Child of the Northern Spring (Guinevere Trilogy)

by Persia Woolley

  The talk hummed through the room, with now and then a particular voice rising in good cheer or zealous rhetoric. There were several games of dice going, and the kitchen help were kept busy fetching an endless stream of orders. The need to band together for safety on the Road more often than not means overcrowding when a group stops at a hostelry, with everyone wanting to be fed at once. The mood here was one of good-natured banter, however, as people waited their turn for the stewpot or ale pitcher.

  A sturdy Dalesman from the other side of the mountains lifted his voice in argument with a Lancashire lad, and for a moment there looked to be trouble, but his companion ordered another round of ale for all concerned and took his friend off into the night once the commotion had died down.

  Someone took up a harp, and conversations quieted at the prospect of a song. I have heard it said that all Celts, whether Irish, Breton, Cumbri, or Cornish, are so touched by music that it can heal their wounds and mend their broken bones, and perhaps that’s not far from wrong.

  Certainly it put me in a gentler mood. The longing for days past was less poignant, my resentment at leaving Rheged somehow less fierce. I let the music wash through me, and by the time the brisk fire of mealtime had dwindled into coals I was thoroughly drowsy and relaxed.

  When the innkeeper’s wife came over to escort us to our rooms, I got sleepily to my feet and followed her through the wickerwork door.

  “It’s not fancy, Ma’am,” our hostess said, “but it’s the best we have, and I’m sure you’ll be warm and comfy.”

  I smiled in gratitude, and looked about my quarters.

  It was a large room, furnished with massive pieces and good rugs, and had the air of much regular use. It occurred to me that it might be the owners’ own bedroom, and I inquired if that was the case.

  “Yes’m. I hope you don’t mind. The other rooms are much more…bare, and we couldn’t give you just any old place,” she answered simply.

  “But where will you and your husband sleep?” I asked, touched by such thoughtfulness. “I don’t want to turn you out of your own bed, after all.”

  “Ah, there’s plenty of room in the servants’ quarters,” she assured me. “We’re already set up for it, and Grandma has spent the last two days sweeping and dusting and airing everything here…it would be a great disappointment to her if you were to refuse it.”

  Indeed, a glance about the room showed it to be spotless, with the wood fresh-waxed and gleaming, and the pillows plumped up to perfection. Even Lavinia seemed to approve as she laid out my nightclothes.

  Our hostess was turning back the covers of the bed, smoothing the fabric of the quilt with gentle pride.

  “It’s stuffed with down,” she announced, “and far better than woolen blankets or heavy fur throws. I’m sure you’ll sleep well under it.”

  I had been admiring the large bronze mirror that stood by the clothes cupboard.

  “I’ve never seen a mirror so big. Is it very old?” I inquired.

  The woman nodded and dimpled with pleasure. “Our family’s lived in this town for more generations than I know, first as soldiers of the Empire and now as tradespeople and hostelers. So we’ve collected all manner of interesting things. That,” she said, pointing to the picture of a solid man mounted on a sizable horse, “is a portrait of the ancestor who came from Sarmatia, back when the town was new.”

  I moved nearer to see the picture more clearly, and she brought over a lamp.

  “A proud warrior he was, too. Sent here from his home far off in the east, and fought well, I have no doubt. There’s many in the area who can trace their line back to the Sarmatians that retired here when their time was up in the Legions.”

  “What’s he holding?” I peered at the cavalryman closely, noting his fish-scale tunic and the pole he gripped firmly in one hand.

  “His lance. They fought from horseback, our ancestors, and used those long lances as well as swords. Grandma says that we kept his sword in the family for many years, but no one knows where it is now. Probably lost to some Irish raider,” she added pragmatically. “But the boys hereabouts still play with wooden lances and like to boast of their long lineage as mounted warriors.”

  That explained the scrimmaging youngsters on the field we’d seen on our way into town. No wonder they had paid our arrival little notice: if someone were coming at me with one of those weapons, I wouldn’t want to be looking elsewhere!

  I slept very well that night, too tired even to dream. The light, fluffy quilt was every bit as warm and comfortable as our hostess had predicted, and I resolved to ask her where it had come from.

  At dawn the smell of bacon drifted in from the kitchen. There was already much bustling about, and rather than disturb our hosts, I went out to the stableyard in search of water. The sky was only lightly clouded, and I looked out across the broad river valley as the sunrise faded from peach to gold to pale blue. There was no ice on the trough, so I tied my hair back and splashed about with the pleasant realization that spring was really here.

  The drum of hoofbeats caught my attention, and I glanced up to see a young man gallop into the enclosure and swing his horse toward the kitchen door. He controlled the animal only with his knees, for in his hands he held a basket of eggs packed in moss; I marveled that he could transport so fragile a cargo at such a breakneck pace.

  The horse came to a well-practiced stop as the boy called me over. Handing down the basket, he swung off his mount and traded me the reins for the eggs before dashing into the kitchen. I took them, naturally, and led the animal around the yard in order to cool her down properly.

  She was a young mare of good size, though not so tall as our Shire horses, and for all that she’d worked up a sweat on this early-morning errand, she showed no sign of being winded. I noted with interest the long loops of leather that hung down on either side of the saddle and wondered what Rhufon would make of them, for they were stretched and worn as though much used, but poorly placed for securing saddlebags or bundles.

  The boy came running out of the house and took back the reins with a quick smile. “Aunt Hulda said if I didn’t get those eggs here in time to feed the guests, she’d have my hide!” Then he grinned impishly. His hair and eyes were black as jet, and there was a bronze cast about his skin such as I had never seen before. “It seems you have some ‘pretty important people’ in your party, eh?”

  I laughed and allowed that that was a matter of opinion. “What,” I asked, pointing to the leather straps, “are those for?”

  “This,” he announced, and drawing one leg up, he slid his foot into the loop and vaulted up into the saddle.

  I stood there gaping while he wheeled the mare around and began to trot across the yard. When he’d wriggled the other foot into position, he braced his knees and stood upright straddling the animal, still balancing with the motion, and urged her into a canter. Then he performed a number of feats, crouching low over the mare’s withers, lying back along her spine, hanging far over on one side and trailing his hand through the water trough as they galloped past.

  At last he turned and rode back to me, his dark face shining with excitement, and I grinned up at him with admiration.

  “Where ever did you learn to do all that?”

  “Here. When I first got here I’d never even been astride a pony, but after all these years I’ve gotten the hang of it, and can fight among the best of them.”

  “The boys in the field.” I nodded. “But what prompted you to build those straps into the saddle?”

  “That’s the way we do it here.” He shrugged. “I’ve always wondered why others don’t do it too. Sometimes it’s very funny watching a guest who’s all puffed up with self-importance balance on the rim of the trough in order to climb aboard his animal, when I know something as simple as two strips of leather would make mounting and dismounting so much easier.”

  I laughed at the notion and took another, closer look at how the things were attached so that I could have my own tack mo
dified in the future. It certainly didn’t look difficult, and like the boy, I wondered why others didn’t copy the idea.

  I started to ask if I could try them out when a great commotion came tumbling through the kitchen door. Cook, servants, hostess, and Lavinia all rushed to surround me, scolding that I was standing ankle deep in mud and insisting that I take my place at the breakfast board. So I waved farewell to the lad on horseback and went back inside.

  My chaperone scowled fiercely as she recounted having looked everywhere for me, and added, without much resignation, “I might have known you’d be out with the horses!”

  Breakfast was hot and toothsome, with platters of fresh eggs flanked by slabs of bacon and solid oatcakes. When I had finished eating, I called the hostess over to our table and complimented her on the excellence of her hospitality.

  “I must apologize for the boy, Ma’am,” she said quickly. “He had no idea who you were.”

  “I know,” I reassured her, “and that made our conversation all the more enjoyable. I gather he’s your nephew?” I thought of the picture of the Sarmatian warrior and assumed the child came by his talent with horses through that lineage.

  “Adopted son, more like,” she answered, shaking her head fondly. “Poor little tyke was born to slavery, I would guess; at least, he was slave to a Greek eye doctor when they arrived at my cousin’s inn up at Corbridge. His owner claimed the child was an Arab, but who knows? He was barely more than a tad when he and his master came to town, but an eye doctor doesn’t need a big, strapping servant. The master died soon after and the child was left homeless, so my cousin took him in and later on sent him down to me. She’d got four sons at home already, and knew how much I wanted a child of my own…”

  The good woman paused, and I saw the pain of barrenness reflected briefly on her face.

  “Palomides came to us the next spring, and he’s been here ever since. He’s really a fine boy, if a little high-strung at times, and so fond of horses he’s like to forget himself with the guests.”

  She smiled lovingly, and I thought how fitting that a child in need of a family should have been found by a woman equally needful of children.

  “I do hope you’ll overlook his rudeness this morning,” she concluded, her voice suddenly very earnest. “He meant no offense.”

  “And I took none,” I assured her, looking for some way to turn the conversation away from the matter of the horse yard. “You certainly were right about the quilt; it’s quite wonderful.”

  A smile of appreciation crossed her face, and I asked how she had come by it.

  “Oh, that same cousin sent it, a few years back. Seems some traveling merchant had one in his stock, and when she saw how fine and warm and light the thing was, she set about making one for herself. Since then she’s bred up quite a flock of geese, and has made a quilt for most everyone in the family. I’m sure,” she added sweetly, “that she’d make one for Your Highness’ bed, if you wish.”

  I was so startled at her use of the title, it was all I could do to promise I’d let her know if I ever needed one. Bedivere strode up to the table, allowing that we were all packed and he was anxious to leave while the weather was still good. I hastily thanked our hostess and waved goodbye to the Arab boy in the horse yard. He waved back bashfully, then looked away in embarrassment.

  And so we left Ribchester, with its sweeping view of the river dale, memories of ancient ancestors, and a boy from the other side of the world who could work wonders on horseback.

  Once the day’s pace was established and our mounts had settled into the rhythm of it, Bedivere reined in by my side. After the usual morning greetings the talk drifted back to Arthur and I asked if Bedivere had been at the Coronation.

  “Of course,” he said, grinning. “There’s been few times I haven’t been at Arthur’s side these last five years! It began as such a gay and festive time, I wish you could have been there, Gwen.”

  Bedivere paused and I nodded, remembering the excitement of the occasion. When the invitation arrived I had begged Kaethi to let me go, for I wanted to see the pageantry and horses. But the crone only shook her head, saying that I must stay in the north a while longer.

  “Lot had been unable to muster enough support for Urien’s bid for the throne during the winter,” Bedivere continued, “so Merlin declared the King Making would take place in the spring. He chose to hold it at Caerleon, a city without specific ties to either north or south. Two ceremonies were planned, one Pagan and the other Christian, each one binding to the followers of that faith.”

  All the client kings came, including Lot, who swaggered about full of bravado, but never openly opposed the Magician. Merlin was everywhere, talking to this group and welcoming that. He kept stressing that Arthur was the destined leader of all the British, a king for everyone.

  Arthur asked Bedivere to attend him in dressing for the ceremony, and the lieutenant, who had never seen clothes as rich as those which hung in the High King’s closet, marveled over the grandeur of them.

  “You should try wearing them!” Arthur grinned as he pawed about in the cupboard for a pair of boots more comfortable than the fancy ones Ulfin had placed out for him. He pushed aside a cape that was edged with fur and lined with silk. “Each one of them must weigh more than a full set of chain mail. Thank goodness it’s only for a little while; as soon as the Lady bids me follow her to the Sacred Hill I can take off the royal cape, for she says it isn’t necessary for the Investiture.”

  “Are the two rites very different?” Bedivere queried.

  “Some,” came the muffled response as Arthur dived into the back of the wardrobe to haul out the battered old boots he used to wear in the kennels at Sir Ector’s. “The Bishop will dedicate me to the Christian God, while the Lady will ask the Goddess to dedicate me to the people. And, of course, the Lady will give me the Sword, while the Archbishop only sets a crown on my head. At least that isn’t as heavy as it looks. Here, now, enough of that—I can still pull on my own boots!” he said abruptly when his foster brother bent to serve him. “You don’t think I really need any help putting my clothes on, do you? I just wanted you here to talk to, and when they said I should have someone special attend me, it seemed the best way to get a little time together in private.”

  He laughed and pushed Bedivere away, and began explaining some of the things he wanted to explore as soon as the crown rested firmly on his head; things relating to trade and taxes and treaties for the future.

  It seemed, that morning, that one could do marvelous things just by thinking them up, and Arthur’s enthusiasm was wonderfully contagious. When Ulfin came to tell them it was time to leave, Arthur was standing there with a scruffy old boot dangling forgotten in his hand, discoursing on the need to repair the roads so that trade between kingdoms could be encouraged. It sounded like the sort of thing Merlin used to talk about when they were boys, and Bedivere couldn’t help thinking that Britain was about to enter a new era, and how exciting it was to be part of it all.

  The Christian ritual was long and tedious, and the chapel small, with barely enough room for the various kings. They all stood for the entire ceremony, and at one point Bedivere realized that Arthur was balancing on one foot, trying to rest the other, though both were hidden by the long robes of state.

  There was a lot of mumbled ritual and the northern leaders began to get restless, particularly those who didn’t understand Latin. At least the Investiture that afternoon would give the northerns a ceremony in their own language, with a sacrifice they could see and understand. And once it was completed, there would be no disputing Arthur’s kingship.

  Finally the prayers were for Arthur himself, and Uther’s crown was placed on his head. The jewels winked and glimmered in the candlelight, looking rich and regal, and Arthur was now truly High King of Britain, at least as far as the Christians were concerned.

  The Cumbrian choir sang a final anthem as the royal cape was put across his shoulders and the new King turned and walked o
ut to meet the people who had not been able to find space in the church. The Companions fell in behind him: Cei and Bedivere, Baudwin and Brastias, and all the other young men who had pledged themselves to him since Uther’s death. The client nobles followed next, beginning with Cador of Cornwall, and then came the women, led by Arthur’s mother, Igraine.

  A cheer went up when Arthur appeared before the masses, and they pelted him with flowers and good wishes which echoed even inside the chapel itself. The townspeople had turned out in their best clothes, and they filled the square before the steps, joyful and noisy and full of excitement. Arthur was properly solemn, but the rest of his Companions were grinning from ear to ear.

  The new High King raised his arms, making the cape spread out and up like an eagle’s wings unfolding, and the throng became silent. Then he started down the steps and across the square to where the Lady of the Lake awaited him.

  The people parted to let him through, quiet now and intent on this, the more public and popular of the two events. The High Priestess Vivian was very frail and old, but she stood proud and erect as she waited for him, holding the Sword of State flat in her outstretched hands. The entourage moved slowly toward her, and she seemed to grow in majesty as they came closer.

  When Arthur was five paces from her he knelt, and the Companions filed around him to form a circle which joined the Lady on one side and the High King on the other. Some in the audience made the Christian sign, and one or two of the Companions as well. Cei and Bedivere were on either side of the Lady, and Bedivere noticed that the man next to him, Balin, was pale and nervous and crossed himself twice.

  Balin was an odd person, terribly intense and nervous. He was a big burly lad, strong as an ox and still carrying the rough ways of the country, for he’d come to court only recently. He had a terrible temper; he was extremely sensitive and proud, and quick to take offense if he thought anyone was ridiculing his bumpkin ways. There were rumors of his having killed one of Urien’s cousins, but as there was no proof, people did not pry into past matters that didn’t concern them.