Child of the Northern Spring (Guinevere Trilogy)

by Persia Woolley

  I studied him cautiously, this man who was the most feared and revered in all the land. With his austere face and inward glance it was easy to see why people said he’d been sired by one of the Old Gods, though in his present guise one saw not so much the terrifying sorcerer as the shadow of a man who has given his life over to the needs of his country. In that sense he was not unlike my father, and I wondered if leadership always takes such a toll.

  Brigit and I came next. I glanced appreciatively at her, glad of her company and thankful she was willing to be silent and let me pursue my own thoughts.

  Behind us was my governess, Lavinia. A proper Roman matron, she had insisted we must bring along a litter in order to show we had some sense of civilized living. I hated the thing, and had gained a day’s reprieve by pleading that I could not bid my father a proper farewell from inside a swaying box. She rode in it now, happily ensconced upon its cushions and enjoying, in her fussy way, all the pomp of our procession.

  Out on the lake a fisherman called a greeting from his coracle, his voice booming hollowly as it came across the water. He held up a string of fish for us to admire, the delicious char promising a tasty feast at his steading this night. It seemed like an auspicious sign, and I gave him a wave in return.

  We had just reached the ferryman’s dock when the messenger caught up with us. He came on at full gallop, and when the King’s men swung round to fend him off he all but crashed into them. He wore the white robes of a druid, and after a moment’s hesitation the soldiers allowed him to make his way to the front of our procession.

  “Is this the party containing Merlin the Sorcerer?” he inquired urgently.

  Bedivere came to a halt and looked the intruder over with great thoroughness.

  “Who asks?”

  “Cathbad, with a message for the King’s Enchanter.”

  “On whose authority, sir?”

  “It’s all right, Sir Bedivere, I know this man,” I said, and the gathering knot of soldiers parted to let me through.

  I had not seen my past tutor for several years and had no idea how much resentment he might still harbor for the events at Carlisle. Lavinia was sputtering in confusion about the delay, but there were enough horsemen between the litter and our group that I hoped the druid wouldn’t even realize she was there.

  Cathbad was flushed and excited as though from a hard ride, and his horse stood with head down and sides heaving. I wondered what was so important as to risk foundering a good animal.

  He gave me a long appraising look, and apparently satisfied that I had grown into womanhood with some semblance of grace, nodded politely and murmured, “M’lady.”

  There was an awkward silence while we waited for the Wizard to make his way to us.

  “My Lord Merlin, this is Cathbad the Druid, come with a message for you,” I announced when the Enchanter finally joined the group.

  Merlin sat his horse with the unresponsiveness of a bag of grain, but I saw his tiger eyes go bright and sharp to the druid’s face. “Yes?” he mumbled, sounding more asleep than awake.

  “I have a message for Merlin, greatest of sorcerers in the whole of Britain…”

  Cathbad was studying the figure beside me, trying to decide if this was indeed the man he had been sent to find. There was a long pause, during which a flock of tits hurtled through the scrub between us and the forest, their high chattering filling the silence. I wondered if the Magician had gone deaf.

  The druid shot an inquiring look at me, a fact that did not escape Merlin’s quick eye.

  With a sigh the Wise One pulled himself upright in the saddle and intoned majestically, “I am he. What is it you wish?”

  The transformation was instantaneous. The woods rang as though with the echo of a great, reverberating bell. I stared in awe at the source of that wonderful, compelling voice, and Cathbad bowed respectfully and reached for the purse that hung from his belt.

  “I have come from the Lady of the Lake, who requests that you wait for her to join your party, as she also plans to attend the royal wedding and would like to travel with you. She sends this token,” he added, pulling a small packet from the purse and leaning over to put it into the Sorcerer’s hand.

  Merlin’s wrinkled face took on the puzzled scowl of an elder asked to look at something his eyes can no longer easily make out; but when he’d unfolded the linen envelope and realized what was within, he laughed so heartily that I smiled too, though I had no idea at what.

  After a minute he carefully closed the wrapper again and stowed it in the pocket of his robe, then turned to face the druid. “How long before the Lady could join us?”

  “She says she will leave the Sanctuary tomorrow and it will take her another two days to reach this place.”

  A chill slid over me at the idea of traveling with the Priestess. Merlin’s presence was unsettling enough, and he could be supposed to be well disposed toward me; the Lady was quite another matter. I remembered all too well the rage and scorn of which she was capable; to invite that to be my traveling companion on such a fateful journey was enough to curdle milk.

  “Ah well…” A small amused smile played around the Enchanter’s mouth. “Please tell the Lady that I am under orders to escort the bride south as quickly as possible, and cannot wait for anyone. If she can catch up with us on the road, she will be made welcome. Otherwise I will look forward to seeing her at Winchester for the festivities.”

  My mare was growing restive, and I steadied her in order to watch the little drama that was unfolding. I could not tell whether Merlin was still smiling at the present the Lady had sent, or because there was something about rebuffing her request that pleased him deeply, and when I looked at Cathbad I saw that he too was puzzled.

  “The Lady will be most disappointed.” The druid cleared his throat, as though at the beginning of a speech. “She was specifically interested in getting to know the young bride after all this time.”

  Merlin’s good nature had dropped from him, and he brought the full force of a severe and somber countenance to bear on the messenger. Just as his voice inspired awe, his displeasure created fear, and I withdrew, not wanting to embarrass Cathbad by my presence at whatever Merlin chose to say.

  I made my way slowly back to Brigit’s side, and let the reins go slack while I sat watching a woodpecker working at an anthill by the edge of the woods. Lacy patterns of light dappled the bird’s green back, so that he looked like a bundle of leaves come to life as he tapped here and there between quick sidewise glances at our group.

  When the matter of the messenger was settled and we took up rein again, the bird flew away, its yellow rump flashing briefly between the shadowing trees. A raucous laugh flitted behind it, and I shivered with apprehension.

  It was inevitable that the Lady and I must meet at the wedding, since she would soon be my sister-in-law. But now once more a formal meeting had been put off. Fate? Poor timing? The whimsy of the Gods? Who was to know? I just hoped she would not see this most recent rebuff as a personal insult. The last thing I wanted was to start my new life with one of the most powerful women in the realm as my enemy.

  We turned onto the Road, moving sharply away from the lake, and I took one last look at the misty, veiled beauty of the scene, hugging it to me as though it could fend off the cold stone of a court so far away.

  I had assumed that when we reached the Road our pace would quicken, but though the way was broader and the length of the cavalcade became shorter, we didn’t move any faster. The presence of Arthur’s soldiers, now that they rode abreast of Brigit and me, was a constant reminder that I was more a prize possession and prisoner than a joyful bride. I had to check the impulse to break away and dash headlong in any other direction.

  A royal progress is always slow, I reminded myself, and even on the best of days it tries the patience of those who long to race ahead. The memory of other such trips swirled up around me now, drawing me back into the bright times of childhood, before my first encounter with the
Lady…back to a time when I was nothing more than a daughter of the Cumbri.

  Chapter III

  Appleby

  Autumn arrived in a shower of gold the year that I was nine. The morning sky arched clean and deep blue above us, and the wind was nippy but not threatening as we moved out onto the Road.

  It had been a peaceful year, with the Picts and Scots content to stay within their northern realms, and the Irish busy making up for the bad harvest of the year before instead of mounting raids against our coast. As a result, the warriors had not been called to battle and our household had accompanied my father all year long.

  On May Day, the Beltane had been celebrated at the great rock they call The Mote beside the Solway Firth, with the bonfire at night and the circle dance in the morning, gay and lighthearted, on the hill high above the waters. Later we had stayed in Carlisle while my father and Rhufon reviewed the horses in the stables at Stanwix, deciding which to take with us and which to put out to pasture, which to break and which to trade away. Summer was spent in leisure along the Irish Sea, moving from one baron’s steading to another, seeing to the crops, the war bands’ strength, the needs and desires of the people. And everywhere we went my father settled quarrels, gave advice, and bestowed bounty, as a good king should.

  In between there were the festivals; happy and merry, solemn and fearful, or simply marking the turn of the season and the gathering of the people to pay homage to the Gods and see once more that their king was actively guarding their safety. Midsummer Night had found us at the Standing Stones of Castlerigg, and for Lammas we stayed with the people who live in the ancient settlement at Ewe Close.

  Most recently we’d held court in the Roman fort at Penrith, and now were making for Appleby, where we would celebrate Samhain and spend the winter in the large timber hall atop the long hill by the Eden. Of all the places I called home, this one and the village at The Mote were my favorites, and the pleasure of our destination added to my excitement.

  I rode at the head of the household, bundled warmly in a sealskin wrap, proud beyond measure to be perched on the back of a dun colored pony instead of confined to the wagon with my little brother and Nonny. It was the first time I had escaped the slow hours of travel among the smaller children, and I reached out and patted the shaggy neck of my mount. Squat and sturdy by nature, he was fat from the summer pastures, and already boasted the thick coat he would need when winter came. He bore little resemblance to the fine creatures that my parents rode, but he was a horse of my own, and I had named him Liberty in gratitude.

  The Road ahead rose with the land, going straight as an ash spear’s shaft through the gap in the fells known as the Stainmore. Like the towns and harbors, the roads had gone untended since the Legions left, and now hazel and crackwillow, blackthorn and brambles grew right to the edge of the pavement, reclaiming the verge that used to be kept clear. Between that and the weeds which came up between the paving stones, it looked as though nature herself were trying to erase the arrogance of such work.

  Nonetheless, there was ample room for our procession; banners and bodyguards, warriors and their kin, servants and freemen crafters (my father would have no truck with slavery) and all the cooks and smiths and others that make up a king’s household. Edwen the Bard rode in one of the wagons with the women because of his lameness, and Rhufon brought up the rear with the stableboys and baggage.

  The moving of a king’s court is a lively, noisy affair. When the roads are good and the weather fine it takes on an air of festivity, for the rhythmic jingling of harnesses, squeaking wheels, laughter, and rustling pennants become a kind of music. This day it was the song of my world as surely as the ring of an ax is anthem to a forester’s bairn.

  Up ahead rode my parents, my father on the big Shire stallion he used for war and Mama riding her Welsh Mountain Pony, Featherfoot. Said to have come from the line started by Julius Caesar, the sorrel mare was the most beautiful animal I’d ever seen. This morning she pranced and sidled in the clear crisp air, playful and full of high spirits. Her coat was the same burnished copper as my mother’s hair. Once I had risen early and stolen out to the horse pens just as the sun was coming up, and there were my parents, out in the dawning light, trotting back to the steading after some private adventuring of their own. Mama’s hair was loose and free, hanging well below her hips, and where it fell across the horse’s back you couldn’t tell the two of them apart. I watched her now, riding with the easy style which didn’t depend on having a saddle, and wondered if she was twin half of that horse, so much did they move as one.

  I could not hear the conversation, but from the way Featherfoot tossed her head and Mama lifted her chin and looked sidewise at my father’s face, I knew there was laughter and teasing going on. At one point Mama turned and gestured beyond the verge to where the hills burned with the copper fire of autumn.

  It was my father’s turn to laugh then, shaking his head and holding his mount steady with his thighs. Apparently they reached some compromise, for of a sudden they were leaping ahead along the pathway of the road, bolting beyond the formal leaders of the troop, racing each other in the simple joy of being alive. I watched them disappear over the top of the next rise and thought how nice it would be to be grown up and able to ride free against the wind, instead of plodding along with the rest of the caravan.

  Shortly after that Kaethi came trotting to my side, pointing to a Great Oak which stood atop a nearby ridge.

  “They say in the Old Times the Gods themselves lived in the wildwoods,” the Medicine Woman said, trying to tuck a wisp of her white hair under her veil. “In those days the Gods would not come inside buildings and small, dark places. So the most sacred spots were in the open, under the high heavens. But that’s all changed now. The Legions came with their little square temples, and the followers of Mithra dug out dark holy places like caves. Even the Christians put their god in a structure,” she added, thinking no doubt of the monastery at Whithorn. “I don’t know that it makes much difference. Indoors, outdoors, belowground, in the tops of the trees…I’ve seen enough of holy places to think they are made for the worshipers, not the god.”

  Kaethi knew more about the world than anyone else at court, for she’d been born in a raiding town on The Wall, back when the memory of the Legions was still fresh. Growing up an orphan in the alleys of Vindolanda, she’d been captured and sold into slavery as a young woman, and shuttled from one end of The Wall to the other through various owners and quirks of fate. Only her quick wits and a stubborn will to survive kept her alive, and everywhere she went she came away with new stories of strange gods and foreign ways still followed by the descendants of Legionaires from half the world away. But most of all she learned the healing practices of many lands. She had been an old woman, though surely not as old as Nonny, back when my father bought her and gave her her freedom in return for her medical skills. It was a bargain well made in other ways as well, for she never grew tired of sharing her knowledge.

  She grinned with the bright, wrinkled smile that mocked a world which took itself so seriously, and narrowed her pale gaze in an effort to see the oak on the ridge better.

  “Is that a clump of mistletoe, there to the side of the crown?”

  It was a game between us; she would point out things and I’d tell her what I saw, for even as a child her hair had been white, and her pale, watery eyes too weak to make things out clearly. She looked so strange in this land of high coloring and dark, piercing eyes, some whispered she must have come from Saxon stock. But the very thing that set her apart had also protected her during her days of slavery, for none dared harm a creature so obviously touched by a god for fear that that deity would take vengeance for her life.

  “Mistletoe?” I repeated, staring at the dark mass that hung netted in the branches of the tree. “Perhaps. Or maybe it’s a squirrels’ nest. There’s something up there…shall we go see?”

  “Nay, nay, child! I’ll not risk Nonny’s scolding just to satisfy a
moment’s curiosity. Besides, we can ask a druid, next time one comes to court. They always know where the sacred herb is to be found.”

  Druids, like all the other holy men, were in short supply at that time, moving from one end of the country to another as the need arose. They belonged to the people at large, and came and went between the kingdoms in perfect safety, no matter who was fighting whom. I did not feel comfortable with them, with their secret incantations and solemn pronouncements, and much preferred to learn about the Gods from Kaethi.

  So we rode along in animated conversation, and I didn’t even notice when my parents rejoined us until Mama reined Featherfoot in beside me.

  “How’s my girl?” she asked, pushing back her hood and nodding to Kaethi at the same time. Her cheeks were glowing and her eyes sparkled happily. “Aren’t you tired from a whole day on horseback?”

  I shook my head emphatically while Kaethi laughed.

  “She certainly is her mother’s daughter,” the old woman averred, “and comes by it from far back, it would seem.”

  I knew she was referring to our ancestor who had marched down from the north and subdued the Irish on the coast of Wales. Sometimes in the hall Edwen sang of him: “Cunedda of the lion’s pride, Cunedda of nine hundred horses…” I had not known him as my mother had, but I took pride in our heritage nonetheless.

  By the time we topped the last ridge the wind had turned chill, and the horses’ breath came in soft, steamy puffs. Great clouds were scudding in over the forest, and I was glad we were almost home.

  The river spread out below, and on the far bank the villagers came out to greet us. A cheer went up as we reached the edge of the ford, and I saw Llyn, the cheesemaker’s daughter, squirm into the front ranks and wave frantically in my direction. I had playmates scattered around the whole of Rheged, but none I was more glad to see, and I waved back joyfully and would have spurred Liberty forward if Kaethi had not spoken up sharply.