Child of the Northern Spring (Guinevere Trilogy)

by Persia Woolley

  I huddled in Nonny’s arms, safe under her cowhide wrap like a small child, listening to the rise and fall of the people’s mood. Twice the tinder caught and a cry of hope sprang up from their throats, lifting cautiously as the torches were lit, and falling to an ominous growl when the flames guttered and went out.

  The crowd began to mill about nervously, the faint tremble of hysteria nipping at its edges. When the torches died for the third time, someone shouted “A sign! It’s a sign! The Need-fire won’t catch without a sacrifice!”

  “Oh, Nonny,” I whimpered, “what will they do if it won’t light?”

  “Shush, child! Of course it will light; it has to,” she muttered back, but I knew in my heart she was unsure. Without the Need-fire new-made and gladly leaping, the summer would be filled with pestilence and despair. The world would grow cold, and the warmth would go out of the sun, just as it had gone out of Mama.

  I clung to my old nurse, thinking of Mama and my brother frozen in time, like the robin I had found frozen in flight outside the gates early in the winter. It seemed so poignant somehow, like a child’s footprint captured forever in the snow, and the weight within my chest broke as a flood of tears sprang forth.

  My sobs turned into howls, and I poured out my anguish over Mama’s death even as the crowd screamed for my father’s blood, our different agonies blending into one great supplication to heaven.

  “Look, child, look at the King!”

  Nonny shook me hard and pushed me upright until I was staring, wide-eyed and terrified, at the pyre.

  The fire had caught at last, and there, silhouetted against the licking flames, the twisted form of my father capered and leapt about at the top of the roaring pyramid. He was dancing in the center of the blaze, making himself a bridge between the Gods and his people. It was the fulfillment of his promise as their king, and I stared into the heart of the inferno with awe and horror as the whole world blurred into a wheel of sparks.

  Years later Edwen the Bard would sing of how the King had taken up one of the burning torches and, in spite of his crippled legs and shaky step, clambered up the woodpile to thrust the brand deep into the drier center, where the flames had quickly caught. But at that moment I saw my father as half man, half sacrifice, and I screamed aloud as the sight burned into my memory.

  The people cheered as their king climbed down, and rushing forward, they hoisted him onto their shoulders and paraded around the bonfire in gleeful triumph. The magic, the marvel of salvation surged through them and found voice in great shouts of praise for the King who had delivered us.

  Too weak to rise from Nonny’s arms, I threw back my head in terror and rapture, and found a cautious cluster of stars peeping through the tattered clouds. They were the first we had seen in months, and such a beautiful sight I tried desperately to tell Nonny about them, babbling and gesturing incoherently.

  From far away I saw her struggling to calm me; then someone took my body from her, and I heard Vida clucking sadly, “Poor little tyke, sick as her mother no doubt…just feel the fever she has!”

  The crowd around us was parting as people faded into the shadows when we started down the track. And then there was Mama standing on the path ahead, waiting with the smile of the May Queen on her face.

  “Come, Gwen, come help me gather flowers for the crown,” she called, laughing and skipping merrily ahead. She was as radiant as I had ever seen her, and her invitation was so full of joy and love, I smiled and reached out my arms to her.

  It was the last thing I remembered for many days, and whether she was really there that night or just part of my delirium I’ll never know, but she has never truly left me since.

  Chapter VIII

  Bedivere

  I was so wrapped up in memories, I didn’t realize Brigit had spoken until she reached across and caught hold of my arm. The misery of that long-ago spring gave way to the rhythmic sound of hoofbeats and jingling bridles, and the new green of the woods around us.

  I looked over at my friend and found her watching me intently.

  “Are you all right, Gwen?” she asked, concern furrowing her brow.

  I nodded, slowly coming back to the present.

  “Not moping or brooding? I don’t want to be sitting up all night keeping watch that you don’t try to run away again,” she said, only half in jest.

  “Have no fear…I was remembering my childhood, and there’s no way to run back to that. And thinking about Mama…I wish you’d known her.”

  “What with the way Nonny used to carry on, and the comments here and there among the women, I might just as well have known her,” Brigit said gently. “She seems to have been a perfect saint, from what everyone always said.”

  I smiled at the notion of Mama’s sudden inclusion in the Christian Church. Loyal, considerate, laughing, regal, playful, gentle, gracious…she had been all these and more. But the mantle of self-denial and withdrawal from the world that Christian holy people wear was definitely not something my mother would have chosen. Her love of people and good rich camaraderie was part of what had made her a good queen, and I thought it unlikely she could have changed that part of her nature. Perhaps it is impossible to be a devout Christian and a queen as well.

  “Well”—I laughed—“for all of that, Mama was about as pagan as they come.”

  Arthur’s lieutenant came trotting over with the news that we should stop at the roadhouse up ahead for our midday meal.

  “Give the horses a chance to rest, as well,” he added.

  The tavern was a comfortable old place. Extra rooms with dry-stone walls had been added onto a Roman way station, and the whole building huddled under a thick roof of thatch. The owners must have been expecting us, for the tables were laden with food and a room had been prepared in case I wanted privacy. Lavinia thought it would be more seemly to have our meal brought in to us there; but the room was small and oppressive and made me feel all the more a captive, so I joined the rest of the group in the courtyard where the trestles were laid.

  I knew the innkeeper and his wife slightly, as they had come to the Councils at Watercrook whenever court was held there. The woman was a big, openhearted sort, eager to show off her culinary skills and somewhat flustered to be hosting so notable a party. Her husband was as trim and tidy as she was blowsy, and he set out quantities of good ale and mead, no doubt to make up for the lack of wine.

  “Nothing but our best for Arthur’s men,” he stated, thereby earning a round of applause from my escort.

  After a meal of cold meat and cheese, barley cakes and pungent pickles, our hostess brought forth a pudding that was topped with a glaze of berry preserves.

  Bedivere dished up two bowls of the dessert and, bringing one to me, sat down across the table.

  On closer observation, Arthur’s lieutenant was younger than I’d thought, with the kind of craggy face that loses the roundness of youth early. His tawny hair had the look of hornbeam leaves in autumn, and though he spoke Latin among his men, he addressed me in the native tongue of the Cumbri. The badge of the Red Dragon which blazed forth on the shoulder of his cloak was the only indication that he came from Arthur’s court.

  He nodded politely. “I hope the pace isn’t too tiring for you.”

  “Not at all,” I said, wondering what sort of woman he took me for. Perhaps the southern ladies really did do all their traveling by litter. “In fact, I would be quite happy if we moved a little faster. Would that be possible?” I asked hopefully.

  “I’m afraid not,” he replied between mouthfuls, “what with Merlin not wanting to strain his old gelding, and the baggage train to look after. But I’ll see what I can do when we reach the main Road.” His eyes crinkled in a smile as he added, “I take it that you are not one of those women who are terrified if they have to manage as much as a trot?”

  I grinned at the understatement, and nodded. “Indeed, I suppose I was raised as much ahorse as afoot. And I can tell you, there is nothing I would like better than to be r
acing along the sands of Ravenglass this very minute.”

  I realized after I’d said it that the remark could be taken amiss, but Bedivere seemed unperturbed. It was hard to tell whether he was very diplomatic or just insensitive, but I reminded myself to watch my tongue.

  “It was an honor to hear your bard last night,” the lieutenant went on. “And one I had been looking forward to for some time.”

  “Edwen?” I was surprised that anyone beyond our borders should have heard of our family chronicler.

  “Oh yes,” Bedivere assured me. “He has a fine reputation in the south, and well earned. I used to think I’d like to become a bard myself, if I hadn’t been chosen to be a warrior.”

  He finished his dessert and put down the bowl. “I hope the fact we could not wait for the Lady doesn’t disappoint you too much. Surely the trip would be less tiresome for you if you had more familiar people among your companions.”

  “Not at all,” I assured him, touched by his thoughtfulness. It dawned on me that being escort to a stranger who would soon be their queen might be an uneasy business for these men; they knew as little of me as I of them, and had no real idea what my needs and desires would be. So I tried to put Bedivere’s mind at ease by telling him the Lady and I were not what you would call “familiar,” for all that we’d known about each other for some time.

  “I gather that she has much power and support here in the north,” he commented. “At least, that is what we hear at Arthur’s court.”

  Bedivere had risen to his feet, and I hoped the subject was closed, but he turned to watch me and there was nothing for it but to respond.

  “It’s true that most of our people have returned to the Old Ways,” I said, carefully avoiding saying anything about the Priestess herself.

  My companion cocked a quizzical eyebrow as I stood up, but our hostess came bustling forward with a bouquet of flowers before he could say anything further.

  “For our Queen-to-be…” she announced, making a formal curtsy. Then suddenly she threw her arms around me in a big hug. “Who would have thought our own little Gwen…that we broke bread with at Lammas so many times past…”

  I hugged her back, thinking how typical she was of the warmhearted people I’d known all my life and how I’d miss them in the future.

  We continued our journey, coming into Kendal where the river runs quick and clear.

  As we approached the settlement, people turned to wave and cheer. They saw me as the kinswoman who would represent them at the High Court, and therefore smiled and blessed us with all the different signs that the different gods demand.

  In the square the brokers paused beside the wool scales, turning from weighing out the fleeces to salute us as we went past. And from the spinning galleries the women and girls nodded and curtsied, their spindles put aside for a moment as they leaned upon balcony railings and smiled happily at our procession. In one place the Road passed so close to a spinner’s house that a child on the gallery tossed flower petals down on me, then hid, giggling, behind her mother’s skirts.

  Along the stream bank, pieces of finished fabric were stretched on tenterhooks to dry. Freshly dyed, they made a patchwork of yellow and crimson, blue and warm brown, all interspersed with soft creams and the stiffer, harder grays from the Herdwick sheep. And of course there was the deep green for which the town is famous.

  I remembered the cape I had made for Arthur; thick and dark and covered with embroidery and signs of the Goddess worked in my own hand. It was the best wedding gift I could think of, considering that we hardly knew each other. My memory of our one meeting, long ago, was dominated by others, and I had no sense at all of his personality, nor any emotions about him specifically. He was as much a cipher now as he had been when the betrothal was arranged.

  Even his country was unknown to me, and I wondered again if there would be great open moors to go riding over, and Standing Stones that capture the cycles of the Universe, and Beltane fires to rouse the earth and bless the people with fertility.

  Or would it be, as Vinnie said, a place of proper laws and formal manners, where the only dancing to be found would be within the court and not wild and free, out in the starlit meadows? The very thought brought the lump back to my throat, and with an inward groan I turned my thoughts away from the subject.

  Brigit was riding placidly beside me, and I looked over at her, wondering what she felt about leaving Rheged. We would be spending the night with her family, and it seemed odd to be going to visit strangers whose children had been so much a part of my life. The memory of her arrival floated to the surface of my mind, and I gave myself over to it gratefully.

  Chapter IX

  The Hostages

  We moved through the months following Mama’s death in a kind of constant grief.

  I had lain ill for weeks, and recovered to find a world irreparably changed, Not only Mama but Vida and Gladys’ daughter had died, and many more besides. Even Llyn was gone, and no one, least of all me, felt like laughing and playing.

  My father’s decision that I should learn to ride Featherfoot did little to cheer me up, for the sorrel mare reminded me constantly of Mama. Then too, I was not allowed to take her out of the exercise yard by myself, and everyone else was too busy to accompany us beyond the gate.

  So we struggled through the summer, weak in spirit and sad of heart, and when it was certain that the people of Appleby would be seeing enough of the harvest to tide them through the winter, my father moved the court to Ambleside. Here the people were more cheerful, for they had had only the bad weather to contend with, and escaped the ravages of fever. Our household’s spirits began to lift, and when the King announced that we would accompany him to the Standing Stones in Furness to witness an important ceremony, there was almost a feeling of festivity in the air.

  It seemed we were going to meet a family of Irish refugees who were fleeing from the internal wars of their homeland. They had asked permission to settle among us, and planned to give us two of their children as hostages.

  I was shocked and curious at the same time. My knowledge of the Irish had come strictly from hearsay; it was their pirates who raided our shores, and their warriors who had enslaved the Cumbri of Wales before my forefather Cunedda had ridden down from Lothian to free them.

  Nonny’s family had been among those forced into slavery, so according to her the Irish were fierce and arrogant, singers of grisly songs and drinkers of blood. Kaethi said they were gay and laughing, in love with the Gods and never conquered. I wondered who was right, or if they could be both at once.

  The idea of new, and motherless, little children within our household was totally unexpected. I wondered what they would be like, if we would understand each other’s speech and how they would fit into the life at court. I hoped they were old enough so they wouldn’t need a nurse, for Nonny was not likely to welcome them wholeheartedly. She had still not recovered from the death of Mama and the little Prince, and went about her chores with the distracted air of someone who is listening for unseen voices. It might do her good to have a new bairn to look after…just not an Irish one.

  On the day of the refugees’ arrival I was sent to watch for them, and climbed into the branches of a huge oak where the track levels out and heads for the stone circle.

  It is a point suspended midway between the windy moor and the peaceful shimmer of the estuary below. Behind me Black Combe Fell turned its heathery back to the shore, while gusts of cloud and mist whipped in over its flank, driven by a cutting wind. It was the west wind from across the Irish Sea, sending fish and wave before it and scouring the seaward side of the mountain until only the barest windwarped plants remained. Yet in the protection of the mountain’s hunched shoulders summer lay lush and green along the stream bank and the wind barely stirred the banner by our tents. Below to the south, at the bottom of the brook’s rocky course, the waters of the Duddon estuary glimmered among the mud flats, silver and gold and lit from an unknown source. It looked as tho
ugh some god had thrown down a skein of molten treasure.

  The strangers came into sight about midday, moving slowly up the hilly track. I ran to tell my father, and then to find Kaethi, who was making the guest tent ready.

  “They don’t seem to be so many,” I said, helping to spread out the sheepskin rugs between the pallets. “Maybe only a dozen or so. And all on foot.”

  “But of course, child. How would they get horses across in a curragh?” She stood back to survey our work, and handed me a pitcher. “Now, you go fill that from the beck and we’ll be all set.”

  “Well, they brought some kind of animal with them,” I persisted. “Not big enough to ride, but larger than sheep, walking along with them and not being herded.”

  “Pigs, maybe?” Kaethi speculated. “I’ve heard the Irish set great store by their pigs. Ah, we’ll find out soon enough. Get on with that pitcher, Missy, or they’ll be here before we’re ready to make them welcome.”

  So I trotted down to the stream, finding a bright pool amid the gray rocks where the water swirled clear and cool. Normally I would have dallied there, watching for the flash of a kingfisher or the antics of a dipper, but today I filled the pitcher and scampered back to the tents.

  By the time the guest quarters met with Kaethi’s approval, our company had arrived. We joined the rest of the household along the edge of the track, watching the band of strangers come into camp. My father had ridden out to meet them and he escorted them into our midst as graciously as if they had been emissaries of an allied king rather than refugees begging for shelter.

  The grown-ups were tall and redheaded, with the same high color and freckles as the people of Argyle. Both men and women were garbed in bright-colored clothes with finely worked borders to their cloaks, and they wore an impressive array of golden jewelry.

  They didn’t seem to be such brutes, and I scanned the party, wondering which of the babes would be left with us. My attention was caught by a dark-haired boy who walked with a limp. He held fast to a stout leather leash at the end of which was an enormous gray dog, and my jaw dropped open at the sight.