After I was dressed, she began trying to fix my hair, patiently undoing the braid and working out the snarls while she chattered on about Lancelot.
“What a relief it is to have him home. Been worried sick, those boys have, not knowing what had happened to him. Once they all met back here and discovered you and the Master hadn’t got home safe and sound ahead of them, it was all Bors and Lionel could do to keep Ector from riding back to Carlisle trying to find you two. It’s a good family, M’lady; one that stands together, and they all look to Lancelot as their leader. Would go anywhere for him, do anything he’d ask. They’ll be so glad to see him safe and sound…”
Her words trailed off as she frowned at my hair, now lying long and heavy down my back. A note of consternation crept into her voice. “We’re mostly simple folk at Warkworth—not much used to fancy things. How’s about I just put it in a bun?”
I assured her that would do admirably, and once she had anchored the washerwoman’s twist firmly to the top of my head, she went back to her chores, and I went out to join Lance in getting reacquainted with the place I always thought of as the most beautiful in the world.
Joyous Gard stands astride a ridge that swings around like a cocked arm extending out from the forested hills. High up, at the elbow, the house and barn and stables stand, while down below, at the base of the steep bluff and following the inner crook of the elbow, the Coquet doubles back on itself in a horseshoe curve before swinging wide around the fingers of the hand, where a small village had grown up since last I was here.
It was all much as I remembered: a world in miniature, subtly drawn in the browns and rusts and purples of the Cheviots, the billowing greens of the forests on its closer flanks; the golden sand and gray-green grasses along the dunes that formed a miniature estuary not more than a mile away. Only the village brought a new texture, adding to the palette an occasional glimpse of bright flowers blooming in the garden plots so dear to the British heart.
From Joyous Gard the eye beholds the best of wild and tilled, leafy and sea-swept, heart-lifting freedom and snug security, and my soul filled with gratitude that Lance and I had such a place in which to live and love for the rest of our days.
He took me on a tour of the steading, pointing out the kitchen plots tended by Mrs. Badger’s husband, the herbs and flowers and medicinal plants carefully arranged to take advantage of a sunny aspect or shaded nook. Even the orchard that filled the space between farmyard and forest was well cared for and full of both apples and pears.
A scruffy goatherd wearing a bright red cap appeared on the path that skirts the steading, bringing his charges home from a day’s browsing in the woods. He kept the nimble foragers moving lest they be tempted to jump the rail fences into the orchard, and only after the animals were safely headed down the hill to the village did he doff his hat in salute to us. I grinned and waved back, my heart as high-spirited as his goats.
News of our arrival spread as fast as the goatherd could run, and by evening not only Bors and Lionel and Ector shared our hearth, but also Palomides and Urr, as well as Lavaine and Cook’s nephew Kanahins, who had run away after the massacre at Carlisle’s Square. Even Gareth’s protégé, Melias, had joined the group in Northumbria.
They made their way into the big old farmhouse, ducking under the low-linteled door and greeting us with hugs and tears and deep joy at finding us both alive and safely home.
Only after they’d settled down in the long room, lounging by the fire or sitting on the benches, did it dawn on me how many were Companions. While I was relieved to know they had escaped Carlisle with their lives, the realization that they’d all left the Court to follow Lance came as a shock. So many defections among his elite were bound to hurt Arthur.
Mrs. Badger brought out a fine pot of chowder, and we caught up on the news of who had fallen in the battle at the Square.
“At least Agravain won’t poison any more lives,” Ector de Maris announced tersely. “I ran him through myself after he started the bloodshed. And I saw Mordred covered with blood, though whose it was, I’m not sure. Serves them all right for setting up such treachery.”
The rest nodded in agreement, and talk moved on to the other known dead; Lovel and Patris among Arthur’s men, Belliance and Nerovens in the group that came to rescue me.
And Gareth, of course. At the mention of the flaxen-haired Champion everyone paused to make some sign of protection or appeal to their individual deities. Lance swallowed hard, and I saw the tears in his eyes.
As to the present situation, Agravain’s men were clearly not going to let their leader’s death go unavenged, and though they had not ventured as far as Warkworth, Kimmins was not the only crofter in the Cheviots who had been contacted by strangers asking questions.
“That won’t sit well with Uwain,” Bors commented, stretching his feet toward the hearth. “What with his duties as King of Northumbria and Regent of Rheged, he has a full plate. I don’t imagine he wants a war between us and Arthur flaring on his flank. He sent word that he’s withdrawn his invitation to the High King for this summer’s visit, but asks you to come in his stead, after you’re well rested.”
This last was directed to me, and I pursed my lips thoughtfully, wondering what such a request presaged. It began to dawn on me that I was not as free of the past as I had imagined.
The question of Uwain was still on my mind later that night, when I perched on the bench by the window preparing to undo my hair. “It’s bound to be something politic,” I grumbled, much as I would have to Arthur.
“Probably,” Lance answered, coming to stand behind me. He put his hands on my shoulders as I reached for the comb Mrs. Badger had found for me, and suddenly, breathlessly, I knew what he would say. “Here, I want to do that.”
Taking the pins out of the bun, he let the heavy strands of hair tumble down through his hands, hefting the weight of them as though they were treasure.
“You have no idea how many times I dreamed of this.” He reached over my shoulder for the comb and began carefully drawing it through my tresses, making them soft and silky.
As though he were stroking a cat, or polishing fine metal, he combed out the whole of my mane while I blinked back tears of joy. Then, suddenly, lest I get too sentimental, I ducked away and tossed my head sideways. Most of my face was hidden by the sweep of hair, and I peered at him mischievously through the veil of it.
“Oh, really,” he exclaimed, seeing the challenge and taking a step back in mock surprise. But when I laughed and let him go back to combing it, he scooped my hair up into a pile on the top of my head and, bending over, began to kiss the nape of my neck.
I gave a yip and turned to grab him around the waist, full of rowdy laughter and devilment. We tumbled onto the bed, and I knelt beside him, shaking out my locks and letting them trail across his body in long, light, languid strokes that were half teasing, half tender adoration.
And all the while, inside, I was asking the Gods to keep our new life safe and inviolate and let us live in peace, far from the pressures of the world that had been so willing to see us die.
I might as well have asked for the moon on a silver salver, for all the good those prayers did!
We left for Yeavering a week later, traveling up the coast with Palomides, Melias, and a light escort. As we rode along the splendid dunes, the Arab, who had been living here for some time, regaled us with stories about the land he’d come to love.
“Once, after a storm, I came upon a sunken forest—ancient trees poking halfway up through the sand. I thought it was the entrance to the Otherworld, but try as I might, I couldn’t find the pathway in. And next time I came to the same beach, the petrified forest was gone—vanished—as mysteriously as it had come.”
He made a sign to one of his Eastern Gods, then went on with more practical matters. “There’s no better land for farming than that between the Cheviots and the North Sea…grains and cattle and fruit in abundance. Even on Holy Isle one can produce a credible
harvest of barley.”
“Holy Isle?” I asked.
“Lindisfarne,” Lance explained. “It’s a spit of dune and rock extending into the waters beyond Bamburgh. When the tide’s out, you can walk across the sands to it…then the tide comes in and it turns into an island, separate and apart from the world. It’s a natural place for hermits and holy men to go to meditate. I’ve occasionally gone there myself, in the past…”
Lance didn’t say anything further, but I knew instinctively that some part of him wanted to be out there now, communing with the mystics. Later, after we’d spent an evening with the people of Bamburgh, I asked if he’d like to stay at Holy Isle while I met with Uwain.
He went right on combing my hair, following each stroke with his hand, and at last cleared his throat.
“You know how much I love you, Gwen. And how much I love God. I won’t ever let that separate us again, but I need to make my peace over Gareth’s death—if it weren’t for me, he’d still be alive. Maybe a stay at Lindisfarne would ease my heart…if you don’t need me at Yeavering.”
Of course I need you at Yeavering, I thought, feeling the same wretched jealousy that used to plague me about Elaine. But I had learned that lesson well, so I tilted my head back and smiled up at him.
“Why don’t you join us in a couple of days?” I suggested, and he bent forward to plant a kiss on my forehead.
We parted next morning, and I watched him riding off along the edge of Budle Bay, an elegant, dark man on a dark horse, silhouetted against the silvery morning sea. Then with a sigh I turned inland, following Palomides on an old track that led through the Kylo Hills.
I stayed that night in a cavern the Arab knew of. It is a shallow chamber, carved into the western face of a large gray sandstone outcrop that protrudes about halfway up the hillside. Its long ledge was high enough above the sloping approach to afford me privacy, and the men built a watch fire on the apron to discourage predators. In a small nook hidden away behind the fronting rock-form, I was snug and comfortable all night long.
Waking at first light, I clambered up through bracken and heather to the top of the hill, thinking to get the lay of the land as the sun rose. I had expected it to be a good vantage point, but the beauty of the world laid out below me was breathtaking, and I stared at it in amazement.
The ridge I stood on formed the barrier between night and day. In the west the valleys and hills leading inland to the Cheviots still lay in shadow, sleeping under a scatter of stars. But to the east the soft, golden light of dawn already lapped the shore that stretched from north to south as far as the eye could compass. Beyond that beach the North Sea spread out to the edge of the world, shimmering like gray-blue silk under the pale sky. Peach and apricot clouds tumbled on the horizon, growing brighter by the minute until, suddenly, the sun rose dripping from the sea. It was vibrant and fiery as a molten coal, and laid a path of gold across the rippling waters.
The tide had come in, cutting Holy Isle off from the shore, making it an unearthly ship riding upon fey waters. Cormorants and shearwaters coursed past it; mallards and wigeon, eider and godwit came and went along its shore, and on some hidden beach a colony of seals was coming awake. Their barking carried to me on the wind. Above, whole flocks of birds filled the sky, some banking and turning in the sunlight, some cutting through the air in ragged vees. All forms of life that lived in air or sea, unfettered by earth and roots, flowed around that little bit of sea wrack; ebbing, flowing, carrying the spirit out and away from petty cares and man-made strife. Just so the Goddess had once carried me far and away from myself; just so Lance now sought the same from the White Christ.
Knowing that if I stood between him and his God he would feel trapped and unhappy, I turned resolutely away from the shore. It doesn’t mean he’ll leave you, I told myself as I found a broad, flat lump of rock some distance from the bracken and the flies that love to live in it, and sitting down, stared out to the west.
This was a panorama I was more comfortable with. The hills and vales and broad, sweeping vistas were beginning to take on the colors of the day. How Arthur would have loved this view! If he were here, he’d be assessing the landscape, looking at the hill-forts and routes of access, picking out the likely spots to clear, measuring the promise for foresters and swineherds, hunters and ore-diggers. In short, he would see it as a world to shape, a future waiting to happen.
For me it held a different spell, a warmer, more poignant allure. In the shadow of the ragged ridges, along the brow of the constant moors—fragile as a candle flame on a windy night—came the procession of generations past. Who they were, how they were called, what stories were written on their faces I couldn’t see, but the echoes of their lifetimes whispered from them like an ancient hymn. Building their houses in the face of storms, plowing the land with sweat and hope, husbanding their crops and livestock against a future that might never come—in the heart-breaking brevity of their hour they had loved this land, sheltered in its lee, and called it home.
The boisterous bragging of a rooster rose to meet the brightening morning light, and the lowing of cows waiting to be milked drifted up to me and brought a smile. Here was my world, full of the earth-bound dreams of priestesses and mothers.
The realization crept up on me unawares, and I clasped my arms around my knees and rested my chin on them, looking out over the land. No matter what had happened in the past, I was as bound to the people as Arthur was to his Cause…and when they called, I would respond.
Perhaps they won’t call, I told myself, suddenly thinking of Lance. Or if they do, I’ll be deaf. We can go on living at Joyous Gard’s quiet steading like any other farming couple, and the people will have to find someone else to hear their demands.
But even as I clung to the idea, I knew it was a delusion. Sooner or later someone, something, would draw me back…and I would go, just as Lance goes to Holy Isle. The certainty of it stole all my joy away, and I clutched my knees tighter, trying to blot out the realization that what Lance and I had now was only a respite, a dream that might never last the night.
Suddenly a great wave of emotion rose in me—anger, determination, desperation, a force as powerful as that that had made me kiss Lancelot in the barn.
Not yet, I told the Gods silently. I will not give it up yet. You will have to wrench it from me, twist it out of my grasp, steal it when I am not looking…and even then I will fight and barter and bargain for every last second in this paradise.
Behind me the sun had topped the ridge and was warming my back. Down in the fold of land below the cave the men were stirring, and I got slowly to my feet. Gravely and deliberately I raised my balled fist against the sky, against the sun, against the new day.
“Do You hear me?” I demanded, turning defiantly to face each quadrant of the compass. “You will not take this chance away from me so easily. I, Gwynhwyvaer of Rheged, will fight to keep my new life until all hope is lost.”
I was still standing there, staring toward the south and Camelot as the tears coursed down my cheeks, when Palomides came to get me for breakfast.
***
During the rest of the journey to Yeavering I thought about Uwain, wondering what Morgan’s son wanted of me, and if he had been involved in the Carlisle plot. No matter who brought the subject up at Court, it was clear Morgan had instigated the accusations against Lance and me, and I came back—as so often in the past—to the question of why. What was it that drove my sister-in-law to attack me with such ferocity?
When I was young, I thought her hostility was personal and assumed it stemmed from something I had done or said that she took umbrage at. It was only later, after she’d tried to kill Arthur, that I realized how much she coveted power. Personal power, political power, religious power—these were the spurs that goaded her on, the hunger she couldn’t satisfy, the treasure she plotted for. I thought it sad and ironic, for as the High Priestess she had long since been acknowledged as one of the most powerful women in the country. Yet not
hing seemed enough.
It was said that she had grown fanatic in her worship of the Goddess, and I suddenly wondered if, living so long in isolation at the Sanctuary, she had convinced herself I was a threat to her new Paganism. Might she have concluded that I was drawing Arthur into Christian ways? The very notion was so preposterous, I smiled to myself; Arthur was far more tolerant of the Roman faith than I had ever been.
But Morgan had jumped to wrong conclusions about me many times before, and no other explanation made sense. Even my death at the stake would not have given her access to the High Throne of Britain or endeared her to her brother. So political gain was not the likely motive.
Except…
Years before, my father had signed a treaty—at Arthur’s insistence—that would allow the King of Northumbria to stand for the Kingship of Rheged if I never had children or never returned there to rule. Morgan may have seen my death at the stake as a way of hastening Uwain’s chance to become monarch of Rheged as well as Northumbria.
It seemed a silly, needless thing to do, since both he and his father before him had been my Regents there, collecting taxes, overseeing laws, governing as monarchs with all but the actual title. I had no intention of returning to Rhegeds and even now thought of it only as a last resort, if Lance and I could not stay on at Joyous Gard for some reason.
Still, ambition has spawned more fantastic plots than this, and Morgan was nothing if not ambitious. So when Uwain and I sat down across from each other at the conference table, I kept my eyes open and my mouth shut, waiting to see where he fit into the puzzle.
“I have far more pleasant memories of dealing with you than with your husband, M’lady,” he began. His mouth smiled, but there was no warmth in either his voice or his eyes.
Indeed, the brusqueness of his manner denied the years I had known him as a youth; one might think we were little more than strangers. I was struck by how much he had grown to look like Urien—less florid, perhaps, but with the same solid build, swaggering air, and drooping mustaches. When I stopped to count, it was a shock to reckon Uwain must be over forty.
Guinevere, the Legend in Autumn: Book Three of the Guinevere Trilogy Page 39
