“His cause?” Arthur barked. “The man claims my title and flaunts a Celtic name while leading Saxon sea wolves. What sort of ‘cause’ is that?”
“In his eyes, a very good one.” Nimue took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Remember Vortigern’s young Saxon wife, Rowena? Once the tyrant married her, he had to stake his future on the Federates. He even went so far as to declare himself to be one of them—‘I am a Gewis!’—making their cause his cause. When Ambrosius deposed him, the Saxons had a double reason to spirit his widow back to the Continent; not only was she of their own blood, her child was the son of the British High King. The boy was nine years old at the time, and his name was Cerdic.”
“My God,” Pelleas whispered, hastily crossing himself as Arthur’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.
“So now he claims royal blood through his father’s line, and the loyalty of his troops through his mother’s.” Nimue grimaced. “It’s a neat bit of political genealogy.”
“And casts me as the usurper.” Arthur nodded, brow furrowed and jaw set. “Besides being clever, what sort of man is he?”
“Nearing forty—tough, experienced, and very good at rallying people to his side. He’s brought several warrior sons with him, though the youngest, Cynric, is barely old enough to be a squire. I think he hopes to found a dynasty.”
Arthur had begun to pace. “And the Federates? How many of them have joined him?”
“So far the danger is contained in the south. The older families along the Thames are still loyal to you, and most of the Fen people as well, while the northern Saxons are too disorganized themselves to help anyone else. Neither Octha of Kent nor Aelle of Sussex have committed themselves, waiting to see what sort of support this newcomer commands—but the landholders of the Weald such as Wihtgar and Maegla and Stuf have thrown their lot in with Cerdic’s.”
The names brought a sinking feeling to my stomach, for they were the very leaders who had hosted us on the Saxon Shore.
“And they are picking up others on their march to Winchester.”
“Winchester?” Arthur exclaimed, suddenly freezing. “Have they taken the town?”
Nimue shook her head. “Not yet.”
Arthur was scowling fiercely, everything else save Cerdic forgotten. “If he winters over in Winchester, in the spring his men will be fresh for an assault on the Goring Gap, with the chance to march on London…From there, if he gains the support of the Federates along the Thames, he could drive a Saxon wedge clear across Logres to the Severn plain…”
All thought of Merlin and my father’s dying had disappeared from Arthur’s world. Here, in the very moment when we both balanced on the edge of the abyss, stripped naked before the specter of death, the Gods were striking us asunder. If ever we had a right to cling together, a need to console each other, it was now. I needed him as never before, and suspected he needed me as well.
Yet Britain needed him, too, and I turned away, stifling a sob as he ordered Pelleas to waken Gawain and set up a small room for a conference. There was nothing I could do but stand by and watch as Arthur prepared for war.
Engrossed in my own thoughts, I jumped when Nimue pressed a mug of something warm into my hands. “It will help you rest,” she whispered. “Arthur doesn’t need you at the conference, and I’ll wake you before he leaves.”
I started to argue with her, but Arthur was already out the door, so I drank the potion gratefully and flung myself into a deep and dreamless sleep.
***
The sky was going gray before the dawn, and in the willows along the river the warblers began to sing. I stood before my husband, shivering in the nippy air.
“I’m taking Cabal, but Griflet and Caesar stay with you. At Appleby you’ll have Bedivere and your father’s men to protect you.” Arthur glanced around the room, checking for things he didn’t want to leave behind. “Did you and your father discuss what would happen to Rheged after his death?”
“We agreed Urien could stand for Regent until such time as I have children,” I answered numbly. “That was part of the treaty you had us sign at the end of the Great Battle, remember? The one that stopped the border raids.”
My husband paused to look directly at me, then cleared his throat. “Aye, and important it was, too; the rest of the Cumbri followed suit because of your father. Do tell him”—his voice dipped slightly—“how grateful I have always been for that.”
I nodded miserably, and then his arms were around me and we clung together like children in the shadow of night. Visions of Saxon traitors and hawthorn blossoms and a great man lying dead in a cave somewhere swirled all around us.
“Ah, lass,” Arthur whispered into my hair, “it’s time we found that place to build our own retreat, and leave off traipsing about the land. I’ve a bellyful of strangers’ ways and diplomacy, and would like nothing better than to choose a place to call home and settle in for a while.”
It was such an unexpected sentiment, I stood very still, wondering if I was hearing him right.
“I’ll send for you as soon as I’ve put this Cerdic in his place.” He stepped back, holding me at arm’s length. “This is one of the safest spots you could be, with nary a barbarian for leagues around. I’ll leave Maelgwn in Gwynedd to keep the Irish from sneaking in the back door while I’m busy with the Saxons—-but the rest of the Kings will follow me. Now give us a smile,” he commanded as Nimue arrived with word that the men were ready to leave.
“I’m going with you,” she announced, coming to stand before us in her beggar-boy guise. “I promised Merlin to look after you, whether you want it or not.”
“Well,” Arthur answered cautiously, “I’m much obliged.”
He moved to the door and pausing to look back at me, gave me the “thumbs up” sign. I answered him in kind, and for a moment we grinned. Then he turned on his heel and left.
Nimue’s arms went around me, and I clung to her as I had once clung to Brigit—frightened, exhausted, and desperate for some kind of reassurance.
“The bards will call this one of his great victories,” the doire said, stroking my hair as she led me toward the bed. “He’s wearing the cape you made him…the one with the symbols of the Goddess, and no harm will come to him.”
Her voice carried the same conviction that Merlin’s had whenever he spoke of Arthur. But when I was under the covers and she had turned to go, I asked if she couldn’t give some similar assurance about my father.
***
Nimue hesitated only a moment. “Remember, Gwen, your husband will live,” was all that she could offer.
Chapter XIX
The Funeral
We were halfway to Appleby when I saw Bedivere galloping toward us. The tone of his greeting told me my father had already died.
“Yesterday afternoon,” he confirmed, his voice full of compassion as he reined in next to me. “We heard you were as close as Dumbarton, but he couldn’t last any longer.”
The words came from across a great gulf, as if they pertained to something else entirely. Tears congealed into a lump in my throat, blocking any sound I might have made. I thanked him with a nod and stared straight ahead as we continued down the Stainmore.
Among the best roads the Romans ever built, it stretched bright and friendly through my memory. It was here that Mama and my father had laughed and raced and loved, back before death stole her and my little brother away. Those were the days when Kaethi taught me of the Old Gods who lived in trees and sacred groves, and I spent every free moment down at the stables with Rhufon, learning as much as I could about the horses until Mama discovered it and banished me to the weaving room.
The breeze that whispered around me now carried voices of that bygone time. I blinked in the summer sun, convinced that if I turned quickly enough, I’d find my family all come back again, making the noisy, cheerful trips between forts and roundhouses and moldering Roman towns. Surely this talk of death was just another bad dream.
But the household members
who greeted me at Appleby were already in deep mourning. I accepted their condolences with a silent nod and turned toward the double doors of the Great Hall.
“He was very proud of you, Gwen.” Bedivere’s voice was hushed as he stood next to me, his good hand at my elbow should I need support. “He talked about you often, and asked me to make sure you received the Ring of State.”
I stared down at the heavy golden band Arthur’s foster-brother put in my palm but saw instead the small enamel ring of Mama’s that my father had given me when I left to go marry Arthur. My fingers closed on the vision without a word as Bedivere and I made our way silently through the doors.
The room was empty and hushed, and far smaller than I remembered. But the shadows under the lofts still offered a quiet spot to exchange secrets, and the carved pillars still rose proudly to the high-pitched roof, though now the faces that peered out from the twining vines wept as we passed slowly under their gaze.
My father’s body lay in state on a bier set up beyond the fire pit. I looked down at the weathered face, wondering once more where the life and warmth and spirit of living goes when it forsakes the human husk.
He had not changed much in the years since I’d been gone; his beard was a little grayer, but the furrows of pain from crippling arthritis had been deep-carved almost since I could remember. I stared at the knobby, twisted hands and reached out to touch the little finger where he used to wear Mama’s ring.
“I lost it in a good cause,” I whispered, hoping he’d understand.
And then I was sitting at a table, going over the funeral plans with Bedivere, leaving Enid to take care of my ladies and thinking how fortunate I was to have a loving household to help me through this time.
***
“Oh, Missy,” Gladys exclaimed when I came into the kitchen. Her red hands and stolid frame were just as I remembered, and she threw her arms around me in a hug as though I were still a child living at home.
“’Tis a delight to have you back again, and a shame that it’s at such a time,” she blubbered before pulling back and looking me thoroughly up and down. “The High King’s cook seems to feed you well enough. Or maybe you just quit growing up, and decided to fill out.”
I smiled in spite of my grief, for she hadn’t changed a bit, and her brusque tones and common sense were as bracing as ever. Even her kitchen was as it had been when I left—bannocks baking on the griddle stone, a haunch turning on the spit. Over by the door a scullery maid scrubbed the paving stones. I clung gratefully to the familiar, unchanging warmth of it.
“But you’ve no little ones?”
Typically, Gladys went right to the point, and I winced as I shook my head.
“Well,” she acknowledged, pursing her lips as she sampled the soup in the pot, “we’ll fix you some simples to take care of that.”
You and all the rest of the world, I thought wearily.
“If only Kaethi were still alive, she’d have a recipe for you.”
“She’s also gone?”
My knees buckled, and I sank onto the stool by the churn. Kaethi had been the mentor of my childhood, the tart voice of reason that pointed out the foibles of mankind and taught me not to take myself too seriously. I paled with the knowledge that she was no longer here.
“Oh, Missy, I thought surely you would have heard. She died in her sleep last winter.”
I looked away, angry and hurt that the Gods should store up so many losses to lay on me at once. “And Rhufon?” I asked, daring the Fates to take him away as well.
“Ah, the Horse Master’s still alive, but he got kicked by a dray horse that was being shod, and hasn’t been right in the head since. He sits in the sun most any warm afternoon and mutters away to your mother, or Nonny…sometimes he talks to you as well.”
I sighed, suddenly very tired and alone; without father or husband or even Kaethi’s insights, I’d have to convince the people to accept Urien as Regent by myself. It would mean tact and diplomacy, and a good deal more confidence than I presently possessed. I wasn’t sure I could accomplish it.
“Of course you can, child. Why do you think we raised you as we did?” The memory of Kaethi’s high, birdlike voice came to me as clearly as the splashing of the scullery girl, and I squared my shoulders with an inward sigh.
A Celtic Queen does what has to be done.
***
The intricate dance of diplomacy began even before the funeral was held. I sat in Mama’s carved chair a slight distance from my father’s bier and received the nobles of the nearby lands with quiet solemnity. I hoped they took it as a newfound dignity rather than the exhaustion it really was.
Uwain came in his father’s place since Urien had joined Arthur in his march against Cerdic. The boy was awfully young to represent a kingdom as powerful as Northumbria, but I suspected my people would find him less offensive than his parent—Urien had regularly raided our borders before Arthur instigated the truce, and not a few of our men had lost limbs and relatives trying to keep our rapacious neighbor out. Old warriors have long memories, so I was relieved it was the son and not the father who came for the funeral.
Fergus of Dal Riada was too busy fighting the Picts to go south with Arthur, but he came to pay homage to my father, as did many of the smaller leaders from the splintered kingdoms beyond the Wall.
My cousin Maelgwn arrived as well—Arthur had said he would leave him in Gwynedd to guard our flank. The man moved suavely across the Hall, accompanied by richly garbed nobles and a huge black dog—probably the beast named Dormarth that Poulentis had mentioned.
The Welsh King was effusive in his condolences. He went down on one knee before my chair, his voice full of honey and sympathy. The sunlight tangled in his graying hair, giving him a distinguished look as he lifted my hand to his lips. One would have thought we were the best of friends, and I wondered if he knew how much I detested him. Certainly he must remember the black eye I’d given him, but my icy greeting didn’t remove the smile from his face.
“How sad your father didn’t get to see you again,” he purred. “He would be much impressed, I’m sure. Why, I remember you as a freckle-faced youngster, and would never guess that you’d become such a beautiful woman.”
A stony silence hung between us. I am fully aware that I’m nowhere near the beauty that Mama was; trustworthy, quick-witted, competent—these are the words they use to describe me. Maelgwn’s attempt to appeal to a vanity I’d never developed struck me as one more indication of his deviousness.
I pulled my hands free of his grasp and called for Bedivere to join me. Hopefully my cousin would take the hint and leave me alone.
“Who will be selected to rule Rheged, now that your father cannot?” Maelgwn persisted, ignoring my rudeness.
“No one,” I snapped. “The people will no doubt approve Urien as Regent until such time as my own offspring are old enough to stand for the monarchy.”
For a moment my unctuous relative was caught off balance.
“But surely, as kin to your mother, my own line should be considered.”
“It was.” I leaned ramrod straight against the back of the royal chair and looked my opponent squarely in the eye. “But both my father and I agreed that a Regency under Urien was more desirable.”
“Well, perhaps I can change your mind, fair lady,” Maelgwn responded, the cold edge of anger glinting under his words.
We were poised like a pair of swordsmen who have crossed blades down to the hilt, each weighing when and how to jump free of the stalemate. I refused to look away, and at last he blinked and stepped back out of the sunlight.
Bedivere moved in beside me, ostensibly to explain who would lead my father’s stallion in the procession the next day. I rose from my chair and walked away with the lieutenant, dismissing Maelgwn without so much as a glance.
“He could cause no end of trouble,” the lieutenant warned under his breath, and I nodded silently. It was clear I must put my own imprint on the future of Rheged as soon as
possible.
I spent that evening at the stables, reminiscing with Rhufon—who faded in and out of the present like a winter tree wrapping itself in mists—and getting acquainted with the man who had become the new Horse Master.
Some of the new animals eyed me cautiously, but I found fond welcome from the horses I’d known all my life. My father’s stallion nickered and blew against my shoulder, butting me impatiently as though annoyed that I should smell so familiar but not be the one for whom he waited. He was a tall horse, even for a Shire, and more high-strung than most. I could not remember anyone other than my father having ridden him, save perhaps Rhufon. It wasn’t clear how much this was due to my father’s pride in the animal and how much stemmed from the unruly nature of the stallion himself. But we had a long talk, that horse and I, and I went to bed feeling more confident about the morrow.
Before the funeral I tugged on a pair of breeches and simple tunic instead of a dress and, leaving my hair to hang long and free in filial mourning, rummaged through several chests until I found my father’s crown. Planting it firmly on my head, I turned and marched down to the stables.
There had been a summer shower in the night, as though the heavens were shedding the tears that I could not, but the day itself bloomed bright and clear. As the entourage formed up, I brought my father’s stallion from the barn.
When the solemn drumbeat started, it was I, Guinevere, who walked with the riderless animal behind his master’s body.
A murmur of surprise ran through the Court, but the horse and I kept stately pace with the rumbling drum, looking neither to left nor right. I’ve often suspected that animals know full well what happens in their human masters’ lives, and this morning the fractious stallion moved with a slow, deliberate purpose as though grieving for the King who would not ride again.
My father’s coffin had long been ready, and it was lowered softly into the grave beside his love’s. Mama had died unexpectedly and been buried hastily in a hollow log. Now the earth cradled them both, the one so young and vibrant, the other so bent with sorrow and pain. I hoped that Mama’s spirit still lingered on the Isle of the Blessed, to receive my father when he arrived.
Queen of the Summer Stars: Book Two of the Guinevere Trilogy Page 22
