Child of the Northern Spring (Guinevere Trilogy)

by Persia Woolley

  Cei was dark and lean, more elegant than either of his foster brothers, but with a hard mouth and cool glance. He looked me carefully up and down and hesitated for a moment before bowing. There was only the barest of polite smiles and I wondered if he would be difficult to get to know. Do not look for trouble, I told myself; perhaps he is simply concerned that his foster brother choose well in taking a wife.

  There was more pleasure in greeting Gawain, who had grown taller and thicker since our first meeting and was now well into his manhood. His hair was just as red as I remembered and he still moved with a kind of fierce, crackling energy.

  He smiled when the formal presentation was finished and put one hand up to the noticeable bend in his nose.

  “I haven’t forgotten, M’lady,” he said with a smile. “Best riding lesson I ever had. There’s neither horse nor jump I can’t handle now.”

  “Just wait,” I answered, “until you see what Palomides can do! Soon we’ll all be flying over streambanks like Greek gods on winged horses.”

  “Ah, so Bedivere tells me. I haven’t had a chance to meet the Arab fellow yet. What is it he calls those things for your feet?”

  “Stirrups,” Bedivere put in, lowering his drinking horn and looking round at the different groups of people who had gathered near the King’s fire. “There he is, talking with Pellinore. Come, I’ll introduce you.”

  “Pellinore?” Gawain’s voice was razor-sharp.

  The smell of danger flickered in the air, and I wondered how many of us had forgotten that Pellinore had been the warrior who killed King Lot. I looked quickly at Gawain, seeing even in the uncertain light of dusk how flushed and heated his countenance had become.

  “Remember, nephew,” Arthur said, his voice suddenly stern and forbidding, “we are within the confines of a sacred place.”

  He watched Gawain closely, and tempered his voice as the young warrior turned to stare unblinkingly at him. The youth’s fiery color began to fade and Arthur continued in a more conversational tone:

  “Your father died in a fair fight, and is much honored as a brave warrior. The victor in that battle is our ally, and has been invited to the wedding as my guest. I’ll not have a blood feud mar the joy of these festivities, Gawain, and if you cannot abide by that, you do not have to attend the celebration.”

  The Prince of the Orkney Isles was visibly struggling to control his rage.

  “For the duration of this gathering, he shall be safe,” Gawain vowed at last, and turning to his squire, said pointedly, “I give my word on that, Gaheris.”

  The boy glared at Gawain, then dropped his eyes and nodded almost imperceptibly.

  So the matter was left, and with a nod to the rest of us, Gawain and Bedivere went off to speak with the new horseman.

  “And this,” Arthur said, gesturing toward the stocky squire who now stood before us, “is Gawain’s brother, Gaheris.”

  No more than a year younger than Gawain, he had the sullen air of a boy who hasn’t yet come to terms with his world. His bow was stiff with resentment, and I racked my brain for something that would put him at ease.

  “Your brother spoke of you with pride when we were children” was the best I could manage, but it seemed to do, for Gaheris’ troubled look vanished in a blazing smile.

  “During his visit to Rheged?” the boy asked quickly. “He told me often about your mountains and lakes, and how the women of Rheged are daughters of the Horse Goddess Epona.”

  I smiled at the exaggeration, but was so glad to see Gaheris’ manner change that there seemed no point in correcting him.

  We chatted for a moment more, and I thought how mercurial the moods of the Orkneyans could be: all grace and open good nature one moment, and full of violence and rage the next. What had my father called them? Hotheaded and impetuous, with an undiluted dose of Celtic pride.

  When Gawain had gone Arthur turned and gave me one of those private little smiles. “I must tell Bedivere he has a rival for diplomacy within the court.”

  “It’s easy when things are calm,” I said with a shrug, “but I always get into trouble when the words fly faster than the thought.”

  “Thank goodness you don’t wear a sword,” my husband-to-be said, “or I’d be looking at the Celtic nature run amok within my own halls. You sure you’re not related to Boudicca?”

  Kevin’s voice came suddenly into my mind, and the litany of warrior queens. “Not directly, but perhaps in spirit,” I replied, and Arthur grinned.

  “Much better than some fragile convent flower,” he said softly, and I blushed with pleasure and desire.

  Merlin approached and introduced a druid from the Sanctuary up on the hill. He was a bright-eyed little man with a crick in his neck that caused him to hold his head on one side.

  “We would be most gratified if Your Ladyship would come to our temple tomorrow morning,” he said, his voice as cheeky and chipper as a sparrow’s. “Our well is famous for its promise of fertility, and our doire has studied with the Lady. She is versed in the ceremony of the Bride’s Blessing, and would like to take you through the rites of preparation.”

  Although we had no doires at the wells of Rheged, I’d long heard tales about the wise women who were guardians of the sacred waters.

  I looked to Merlin, wondering if it would be all right to accept this invitation, and the Enchanter nodded slightly at my unspoken inquiry.

  “I think,” he said, “the local people would be deeply touched if you honored their shrine in this way.”

  So it was settled that I would be escorted to the Sanctuary an hour before sunrise, and the druid withdrew with a respectful bow.

  Arthur held a Council that evening to discuss the change in location of the wedding, for Cei and Merlin felt it best to move the ceremony from Winchester’s small valley to the ancient hill-fort known as Sarum. It was easily accessible, being at the hub of five Roads, and the open land that encircled it would provide room enough to handle the crowd that flocked behind us. It had a small but suitable church to meet the Christian needs, and although the spot was not unusually favored by the Old Gods, there were enough sacred places near that the Lady should be satisfied.

  When the question of Morgan’s reaction came up, Arthur drew a deep breath and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “I’m sure there won’t be any trouble,” he said, tapping his fingertips together and frowning thoughtfully. “She’s shrewd enough to recognize the difficulties, and I know from experience she wants to keep her followers united behind me.”

  So the plan was agreed to, and arrangements made to notify the travelers who had gone to Winchester that there was a change of locale.

  “What of the Lady, traveling behind us?” I inquired. “How will she know to come to Sarum?”

  “I can head back up north tomorrow,” Pellinore offered. “Wouldn’t mind an extra day or so of travel…my horse could use the exercise,” he added, stretching his rangy frame against the night’s shadows.

  “Still questing?” Arthur asked, his face serious but his voice light.

  “Always,” Pellinore affirmed, hooking his thumbs through his belt and heaving a deep sigh.

  “So the travelers from the south are accounted for, and those who arrive at Winchester anyway, and Pellinore will go in search of the Lady,” Merlin was saying, carefully ticking off the items on his fingers. “That leaves only the question of who will escort Guinevere to the preparation rites at dawn. It can’t be the bridegroom, but it should be someone from her own family…”

  My first reaction was to suggest Brigit. She was my closest companion and the nearest I had to kin with me; but of course she was neither male nor Pagan and therefore would not qualify, so I kept silent.

  “I’d be honored, if M’lady will allow me.” Pellinore spoke slowly, his big face solemn in the fire glow as he turned to the Magician. “I can present her to the doire at first light, and then leave for the Road.”

  Merlin pondered the matter, his eyes cloudy with
the unfocused look that Kaethi used to have when she was watching the future. An owl glided through the trees above, its silent progress noted only by the faint stirring of leaves. The Enchanter showed neither smile nor frown, and whatever he foresaw was not for others to know.

  “Is that all right with you, Arthur?” he inquired, and when my bridegroom nodded, Merlin turned to Pellinore.

  “It is a major responsibility, to stand for a bride on the Day of her Blessing, and betokens the next-closest thing to a kin-tie.” The Wise One stared hard at the warrior. “Are you willing to be responsible for her welfare from here on?”

  “M’lord,” Pellinore answered gravely, “I was raised with the Old Gods and do not offer this lightly. But since the fairest lady in the land has been claimed for my sovereign’s bed, the next-best thing I could hope for would be the chance to become as an uncle for all the future years.”

  It occurred to me that I would rather have Pellinore as a kinsman sworn to my protection than a would-be admirer chasing me about a meadow, and it was probably in all our interests to accept this offer. So I consented gladly, and when the Council was finished and Arthur walked me to the tent, he said much the same himself.

  “I would hate to have to defend your virtue and my rights against Pelli. I’m not sure that he couldn’t best me yet.”

  With that he reached out and gathered me in a full, possessive embrace, more fierce than tender, as though to place his mark on me for all time. I struggled to catch my breath, surprised but not displeased by his ardor.

  Lavinia frowned in consternation when she learned what was planned for the morrow. She was convinced that heathen rites were dangerous to life and limb as well as soul, and nothing I said seemed to reassure her. Later even Brigit bent close beside me while she brushed my hair and asked if I wished her to accompany me.

  “It is Pagan, Brigit, and therefore not allowed you,” I reminded her, touched that she would make the offer. “I’m not afraid, really, for though it is sacred and not to be discussed beyond the Sanctuary itself, I have never seen a young woman who was hurt by the ritual. I’ve known the Old Gods all my life, and do not think they would harm me now.”

  We left it at that, and I went to sleep feeling protected and well cared for by everyone, including Arthur himself.

  Chapter XXXIV

  Nimue

  Pellinore and the druid came for me next morning while the earth still sighed in her sleep. The little man lifted the horn lantern above his head as Pellinore held the tent flap open and they both greeted me solemnly. Brigit gave me one last hug, while Vinnie crossed herself and muttered a hasty prayer for my well-being, and then we were on our way.

  A soft haze filled the air, blurring the edges of the waning moon. The sight of a withering moon always makes me sick to my stomach, as though she had been wounded in some way, so I concentrated on how beautiful the land looked in the strange, diffused mist. It was neither the dense, heavy fog of Hardknott nor the layered, floating vapors of the fells, but rather a veil that brushed ever so gently against the earth, muting and transforming all things sharp and harsh.

  Most of the camp still slept, though here and there a shadowy form stirred beside the embers of a campfire. No one noticed our progress, and we might as well have been invisible as we walked silently across the great circle of Avebury.

  The gigantic ditch was full of shadow, gaping like a black pit on either side of the causeway, and I kept well to the middle of the beaten path so as not to get too close to the dark chasm.

  Beyond the towering bank a double row of stones stretched before us in the pale light. They were ranged two by two, fat and lean, tall and squat, creating an Avenue that led off into the mists.

  “Behold the power of all dualities,” the druid whispered, gesturing toward the stones on either side as we walked softly between them. “Matter and space, chaos and order, male and female. You are following the Way now, child, from the womb of all Mothers to the bed of all Creation. Think on the Goddess, and do not be afraid.”

  A medley of birdsong scattered through the trees, growing into an anthem of dawn. In a nearby glade a nightingale sang, its haunting melody rising above the rest. My heart lifted with the sound, remembering Arthur and the villa garden.

  The Way led upward to a beech grove at the crest of the hill. Eerie, pale shapes glided within the darkness under the trees, and when we came to a stop at the edge of the woods the joy of the birdsong quieted into whispers all around us.

  “Gwenhwyvaer, Gwenhwyvaer, Gwenhwyvaer…” they murmured, playing with the native version of my name. “White shadow of the Cumbri, well come to this Sanctuary.”

  It was a deep, resonant sound with echoes that rose and fell, for the Goddess was everywhere at once. I felt Her swirling around us, fluttering and hovering above Her people, slowly taking form in a white-robed priestess who came toward us with her arms extended in blessing.

  When the naming of my presence had died away, the girl who stood before us spoke, her voice light and friendly.

  “Who brings this woman for her Preparation?” the doire asked.

  “Pellinore of the Wrekin,” replied my escort, his tone low and respectful as he stepped up next to me.

  “And what is she to you?” the girl inquired.

  “Kinswoman in trust, niece in spirit and soon to be Queen of the High King’s Court.”

  That was clearly not the expected answer, and the priestess looked back and forth between us curiously.

  “Can you vouch for her?”

  “Absolutely,” Pellinore responded with total confidence. “By my own observation she is well suited for the forthcoming marriage. By Merlin’s knowledge there are no encumbrances to the proposed union, and by the King’s desire she is chosen.”

  The young woman had been watching the warrior closely, and now she nodded. “Do you agree to stand as surety should she prove to be forsworn?”

  “In whatever manner the Goddess requires,” he said without hesitation.

  I stole a look at my sponsor, struck by the fullness of his commitment. He must have seen the flicker of my glance, for he grinned down on me and added, “Though I would prefer to keep my manhood intact.”

  The doire laughed gently. “You need not fear; our Goddess demands no such sacrifices as the Cybele.”

  She gestured for Pellinore to kneel, and when he was on his knees before her she took both his hands in hers. Wide-eyed and solemn, she looked down at him, and her voice grew deep and vibrant when she asked, “Pellinore of the Wrekin, do you swear to the truth of your statements, and vow to uphold the trust of the Goddess lest the earth should open and the sky should fall, and the sea retreat beyond our ken?”

  “Aye, and by the Spirit of this Place, too,” he answered, adding the Latin phrase for good measure.

  The girl was staring down at him, her eyes brimming with moonlight and perhaps tenderness. “The Goddess is well pleased by the devotion of such a stalwart man. You may go on your way, and we will take the bride into the temple. When the rites are over, she will be escorted back to her party.”

  Pellinore continued to look up at the priestess as though in a trance, and the two of them conversed silently with their eyes.

  “May I come again?” he whispered huskily.

  The girl shivered and gave a little start. For a moment I thought she tried to free her hands, but he held them imploringly, and at last she smiled.

  “You will find the Goddess wherever you choose to look,” she said softly, her voice beginning to return to normal. “But you will find me, Nimue, here at the Sanctuary above Avebury. I cannot say when the Goddess will visit you again, but I am here always.”

  Pellinore kissed her hands reverently before letting go of them and getting to his feet. Turning to me, he took me by the shoulders and planted a paternal kiss on my forehead.

  “Thank you for the honor, M’lady, and may the day go well for you.”

  And then he was gone, striding into the dawn with swaggeri
ng shoulders and a jaunty step. I watched his form retreating down the Avenue, thinking he was one of the most truly solid men of any realm.

  Nimue also watched him, a bemused expression on her young face. Slipping her arm through mine, she led me toward the circular temple within the screen of trees. “Underneath it all everyone is vulnerable to the Goddess, but there are not many who show it as openly as that one does,” she said.

  The day went by in a drift of color and music, dance and prayer. There was a quiet ritual at the well and I found bits and phrases from my childhood interspersed with other, foreign ways. The details of such rites are not to be recounted—not because they are grotesque, as the Christians would have one believe, but because they are full of grace and power. They mark the line between maiden and mother, child and bride, and by early afternoon I had been bathed and robed in the white garment of the initiate, and I walked with the knowledge of the Goddess both within and without.

  When I knelt for the final blessing Nimue placed the ivy wreath on my head.

  “Remember,” she whispered, kissing me softly on each cheek, “I am always here, if you should need me.”

  “Won’t you be coming to the wedding?” I asked, surprised at the idea she might not take part in the festivities.

  “I do not know. My moira holds me here, at least until that one returns,” she said, nodding toward the Avenue as though Pellinore’s shade still lingered there. “What happens after that I cannot see. There is someone very important about to come into my life,” she added slowly, “and if it is not Pellinore, then he will take me to him.”

  A shiver ran down my back, and I envied the girl the assurance with which she spoke. Perhaps such confidence comes of giving oneself completely to the Gods; but though I knelt in tranquillity now, I suspected that the demands of the world would all too easily make a shambles of this inner peace. Certainly I was unsure that I could maintain contact with the calm majesty of the Goddess once I was Arthur’s wife.

  “Of course you can,” Nimue said clearly, and I started, for I had not spoken aloud. “Do you think you would have been chosen to be High Queen if you were not right for it? It is what you have been groomed for since the beginning, regardless of whether you or anyone else knew it. Servant and sage and the seasons of the year have all combined to bring you here. You are to be Arthur’s wife because you bring what is most needed to the marriage. It is as simple as that.”