties for everything from spinning and weaving to leatherwork, and they were not only dark and stuffy but also cramped. Our sleeping quarters were somewhat bigger and more comfortable, with benches for beds and raised wooden floors that were warmer than the stone and tile pavements I was used to. Pelt
s and skins were piled in the corners, and I suspected it would be a cozy retreat when winter came.
Once I was settled Frieda led us to the kitchen where the Saxon women waited while their men were in the Hall. They studied us openly, eyes widening as they saw Igraine’s gold torque. Even my dress was a cause of wonder, and Vinnie basked happily in the reflected glory of Saxon admiration.
After I was seated on a stool by the oven, the chieftain’s wife introduced her household, coming at last to her youngest daughter.
“Eostre.” The pride of motherhood made Gerta’s deep voice richer. “She is our Cup-bearer in the Hall.”
The girl was well named, shining in this dark firmament like the Goddess of Spring. Her pale hair hung in long braids, and when she curtsied I thought of Rowena, that famous Saxon beauty who had become the wife of Vortigern. It was said the old tyrant fell in love with her as she knelt to offer him the wassail bowl. I wondered what had happened to her when Ambrosius defeated her husband—no one ever spoke of her after that.
When the presentations were over the evening filled with women’s chatter. Although they spoke some form of dialect, I could follow the gist of the conversation, most of which was about children. Everyone seemed to have produced offspring, and some complained of having more than they could manage. All I wanted was one, and I chafed at the unfairness of it, wondering what I had done to displease the Gods.
We left Wihtgar’s holding the next day with much cheering and a friendly farewell, for the men had enjoyed the visit much more than I did. Arthur assured these people that their rights would be upheld and grievances listened to, and they affirmed their loyalty in return. I had found it a colossal waste of time, but my husband was satisfied.
Wihtgar sent Brieda along as our guide through the Weald, that ancient forest where the Romans smelted so much iron that great mounds of slag were left behind. Now it was dotted with isolated Saxon settlements. We were hosted by men with names like Stuf and Maegla, and each new steading was much the same as the last—Arthur was successful in the Hall, I was miserable among the women.
Queen of the Summer Stars: Book Two of the Guinevere Trilogy Page 10
