Child of the Northern Spring (Guinevere Trilogy)

by Persia Woolley

  It was clear he wanted very much to please Arthur, however, and was always volunteering for tasks that would make use of his remarkable strength.

  Bedivere knew that Balin had become a Christian, for he had once confided how sorry he was that neither his twin brother nor their mother had been willing to convert. His greatest fear was that either of them should die unbaptized and go to some form of perpetual torment in the next life. And when his mother did die, he grieved so deeply that he barely ate and refused to talk to anyone for more than a month. He had only recently returned to court, and this was the first time Bedivere had seen him.

  The Lady began her invocation, greeting Arthur as the son of the Great Goddess. Her voice was less frail than her look, and it rose in strength and vibrance as she summoned the Three Part One to the ceremony. Bedivere glanced at Balin, whose face was now glistening with sweat as if he might be going to faint.

  The Lady was looking only at Arthur, and the love and devotion that poured from her were rousing an equal response in the people as they heard the familiar words of benediction.

  Suddenly Balin moved, striking so fast that no one could have stopped him. Grasping the pommel of the Sword, he lifted it from the Priestess’ palms with the blade still flat, and with one great swing cut off her head.

  A gasp of disbelief went up from the crowd as the Lady’s body pitched forward in a fountain of blood while her head bounced and rolled on the pavement and came to rest at the feet of her murderer. He stood there shaking as if with the ague, his eyes turned back in his head and a terrible moan coming out of his mouth.

  The crowd froze, too stunned even to move, while Arthur struggled to his feet and out of the way of the spurting blood. Only Merlin reacted, stepping forward and taking Balin firmly by the shoulders.

  “Give me the Sword, son,” he commanded, and when Balin’s eyes rolled back down, the Wizard gently took the weapon out of his grasp.

  “She was a witch, a foul fiend, who sent my mother to burn,” Balin began to stammer, staring at the headless form crumpled grotesquely before him. The severed head, mouth agape and eyes wide, stared back at him.

  Merlin turned to hand the Sword to Cei, and in that moment the crazed man grabbed up the head of the Priestess and, holding it high before him, raced through the crowd. The people drew back in horror, and within seconds Balin had reached one of the horses that were waiting for the procession to the Sacred Hill. With a leap he was on the animal’s back and galloping away through the city.

  ***

  “An awful string of screaming gibberish poured from his mouth, and then he rounded a corner and we were left in silence.” Bedivere became silent too, no doubt seeing again the twisted violence that had put an end to what should have been a day of great rejoicing. I shuddered and made the sign against evil.

  “You undoubtedly know the rest,” my escort continued with a sigh. “How the Investiture had to be postponed until a new Lady was chosen and a new Sword made. And word was sent out that the culprit must be caught and returned for justice in Arthur’s court. I think Merlin hoped that that would mollify the militant Pagans somewhat, but the northern kings cried out that they would not follow a High King who had not been initiated by the Lady; the Christian ceremony was of import only to those who were servants of Rome.

  “King Lot seized the chance to turn the tragedy to his own advantage. He announced it was a sign, a terrible ominous portent that Arthur’s reign would mean a bloodbath for all the followers of the Lady. He played on the fear and suspicion of old enemies, and before the day was out had rallied most of the northern kings to his side. They left that evening for Urien’s city of York to regroup their forces.

  “So Arthur’s first day as High King ended with Britain more divided than ever,” Bedivere concluded grimly.

  “How did he take it?” I asked, wondering how anyone would deal with such a blow.

  “At first he was terribly shaken. He even talked about stepping aside and letting someone else, like Cador, take the throne. And he told me later that for weeks afterward he had nightmares of a great pool of blood spreading out in front of him, lapping at his knees and staining him forever with the Lady’s life.

  “But Merlin sat up with him all through the bad nights, letting him talk and talk, and brought him round to seeing that it was not an augury from the Gods, but the work of a man demented and crazed with grief and hysteria. So eventually Arthur was reassured, and began to make plans for handling the insurrection in the north.”

  There was a long pause, then Bedivere sighed. “It was not,” he said bitterly, “what you would call an auspicious beginning.”

  We rode in silence for a bit, Bedivere struggling with his anger with the Gods while I tried to keep from conjuring up too clear an image of the Lady’s death.

  At last the gray-haired veteran in charge of the packhorses drew abreast of us to report a problem with one of the animals, so Bedivere nodded courteously to me and turned away, and I went back in memory to the day when my father had returned from the Coronation.

  Chapter XVIII

  Balin

  War,” the messenger cried as he hurtled past. “Civil war!”

  Kevin and I were returning from a ride by the river and were so busy arguing whether skill or size was more important in a smith, we’d not heard the man coming until he was upon us.

  Now we looked at each other in astonishment, and at the same moment lashed our own mounts into a wild gallop. We had all but caught up with the rider by the time he reached the gates of the fort at Kendal, and the three of us pounded through together.

  My father and his men rode in a bit later, only a little less breathless than the messenger. And when the Council had been called, Rheged’s King sat before his people, grimy with road dirt and bone-weary, but determined to report what he knew.

  “Merlin has promised,” he said slowly after the tale of Vivian’s death had been told, “that when the new Lady of the Lake is chosen she will have a special sword fashioned, a weapon more powerful than any Britain has seen before. Bright and pure, forged specially for this purpose, it shall be an emblem of Celtic faith, a mystic talisman specifically made for the High King. Thus the ancient rites will be satisfied, and the Lady herself will perform the ceremony for all to see.”

  My father looked carefully around the circle. “One of Arthur’s gravest concerns is that this matter not be twisted into a religious war, and he has declared that he will not tolerate vengeance taken for religious beliefs. Whether or not that will keep each side from beginning a slaughter in the name of a holy cause, I don’t know. What I do know is that the people of Rheged have lived peacefully among themselves, monk and druid, Christian and Pagan, for many years now. There has always been mutual respect, and I as your leader am proud and glad it is so. I want to make sure that all of you here understand that the Lady’s death was the work of a fanatical madman, and does not reflect Arthur’s attitude toward religion. We need to keep that fact in mind.”

  My father stopped talking, and silence lay heavily on the group as each member tried to absorb the import of the news. We were all stunned by the flailing violence of the Lady’s end, and as I looked about the gathering, my eye was caught by the movement of a tall, white-robed figure in the shadows. When Cathbad had arrived I had no idea, but I was very glad he had chosen to join us now.

  “I am loath to bring up the subject of war again,” my father continued with a sigh. “We have only just recovered from the effects of Uther’s last battle. But there are matters of gravest consequence that must be decided upon. It’s most probable the northern kings will choose Urien for their leader, and we can expect to see a gathering of military might within his borders. Urien might well use our past support of Arthur as an excuse to attack Rheged, whether or not we side with him now. So it seems we must prepare for war regardless of what position we take where the High King is concerned. At the least we need to defend our borders, and at the most we need to consider whether we
should go to the aid of the Pendragon, if Arthur should call upon us.”

  “When do you think such aid might be needed?” someone asked, and again my father sighed.

  “I can only guess. It will be necessary for Urien and his allies to gather their forces. That’s not something they can accomplish overnight, so I doubt they will make their move until next spring. And there is much we need to do between now and then. We have a winter of preparation before us: weapons to be repaired or replaced, chain mail to make, drills to be held, extra stores to be laid aside, wagons to be prepared. If we agree to follow the Pendragon, there must be a full commitment on our part, for if we side with the High King and he loses, the victors will not overlook our participation.”

  There was another silence, and then the murmur of friend consulting with friend. The restless noise grew until it became a babble, and as I looked about, Cathbad detached himself from the back of the crowd and stalked to the center of the circle. He stood before the King and called the gathering together again.

  “I have but one question, Your Highness,” he said formally, and all other voices stilled. “What do you advise?”

  My father raised himself fully upright in his chair, and answered with a voice more powerful than I had ever heard him use before:

  “It is better to fight for something you believe in than to try to remain neutral and pray the forces of the Pendragon win.”

  “The Pendragon!” someone cried. “To the aid of the Pendragon!” and the chant was taken up like a hymn, sweeping all before it. Whatever other concerns our people had, it was clear they had no desire to back Urien.

  There was much clapping and chanting, and a musician picked up his hand drum, rattling the bones against it and bringing the rumbling excitement of a war beat into play.

  It reminded me of the high, proud days before the men had left for Uther’s last battle; but this time I was less quick to respond, for I had seen the devastation of man and animal that war had brought about. Along with the thrilling songs I heard the groans of Nidan’s near-death; in the shadow of the flags of glory, I remembered the small gray figures trudging home in the rain.

  Now, once more, the people of Rheged were being called to battle in the name of a High King. A shiver of fear and anger went through me. I fervently wished that young Arthur would get his kingship in hand, and go away and leave us in peace!

  I threw myself into the summer as though there might never be another, finding every excuse I could to collect Kevin and go out into the countryside. Sometimes we went in search of honey trees, or tried new fishing holes, or visited with the family of swineherds who followed their charges through the forests. Generally we brought back food for the larder, and sometimes reports of local news. No one at court mentioned our absence, and the freedom to come and go as I wished soon became second nature.

  By mid-August there were reports of general unrest; now that the kings were busy elsewhere, outlaws were becoming bolder, and roving bands of warriors plundered farms and sheepfolds as they made their way south to join various leaders for the war effort.

  Once the harvest was in, our household moved to Patterdale, which lies in the shadow of the fells at the head of Ullswater. I have always been fond of that steading, with its thick thatched roofs and many outbuildings. The river that flows into the lake was lined with alders glowing pale gold in the chilly autumn air. During the fall, the great red stags sent their booming challenge echoing from cove and cliff face, and in the spring I watched the does carefully bring their fawns down to the lake to drink. In such a haven one could almost forget the fever that was rising in the land beyond the fells.

  Almost, but not quite. As the weather warmed, stories of strife and confusion trickled through to us. Rumors circulated about the massing of troops and of people taking to the forests in order to escape the impending conflict. Some of the tales reflected a world gone mad, and we listened in dread as the reports grew worse. It seemed as though a madness of fear and despair were tearing Britain apart before the royal opponents had even begun to fight.

  My father had spent the winter moving from one fort to another, keeping the men busy at anvil and forge, training the warriors and readying the equipment. His military precautions proved to be well justified, for after the spring thaw the number of troops camped around York grew and grew, and our spies reported plans for a major offensive come summer.

  Our own forces began to gather in Brocavum, where the Stainmore meets the Main Road, and when the horses arrived from Stanwix my father decided it was time to move.

  He made a hurried trip to Patterdale to check on the small group of men he was leaving behind to protect us, and to say goodbye to me. He brought Brigit’s brother Sean with him, for the boy had volunteered to be one of his messengers, and came now to exchange family news and say farewell to his sister.

  It was a brief, tense visit. My father was so preoccupied he bade me a scant hello, and when he left there was no time for more than a hasty admonition that I keep out of mischief.

  I stood beside Nidan and waved a frightened farewell. Made stiff and slow by his Saxon wounds, my father’s lieutenant would never go to war again, and so had been left to guard the home. It was the first time ever that his king had ridden off to battle without him, and though he accepted it with Celtic courage, a sad, slow tear slid down his cheek. To judge by my father’s expression, the poignancy of their parting was as powerful for the King as for the old warrior.

  Where once I had hated the time we spent hiding in the valleys, now that I was old enough to understand the situation I welcomed the shelter of the mountains and was content to help Kaethi and Brigit with the daily running of the household.

  Kevin stayed with us, for he would be more useful at home than on the field. During the first several weeks we received reports that our troops were mainly involved in holding actions against a few small war bands intent on border raids. It appeared that Urien was much less interested in us than in his bid for supremacy in the south, however, and my father was very much concerned for the young King’s chances against so formidable an opponent.

  Then a week went by with no messages at all, and Kevin decided to ride out along the Stainmore and see what he could learn.

  He returned two days later, saying that he’d met a messenger who reported that Urien was moving the main body of his forces to the south, and it was doubtful he would expend any troops in an effort against Rheged at all.

  “I heard something else that worries me, though,” Kevin told me privately, his dark brows meeting in a frown as he reached for an oiled rag.

  We were in the shop where the whetstones were kept. Kevin was honing the blade of his dagger while I sat by the scrap box, searching for a piece of leather with which to repair a bellows. I looked up, startled by the Irish boy’s tone.

  He paused to check the keenness of the dagger’s edge against the ball of his thumb, then shook his head with a scowl. Laying the tip of the dagger on a hand stone, he began moving it around in small, flat circles. “Do you remember the stories about the man who ran amok through the kingdoms of Wales?”

  “The one who attacked King Pellam when he was a guest in that king’s court?” I asked, revulsion stirring somewhere deep inside. It had been a particularly gruesome tale, for the stranger had turned against his royal host and wounded the monarch with his own sword. Afterward, the fiend had raged through the land burning everything in his path—barns and cottages, chapels and sacred groves alike—creating a wasteland as bad as any Saxon might.

  Kevin nodded and paused to make the sign against evil.

  I shuddered at the thought; a man’s sword must be his friend as well as protector, and the sacred Swords of State were the power of the monarch made manifest. It was said that King Pellam’s wound, delivered by his own weapon, would not heal. He hung between hope and despair, immobilized by the blow between his thighs, and his people didn’t know whether to rejoice that he had not been killed outright or despair that
he would never be whole again.

  “The culprit got away,” Kevin went on, carefully drawing the knife out in larger and flatter circles on the stone. “Now there are tales of a pair of madmen roaming our woods, screaming and howling as if tormented by spirits. Some say they are brothers who have fallen into a blood feud, and that each swears vengeance on the other for past atrocities. So far there hasn’t been any thatch fired, but the people are frightened, remembering what happened in Pellam’s land.”

  “Does anyone know who these men are, or where they come from?” I asked.

  “Not really. They say the one seen more often is very big and brawny, and the gibberish he spouts is mostly Celtic. But if they are twins, as has been suggested, it’s not certain who has seen which. They’ve both been living wild for some time apparently, in tattered clothes and ugly, unkempt beards. I think,” he said soberly, “I should find out where they’re headed and if there seems any likelihood they’ll come this way.”

  Something shifted inside me as though the bottom had dropped out of my stomach, and I stared at Kevin. He tested the blade along the hair on his arm, turning it to the light to check the black hairs it had razored off so neatly. Apparently satisfied, he slid the dagger back into his belt and glanced over at me.

  “The trail should be fairly easy to pick up.”

  The sinking feeling hardened into a knot, and I looked at my foster brother with dismay.

  “Surely you’re not going to go after him by yourself, Kevin. At least take Nidan with you, in case there’s trouble.”

  “Can’t,” he said flatly, looking down at where I sat, the bellows forgotten in my lap. “We have a minimal guard here as it is. If Urien’s troops decide to turn on us, we’ll need every man possible to defend the passes and protect Patterdale. And if either of these wild men is coming west, I don’t want to be worrying that while I’m out trying to find his trail he’s slipped past me and found you too lightly guarded.”