I looked down the Roman Road that leads to East Anglia and wondered how things were going at Wehha’s settlement now that Wuffa was in charge. Unfortunately, he’d left on one of his regular trips back to the homeland, and so would not be able to host us this time.
Cambridge had not grown much over the years, but was still an army outpost—one of the many Uther Pendragon had set up to keep the Saxons within the agreed-upon boundaries. We camped on a nearby ridge and watched a whey-white moon rise out of the misty Fens on a soft night in July.
At Lincoln the troops assured us that all had been quiet in their area since each local Saxon had personally sworn fealty to the High King, following the Battle of Mount Badon. “They remember how you put them in chains and only released them when they bent the knee and made their oath,” the captain of the outpost said. “Nothing like a good dose of authority to keep ’em in line.”
“And a bit of humanity,” Lancelot noted softly, remembering that if Arthur had not released those men, their crops would have gone unharvested and many a Saxon steading would have known famine that year.
York was considerably quieter since Urien had moved so many of his men north. Uwain kept the fort manned, however, and he took us to a room in one of the many-sided towers that overlooked the river Ouse. It was light and airy as tower rooms go, and held nothing but a table and some chairs, while a frame on the wall supported a stretched cowhide. A map of Urien’s country had been drawn on the leather, from York all the way up to the river Tweed.
“My father’s decided to make Yeavering his northern headquarters,” Uwain explained, tapping the map with an ivory pointer. “It’s an old hill-fort tucked into the hills above the river Glen. A bit off the track, but it commands a splendid view in all directions. There’s been enough activity to warrant fortifying the area, keep out invaders, and protect the villages along the northern coast. He’s thinking about refurbishing the Roman signal towers, and the red-rock bluffs at Bamburgh are a natural spot for a seaside fortress.”
Arthur stroked his mustaches and scowled, but it was Lance who spoke up. “What about the lands around Warkworth?”
“No trouble that I’ve heard of.” Uwain put down his pointer and turned to the Breton. “That’s where Joyous Gard is, isn’t it? There in the loop of the river? You might consider putting up walls, if you haven’t already.”
“That likely to be attacked?”
Uwain lifted one shoulder noncommittally. “Considering what I’ve seen and heard on the Continent, I’d say Britain will be seeing an overflow of Saxons and Frisians, Angles and Jutes, for years to come. With the Goths having displaced so many of the tribes across Europe, these are the people who’ve been pushed to the water’s edge. Naturally, if they can make it to Britain in a single day’s journey across the sea, they’re going to try.”
Uwain’s words made me think of Theodoric leading his hordes across the mountains into Italy—a wave of history that couldn’t be stopped. It sent a shiver down my back.
“I don’t want to turn Joyous Gard into a fortress,” Lance noted as we walked back to the fancy terraced house Uwain had put at our disposal. “But perhaps something around the farmyard…”
Arthur agreed, so when we came to Portgate where the Roman Road known as Dere Street passes through the Wall, Lancelot bade us farewell and continued north to his Joyous Garden. He took some of his own men and Gareth as well, and as I watched them canter off down the broad pavement, I thought how fortunate it was that the boy he’d taken in as a squire had grown into such a close friend.
We turned west, traveling along the supply road that clings to the base of the Wall. According to Cathbad, it was some old Caesar who built the stone bulwark across the width of Britain, stretching from Newcastle to Carlisle. It rides the north-facing ridges and bristles with forts designed to keep the Pict and Scot from raiding the richer lands to the south. No doubt it has been successful; from base to parapet it rises to three times the height of a man. Certainly I wouldn’t want to scale it.
The towers, which were built within shouting distance of each other, mostly stand empty and deserted. A few of the smaller forts are still used to shelter shepherds or farmers or the occasional traveler journeying to or from Carlisle. Villages had grown up outside the larger compounds such as Chester, and although they had dwindled in size after the Legions left, they still manned the Wall for local leaders.
The Romans were noted for moving men and goods in a straight line, rarely deviating for such things as rivers or gullies. Where these were too steep, they threw bridges across the canyons, as in the stretch of Dere Street north of the fort at Binchester. But along the Wall itself, bridges were used only for crossing major rivers, as the barrier had to hug the earth. Where the Wall followed the broad valley of the lower Tyne we rode comfortably enough, but as the land grew more rugged, the way became too steep for horses, and we had to dismount.
“Might as well climb to the parapet and walk along the top,” Arthur suggested since we had to go by foot anyway. I thought it a splendid idea, so while squires took the horses down to the more level Road known as the Stone Gate, we strode along like Roman soldiers, surveying the land on either side of the Wall. A cleared area of trackways or ditches ran along its base, leaving few places where an enemy could hide, and I pitied anyone who tried to cross the thing by stealth.
“The Romans even fixed grates under the arches of the bridge,” Arthur noted as the Wall took a huge, flying leap across the North Tyne at Chester. “They wanted to make sure no one could sneak through, either by swimming or using a boat.”
We were standing outside the tower that protects the eastern abutment, where the guards were all in a dither to find the High King so suddenly in their midst. One of the sentries at the other end of the bridge dashed down the stairs to find someone who could welcome us officially.
While we waited for this little nicety—no Celtic ruler enters a town or fort without permission of the inhabitants, unless it is his own—I leaned over the railing of the bridge and stared down into the turbulent river. Stained dark as tea by the peat they seeped through, the waters leapt and tumbled along their rocky bed, and when I squinted, I could just make out the shadow of the grates Arthur had mentioned. Probably made of elm, I decided, since it is the wood that best survives years of submersion, and the Romans were nothing if not thorough in planning their defenses to last for lifetimes.
In every aspect the Tyne is a lovely river—broad and rambunctious as it flows toward the sea, bright and swirling in its upper branches where it foams over rocky rapids and drops into pools below fern-clad banks. Over the years I’d come to love the rivers of Logres and the Midlands, Caerleon and London and York, but none carries with it the clear, lovely music of an upland stream, or reminds me so much of my childhood. Now, with the sound of the Tyne in my ears, I looked at Arthur and laughed, just for the pleasure of it.
The people of Chester were a boisterous lot, rugged and vocal in their welcome, so we were fed and entertained in typical northern fashion. They might be proud and sometimes fractious, but their admiration for the Pendragon was beyond question.
We were greeted with equal enthusiasm at Carlisle, where the stuffy bishop delivered a welcoming speech in the name of the entire community. It seemed that the Christian leader had managed to convert a large number of the locals, and his cathedral was flourishing. Considering that, I should not have been surprised when the monk Gildas requested an audience with us at the big house by the river a week later.
When we were young, my father had turned down Gildas as a potential husband for me. I eyed the wispy little man with the haughty air and narrow eyes who now stood before us and was grateful to have escaped becoming his wife. The Church had proved the best place for him, and of late he’d been overseeing Maelgwn’s stay at the monastery at Bangor. The notion he had come to report on my loathsome cousin brought a frown, but it seemed he had more pleasant things on his mind.
“A king of your s
tature needs someone to keep your archives,” the monk told Arthur over dinner that night, setting his lips in a pinched fashion as he reached for a second helping of sea trout.
“Archives?” My husband hooted in surprise, and the cleric jerked his hand back guiltily. “What do I need archives for? I’ve a perfectly good bard to compose songs of my achievements—and a jester to remind anyone else who might forget.”
“Besides,” I interjected, gently pushing the platter of fishes toward our guest, “an old man at Oxford already asked to compile them.”
“Yes, I know.” Gildas gave me a smug smile. “I happened to be in Oxford when the fellow lay dying, and I gave him last rites. He was most upset at not having someone to carry on his task, so I promised to look into the matter. I have his scrolls in my luggage. If I came to live with you, I could catch up on whatever he hasn’t already recorded. Besides”—this to Arthur with an ingratiating smile—“it seems to me your Court needs a holy man to round it out.”
“Oh, we already have several,” I assured him. “There’s Cathbad the Druid, and Lionel, who officiates at the Mithraic rites. And, of course, Father Baldwin for the Christians. I think you’ll find our household quite ecumenical.”
The monk shot me a disapproving look and irritably pronged a trout.
“You’re welcome to stay with us as long as you wish,” Arthur interjected, giving me a nudge under the table. Clearly he felt it was important to have the Church’s backing. “We’ll be on the move much of the time. I don’t expect to get back to Camelot until Samhain, but if you don’t mind the traveling…”
Gildas gave the High King a gracious nod and studiously avoided my gaze.
So the prissy monk joined our entourage. At first I was sure he’d be a bother, but in truth I was so busy with other things, I hardly remembered he was there until his brother Hueil was hauled into Court on a charge of stealing cattle from a steading on this side of the Wall.
“I’ve been to your glens in the Trossachs,” Arthur fumed, glaring at the Caledonian. “You’ve no reason to raid other people’s livestock when your own lands abound with stag and boar and other game.”
“’Tis the way we entertain ourselves on nights with no moon,” Hueil growled. He was a brutish man, with knotted muscles and a thick neck, and was clearly trying to decide if he could beat Arthur in a fight. I glanced at Gawain, who slid his hand down to his dagger.
“But it’s my meat you’ll be eating when winter comes,” the aggrieved farmer replied hotly. “I demand the return of my cattle, reparations for my troubles, and justice in the King’s name!”
Arthur was struggling to keep a straight face, for the farmer would never have been so belligerent if we hadn’t been there. On the other hand, this was a perfect opportunity to try out the new legal system, so my husband convinced all involved to let the case be argued before a jury of peers, with the High King acting as moderator and judge.
The evidence went heavily against Hueil, who, in prideful folly, boasted of his acts. The jury of local farmers not only found the Scotsman guilty of stealing another man’s food, they sentenced him to be beheaded. “Bloodthirsty lot, your subjects in Rheged,” my husband opined that night.
The farmer and his neighbors thought the new system admirable and filled the Square on the day the public execution was held. But Arthur went hunting—“You don’t think I’m going to stay and listen for that blade to fall, do you?” Gildas waited until he returned, then gave the High King a tongue-lashing before packing up and leaving. The man’s personal hurt and anger were no doubt understandable, but I bridled at the idea that his alliance with the Christian God gave him the right to chastise monarchs. Later I discovered a pile of ashes where he’d burned the scrolls containing Arthur’s history. I brushed them away with a broom and prayed the petty little man wouldn’t cross our path again.
As the harvest drew to a close, we left Carlisle for the last stage of our progress, swinging over to Chester while Gawain and Gingalin went off to visit Bercilak in the Wirral. On the way down Watling Street we stayed in the new hunting lodge that Arthur had commissioned to be built beside the basilica wall in Wroxeter. It was a handsome building, but between the association with Maelgwn and the memory of Pelli’s death nearby, I knew I would never be comfortable there.
And then at last we were home again, riding up the steep cobbled drive to our fortress on a nippy October evening that promised a night full of icy stars. Bedivere had taken the house staff on ahead, so the torches were lit, the smoke from the hearth climbed skyward, and after a simple supper Arthur and I tumbled into bed with a huge sigh of relief. Neither of us had the energy for romping, but lay curled against each other, more than content to be back where we belonged.
“For all the rest of Britain’s wonder, I don’t think there’s anywhere as splendid as Camelot,” my husband sighed.
“Nor I,” I whispered, sliding my hand into his. Long ago I’d realized Arthur would never be able to tell me that he loved me or willingly hear my words of love for him. But as we lay there on the verge of sleep, the fabric of our marriage, the interweave and overlay, occasional slubs and wonderful brocading of our years together, warmed us as much as the pelts we lay under. I might never know the fruition of a romantic love such as my parents had had, but still and all, I was content.
The soft, haunting sound of the curlew flying overhead stirred the night, and I smiled to myself, totally unaware of the clouds that were gathering on distant horizons.
Chapter XXII
New Dreams for Old
I sometimes think that the young converse with the future much as we remember the past. Perhaps because their eyes have not seen all that ours have, they perceive a different world—one that can be frightening to their elders. Certainly there was a touch of fear in Arthur’s reaction when Mordred, in his first report on the Federates, suggested that they be made part of the Round Table.
“What?” the High King’s astonishment filled the office. “You ask me to give them a seat at my Council?”
“They’ve recognized you as overlord for twenty years, Your Highness. There’s been no further western movement, no annexing of British farms or displacing of British subjects. What more proof of loyalty and peaceful intentions do you require?”
“Peaceful for the time, I grant you,” Arthur replied, his shock beginning to subside. “But obeying my orders does not in itself give them the right to join the Round Table.”
Mordred moved to the window where the white winter light played on the golden headband the Saxons had given him. After months of living among the Federates, he’d adopted a number of their fashions: his red tunic was trimmed with fancy braids and a polished crystal ball of the sort they term a life-stone hung from the scabbard of his sword. The sunlight glinted off the chip-carved pin at his shoulder as he turned and began to pace quietly back and forth across the room.
“It would bring them more fully into the fabric of your realm; encourage an exchange of ideas and philosophies—I’ve found some of them both interesting and useful.”
Mordred’s enthusiasm was evident, and he spoke with the controlled passion of a man who has found his cause. Just so had I heard Arthur speak when trying to ally the members of the Round Table, or advance the idea of a law code. “Listen to their request, Your Majesty—recognize their fundamental rights. Let this be the verification of your good faith.”
“My good faith?” Arthur’s surprise turned to anger and his fist hit the table so hard the ink pot jumped and threatened to spill. “Proof of my good faith? What kind of nonsense is that?”
Startled, Mordred paused in his pacing and looked directly at his father.”I promised them you are an honorable man and therefore would consider it.”
“You overstep yourself, Mordred.”
The cold fury in Arthur’s face made his son drop his gaze. I watched him search for a way to move the discussion to a more reasonable footing.
“What would earn them the right of recogn
ition?” he asked, carefully keeping his voice even.
“I haven’t thought on the matter,” Arthur growled, reining in his anger.
“Then I would like to encourage you to do so, Your Highness.” It was a simple plea, open and honest and devoid of hidden stresses. I let out a sigh of maternal admiration; the boy had grown into a statesman of stature.
Arthur looked long and hard at Mordred, then nodded curtly. “We will take the matter under consideration. Otherwise your report has been satisfactory.” With that he dismissed the subject, turning his attention to the new tax rolls before us.
“Don’t say it, Gwen,” he warned after Mordred had left the room.”I grant you the boy does a good job of representing us. But what does he know of Saxon treachery? Has he forgotten that they broke the treaties I made with them, forming secret alliances, rebelling against my rule? By Jove, are the lives of the men I lost in that war to be counted for naught, that I should now include their killers among the Fellowship?”
“He was barely a child then, growing up on the Orkney Islands, so far from the center of things. He may not understand what a betrayal that was.” I spoke gently, not wanting to press the subject too hard. The lives of the men he’d lost always weighed heavily on Arthur’s soul.
“Betrayal is still betrayal,” he muttered darkly, pushing the subject away.
But Mordred brought it up again the next morning as he and I came back from a ride. We’d taken the wolfhounds with us and Augustus, who was still puppy enough to want to get Brutus to play, kept nipping at his sire’s heels.
“Is there no way to reach the King?” Mordred queried, calling the younger dog into line. “Or am I asking something unreasonable?”
I glanced over at him, wondering how to explain Arthur’s attitude. “No—at least I don’t think it’s unreasonable. But he’s the one who had to lead his men against the Saxons, who saw the civilians they’d flayed alive for not joining their side; found his warriors scalped, mutilated, left to bleed to death. Those are hard memories for any leader to live with, Mordred. Your point is well taken, so let him think about it. It’s likely he’ll come round to seeing the value of what you say.”
Guinevere, the Legend in Autumn: Book Three of the Guinevere Trilogy Page 26
