King Ban lounged on his couch with a kind of feline grace, and it struck me as odd that a man so obviously Celtic in blood and background was comfortable following the ways of the effete Romans. Perhaps his family had originally come from Britain and fled to the Continent with all those others who deserted the villas and towns when the Saxons first brought slaughter and devastation to the south.
Later that night I picked up Mama’s mirror from among the things on the dresser top. For years Nonny had kept the paints and perfumes carefully laid out as though she expected Mama to return momentarily; it never occurred to me she was waiting for the time when I myself would take an interest in such things.
The mirror came to life as I lifted it, but I couldn’t find anything special in its reflection; just a thirteen-year-old face with freckles, gray eyes, and a childish grin. There was none of my mother’s beauty, no waving copper hair, no sign of gracious tranquillity, and even when I made my face serious it had neither the firm resolve nor the cool poise a queen should possess.
Someday, I temporized, someday I’ll look in the mirror and see the face of a woman and be willing to take up the duties that will be demanded of me…but not yet. There’s still too much to do and see before I give up my freedom!
With that I put down the mirror and promptly forgot King Ban’s compliment.
The High King and his councillors spent the next day closeted with my father, and left that afternoon with little fuss and no fanfare. When they were gone, I asked my father why had they come.
He pushed away from his big worktable with a slight frown, then gestured toward a roll of parchment. The ribbon that held it closed was fastened with a small lead device such as I had never seen before, and I stared at it curiously.
“Our fledgling King has all the earmarks of a remarkable statesman,” he said. “It seems that while he was about securing his throne and putting Urien in his proper place, he also devised a treaty of peace he wants both Urien and me to sign.”
“How can he do that?” I asked, bridling at the arrogance implied by such a demand.
“Oh, he quite understands it will have to be approved by the Councils. But he says he does not have time to run about settling domestic squabbles when the Saxons pose a far greater threat to all of us. It’s a point well taken, and I agree with him in principle. What I didn’t foresee was Arthur’s using our realm as the proving ground for his power over the rest of us, now that he’s High King.”
“What does the treaty say?” I eyed the thing suspiciously.
“It promises a complete end to border warfare, the recognition of Rheged’s sovereignty, and Arthur’s right to enforce the peace if either Urien or I should break it.”
“And what does it give Urien?” I knew enough of treaties to understand that they must work to both parties’ advantage, and I wondered what we were being asked to promise away.
My father picked up the scroll and carefully slid the lead glide down the tails of the ribbons, then began unrolling the sheepskin.
“That’s the rub, my dear. If both you and I die without an heir, Urien can rightfully claim Rheged as part of his own kingdom, and rule it as such—with, of course, the consent of the people.”
“The people will never accept him!” I spoke quickly and without real thought, remembering the response when Lot had tried to enlist our alliance with Urien. They hadn’t thought much of that notion then, and I didn’t think they would accept this new idea now.
“I’m not so sure, Gwen. If Urien honors this agreement, by the time the question of who is to be the next ruler of Rheged comes up, the freemen may be more inclined to accept him; when it comes to politics, the people have remarkably short memories. Urien knows it’s the only way for him to get a foothold here without massive bloodshed, and may just decide to wait us out, so to speak.”
My father ran his fingers along the edge of the vellum, absently staring at the words written on it. I moved over to his side and peered down at the thing. The writing was just so many squiggles to me then, but the Great Seal of Britain stood out clear and very impressive. The dragon curled and writhed in the splatter of red wax as though emerging from a drop of the Goddess’ blood.
“But what about my own children? Surely the people would not accept an off-comer in preference to a child born in Rheged?”
“Ah,” answered my father, “it appears that Arthur has already considered that argument. If you stay here and become queen yourself when my reign is over, then your offspring will be protected, and can stand for the kingship without fear of rival claims from our neighbors. The treaty is very firm on that.” He tapped his finger slowly against the document. “It’s a very tempting offer, Gwen, and I have agreed to present it to the people. If they will accept it, we could look forward to an end to the cattle raids and such. That would be a popular idea, I think, particularly among those who live in the Pennines and bear the brunt of our neighbor’s ambition.
My father slowly rolled the treaty up again and then handed it to me to refasten.
“How do you feel about it?” I asked, trying to thread the tail of the ribbon through the lead glide.
He cocked an eyebrow and snorted. “I can’t help wondering how much of this is Arthur’s idea, and how much comes from Merlin. I don’t suppose it matters much who thought it up, but if it was the young King himself, I’m very much impressed; it bears the mark of an excellent mind. In either event, I shall be calling Councils throughout the summer, and will put this before the freemen everywhere we go. I can’t see that it does us any harm, and the ending of border feuds would be good. So we’ll see what the people say, eh?
“Don’t forget,” he added, stretching slowly and looking as though he might break into a smile, “in the end the people always have their way, no matter what the Royalists like to think.”
Chapter XX
The Investiture
After Arthur’s visit to Carlisle our plans for a leisurely trip to the north had to be changed. As many Councils as possible needed to be held during the next year, and my father outlined a schedule that was going to keep him on the move for many months.
“If we can cover the area south of the Wall while the weather holds, and be up on the north shore of the Solway by Samhain, I think I can report the people’s will to King Arthur come next Beltane. But it means moving quickly now. I’ll take a light, fast-moving party out to the smaller places while the household makes its way through the main settlements.” My father smoothed out the faded map which both he and I knew by heart, and traced his finger along the Roads. “My men and I will catch up with you every few days to hold Council in the towns as well.”
He stared off into space considering weather, length of day, the condition of the Roads, and presence of trouble as he calculated the best route. “We can rendezvous at Carvoran and Whitby Castle,” he speculated, “but even so my party will probably reach Kirkby Thor before you. Ah well, if that happens I’ll just pop on over to Appleby and see how things are going there.”
Rheged’s King was never so happy as when he was laying out a campaign of some sort, and although he complained of the pace of this schedule would mean, I could see that he relished the activity.
The next two days were filled with talk of the towns and forts that lay in the shadow of the Wall. Their names evoked the mysterious gods and places Kaethi had brought to my childhood: Castle Nick and Haltwhistle Burn, Camboglanna and Vindolanda, the temple of Mithra and Coventina’s holy well. The household generally stayed in the safer, central areas of Rheged, and since the Wall was still prey to raiding marauders from both north and east, I had never traveled along it.
In my head descriptions of wonderful bathhouses and giant, soaring bridges mixed with stories of powerful deities. It was there that goddesses from distant lands, with names like Hamia and Viradexthis, Cybelle and Isis had once been worshiped by Legionaires transplanted from the Middle East. It was even said that our own Great Goddess Brigantia, winged in victory and venge
ance, sometimes paced the walk that topped the Wall, and the very idea of seeing these places filled me with excitement.
But when I asked Rhufon if he would ask my father to let me accompany him, my old friend stared at me in disbelief.
“It’s one thing to let you learn to ride when you’re little,” the Horse Master growled, “to teach you how to care for the animals, and the equipment, and even a bit about breeding and such. But if you think I’m going to encourage your father to take you along into border country on a man’s errand, you’re very wrong, Missy, very wrong!”
Rhufon finished checking a new goatskin water bag and sent a severe scowl in my direction. Whatever argument I might have made would be futile in the face of such logic, and I turned away, disappointed. Probably my father would say the same thing, so I dropped the subject and in the morning began the slow trek with the household caravan.
The next month was a jumble of people and places as we moved ponderously from settlement to settlement.
Everywhere the people listened thoughtfully to Arthur’s proposal, and most agreed that it would be of benefit to all. And at each place Edwen recounted The Triumph of Arthur and included a special lay for the men who had not returned from the civil war, immortalizing the brave hearts and fiery spirits of the fallen warriors. I noticed that he never mentioned Urien as the enemy, but instead stressed our loyalty to the new High King.
We were at Ambleside when a messenger from the Lady arrived, and after a brief conference my father rode off with him, taking Edwen and Nidan as well. He told no one what it was about, but left Rhufon to help us on the journey over Hardknott Pass, as it is one of the most dangerous in the whole kingdom.
The rarely used Road runs up to the top of the fells, looking like a ribbon flung carelessly across the steep sides of the mountains. It’s necessary to ride single file in places where the paving has washed away, and the pack animals must be led carefully along the ledges, while the land falls off in wild splendor.
Once on the high moors you can look across the roof of the world in all directions, with only the bare peaks and the flight of eagles above. Gills run bright and bubbling between rock and heather, and even the smallest of pools is dark blue, reflecting the northern sky. Far to the east the Pennine ridges lie like purple smoke, while in the west the green cleft of Eskdale leads down to Ravenglass and the sea.
In the late afternoon we followed the Road along the spur of the mountain, heading for the shepherd’s outpost in the ruins of Hardknott Fort. Great clouds of mist and rain rolled in from the coast, and a bitter wind drove spitting storms across the sky. The fells are notoriously unpredictable where weather is concerned, and we bundled up as much as possible and hurried for shelter.
That night was spent huddled in our cloaks around the shepherd’s fire, snuggled in against each other as the sharp wind whistled past the broken stone walls.
I woke at dawn, sure someone had called my name. No one else was stirring, yet I could not rid myself of the sense that I was being summoned. Crawling out from between Nonny and Brigit, I pulled the hood of my cloak up over my head and went outside.
The fort is perched on the shoulder of the world, in a place of power, terrible and awesome in its solitude. The shepherd’s dog, wary of so many strangers in the area he guarded, followed me cautiously as I made my way slowly to the rim of the sheer, dizzying slopes that drop away to the north.
The rain had left the world newly made and full of beauty, with wisps of mist rising in the dark, wooded valleys below. It is easy to feel the presence of the Gods at such a time, and I perched on a fallen lintel stone, staring across the upper end of Eskdale to Scafell Pikes. Beyond the craggy edge of those mountains lay the Sanctuary.
Gently at first, I was lifted from myself till it seemed I floated on the edge of a void where time and space had no meaning. Distant thunder rolled past and strange shapes gathered and dispersed within the crystal abyss; bright lightning glimmered along the blade of a sword raised high against the sky; a swirl of smoke enveloped it, and flames came leaping upward, roaring and crackling like the fires of Beltane; a figure loomed, pale and proud, and for a moment I thought it was my father, still caught in the burning heart of the royal promise. But instead of dancing, this person was standing quietly in that blaze of destiny, and I tried in vain to see who it was. Tears of fear and awe blinded me, and I was carried, breathless, to a crest of emotion so strong it had no name.
Slowly the vision faded and I began to breathe again, drained and shaken. Turning from the dark force of the mountains, I stared at the Isle of Man floating out to the west, almost on the horizon of the silver sea. It is said to be the home of spirits awaiting another call to the human life, and I knew suddenly that Mama must be there, carried on the ebb to that place of laughter and song. Surely she could protect me in this world gone strange and unaccountable. I reached out to her, laughing and crying at the same time.
The sheepdog whined and licked my fingers, as scared and eager for reassurance as I was. It brought me back to myself, and I looked down to find him staring nervously into my face. His uneasiness touched me, for no doubt he too had felt the presence of a god.
The dog came closer, and I scratched him behind the ears as he pressed against the folds of my cloak. Together we stared out to sea and let the magic wash over us.
“Goodness, child, you’ll catch your death of cold,” the shepherd’s wife cautioned, peering at me in dismay. “Are you all right?”
I nodded, only then aware of the tears that continued to course down my cheeks. How could I tell her it was neither sorrow nor joy that filled me, but something greater than both? She appeared satisfied when I managed a small smile, and turning, made her way back to a storage shed with the dog bounding along beside her.
When the breeze had dried my face I rejoined the household, feeling light and calm but somehow changed. I didn’t mention my encounter to anyone, but the sureness of Mama’s presence stayed with me all through the day’s trek down to the shore.
Ravenglass is a lovely spot, with soft red embankments rising above a pooled estuary where the three rivers join in the face of the sea.
The walls of the fort are kept in full repair, of course, for Irish raiders still sometimes visit our coast. But whenever my father held court here, the household stayed in the bathhouse, set in a lovely woods overlooking the dunes between the sea and the lagoon. I much preferred the bathhouse to the military buildings, for in my room I could listen to the doves murmuring in the woods and watch the shimmer of the strand through the dappled shadows of the trees.
That afternoon my father and his men returned from their visit to the Sanctuary and called for a Council to be held that evening.
The news spread throughout the dale, and by the time the tables were cleared and the circle formed, farmers and fishers and freemen of all kinds had come to join us. When the circle was complete, Edwen brought out his harp and recounted a strange and wonderful tale.
Arthur had gone north when he left Carlisle, stopping first at the great fortress of Dumbarton, where the King of Strathclyde entertained him royally. From there he traveled through the glens proposing treaties and alliances among all the client kings. It was a time of truce, if not peace, and after visiting all those leaders, large and small, he came back to the Sanctuary, where he stayed in vigil with the new Priestess, Morgan le Fey.
When she deemed he was ready, the Lady sent messengers throughout the lands, gathering the Celtic kings to her Lake. They came from all quarters, each, as she had requested, bringing only one warrior and a bard. And each asked of all the others, “Why are we here?” but no one knew.
The meadow on the western shore of that forbidding water filled with tents and banners, and some of the finest horses in Britain were hobbled nearby. There were games and competitions, and after dinner the different bards took turns singing for the group, recounting the ancient stories we all love, though each was careful to avoid the tales of recent battles for fe
ar of opening wounds barely healed. And still there was no word as to what the Lady wanted of them.
Finally, when the long twilight of the third day deepened and everyone had arrived, the Lady had the torches lit and called a Council on the rock-strewn shore of the Black Lake. She wore the white robe of a druid, and her black hair swung free and loose down to her hips. When she raised her arms in invocation the gleam of gold armbands caught the light, and with slow majesty she opened the Council and summoned the Great One to that dark and magical spot.
“Men of Albion,” the Priestess cried, “Celts of long lineage and great fame, Cumbri and Scot and Pict, I call upon you to bear witness to a special ceremony. To you is the honor of participating in this great moment of history, that you may return to your people and tell them what the Goddess has done.”
The Lady stood in the center of the northern kings and her eyes gleamed with green fire when she spoke again.
“Now, at last, the time has come round to the Gods’ bidding, and I can present to you not only the new Sword of Britain, but also the one for whom it was made.”
A murmur of surprise rumbled through the monarchs, and the Lady turned and walked out into the Lake, majestic and silent, to a flat rock that rises above the surface of the Goddess’ home. This she mounted, and bending down, lifted from a ledge at the back of the stone a magnificent weapon.
She held it up for all to see. The scabbard glowed with embroidered work, and both chape and pommel were set with gems.
“Behold the sword Excalibur, fashioned in the secret ways of the Smith God Gofynion at his forge in the heart of Furness!”
She drew the sword, and as the point of its blade cleared the scabbard mouth it rang with the voice of a bell.
Slowly the Lady lifted the sword high over the water while the red light of the torches rippled like fire along the shiny blade, making the snake pattern run down the metal before it steadied to a silver gleam.
Child of the Northern Spring (Guinevere Trilogy) Page 21
