Child of the Northern Spring (Guinevere Trilogy)

by Persia Woolley

  “I could wish you no better wedding gift, my dear, but that you love the very thing your moira dictates. Better that than a grand passion, or a great ambition, or total devotion to another person. It would seem that the people are well blessed to have you for their queen, and you are blessed by nature with an enjoyment of your fate. And Arthur…well, whether he recognizes it or not, he is most fortunate of all.”

  She laughed gently as though at the blindness of men, and I found myself laughing with her.

  After that she insisted it was her turn to do the listening, and proceeded to draw me out about all manner of things in my life, both past and present. I told her about Mama, and Rheged, Kaethi and Nonny, Featherfoot and Ailbe, and of course Vinnie and Brigit and my father. We talked the afternoon away, and she insisted on sending a message to my house saying I’d be dining with her that evening.

  For a woman who had renounced the world in favor of living in a convent she had a wonderfully quick grasp of human nature, and her assessments were shrewd and realistic.

  “You were lucky, child,” she said when I told her of King Mark’s inquiries into my availability for marriage. “I’ve known Mark for many a year, and I would not wish any woman to his bed. He is a braggart and a coward, unloved by his people and unloving as well. So far no woman has met all his qualifications, and I doubt one ever will. Although,” she added with a mischievous smile, “if I were Pagan still, I’d be inclined to think the Goddess will entangle him in his own net of demands, and in his old age turn him into the plaything for some young slip of a girl. It has happened before, goodness knows, and when a man starts seeking a wife who is young enough to be his own child, there’s something chancy likely to happen somewhere along the line.”

  The one subject I did not mention was Kevin or our encounter with the Lady, and though I was curious about both Morgan and Morgause, I hesitated to bring the subject up. I found it both pleasant and exciting to converse with this bright-eyed woman about so many things and didn’t want anything to create tension for either of us. So I was unprepared when she brought the subject up herself.

  “Have you been introduced to my daughter Morgan yet?” she asked suddenly. I shook my head. “Well, no matter; it will come about soon enough. Morgan is rather…difficult…she’s a hard person to understand. Oh, not that she’s intentionally cruel or makes mischief the way Morgause does…no, I don’t think one could call Morgan even consciously manipulative. Morgan gets into trouble because of the way she expresses her convictions. She’s a deeply religious, fundamental, conservative Pagan with no time or patience for anyone who doesn’t recognize the beliefs that she finds self-evident. She probably doesn’t think the rest of us are deliberately evil…just too blind or stubborn to open our hearts to the Old Gods and accept Their grace. I’m sure she doesn’t realize how much she puts people off.” Igraine sighed. “Ah well, I suppose that’s the problem with trying to make others follow your own beliefs: what starts out as spiritual ardor too often becomes arrogance and bigotry.”

  I marveled at the clarity with which Igraine tried to understand her daughter and thanked the Queen Mother for sharing her insight with me.

  “Well, perhaps it will be a little easier for you if you’re forewarned,” she responded.

  I would have liked to hear about Morgause as well, but the soft spring twilight was deepening to dusk and I had to take my leave.

  “My dear,” Igraine said, holding both my hands in hers and smiling sweetly, “it’s been years since I’ve chatted like this with a young woman. Uther sent my daughters away when they were not yet as old as you, so I missed the joy of seeing them move between maidenhood and queenship. I am delighted we’ve had such a nice visit, and I hope you’ve enjoyed it as much as I.”

  “Oh yes,” I said, “and I’ll look forward to next time.”

  On Igraine’s insistence, Ulfin fetched a long cape for me, as I had not come prepared to stay so late. It was an elegant garment, richly trimmed with fur.

  “Don’t let her get chilled,” the Queen Mother admonished as he draped it over my shoulders. When I started to protest she laughed slightly. “Our southern weather can be quite fickle, child, and it wouldn’t do to have you go to your wedding with the sniffles.”

  So I thanked her warmly, and on the way home I commented on how much more friendly she had been than I’d expected. Ulfin glanced over at me and chuckled.

  “It’s not her usual way, M’lady. She seems to have taken a real fancy to you, and there’s many who’d say that’s about the finest compliment you could have.”

  We passed a tavern where the merrymakers overflowed onto the Square, boasting and swearing and raising their drinking horns in endless toasts to their king. Not so different from the north, I thought, where it was well known that a Celt would relish any excuse to draw another cup from the cask. I wondered where Arthur was, and if he would be as pleased about the outcome of my visit with his mother as I was.

  Chapter XXXVII

  Palomides

  It’s so nice not to be swaying along in that litter.” Brigit smiled over breakfast next morning. “I couldn’t believe how good it felt to wake up knowing we didn’t have to go anywhere today!”

  Vinnie and I agreed wholeheartedly, and we all concluded that sleeping late this morning had been a luxury well earned.

  “Besides,” sighed the matron, surveying the remaining piles of luggage, “it’s only fair that we gather our strength when we can; it will take us days to get unpacked.”

  “Just as long as we know where the dress is by Sunday,” I teased, stretching lazily and wiggling my toes against the rushes under the table. With all the time and work that had gone into the making of the wedding gown, I was quite confident Lavinia knew exactly where it was packed.

  Back when the marriage was first agreed to, Vinnie had insisted I should wear white silk for the ceremony and had offered her own wedding dress for the cause. It had been her mother’s bridal garment as well, and over the years the color had mellowed to soft ivory, but the texture and sheen were still unmistakably those of silk. The dress itself had proved to be far too short, and the voluminous folds of the antique style hung like a tent on my lanky frame, but Vinnie and Brigit had taken it all apart and created a totally new garment. The braids and buckles, pieces of brocade and bits of lace that Vinnie had saved from Mama’s fancier wardrobe were brought out and reassessed, and hours were spent embroidering the undergarment with flowers and birds and other symbols of fertility. The result was one of the finest gowns imaginable. I remembered Vinnie’s determination to turn me into a “proper Queen fit for any court” and was glad she had persevered.

  We were still chatting about the wedding plans when Bedivere arrived with an invitation for all of us to come see Palomides demonstrate his riding technique. Vinnie wasn’t interested, and Brigit demurred on the grounds that there was too much work to do, but I whisked into a dress and was ready in no time.

  Sarum’s flat top is quite sizable, and once we passed beyond the cluster of buildings and the fringe of kitchen gardens, a large green meadow spread out before us.

  “There’s not room enough for everyone in the main Hall,” Bedivere commented as we approached a circle of tents on the far edge of the grass. “So a number of the Companions are camping here—close enough to be handy if Arthur needs them, but far enough away to stay out from underfoot. Don’t forget, warriors and courtiers aren’t the same beasts; they’re more like dogs and cats, what with the soldier wanting to be out working and the noble looking for the soft spot by the fire. In this case it seemed best to let the visiting royalty share the Hall while the Companions rough it as usual.”

  In Rheged the warrior and the noble were one and the same, and I pointed out to Bedivere that I thought that a much fairer arrangement.

  “Oh, I quite agree,” my escort answered hastily. “That’s exactly the way Arthur and I were raised. But somehow, here in the south, there’s grown up a class of privileged leaders le
ft over from the bureaucracy of the Empire who do battle among themselves politically but don’t bear arms in the common defense. They claim they are administrators, not warriors, and every southern king has to cope with them. They expect to be supported by others, and give themselves as much power as possible. Arthur’s trying to bring people around to the idea that the common good is more important than individual advantage, but the courtiers don’t take well to the notion.”

  I nodded, thinking that between his efforts to tame the wilder northern Celts and bring some sort of social consciousness to the decadent southerners, Arthur had his work cut out for him.

  Beyond the tents a stand of trees denoted the presence of water and a small crowd of people had already gathered in its shade. The townsfolk were on foot, but the kings and warriors from the camps on the plain had arrived on their horses, and now they fanned out around a dirt patch that no doubt served as drill grounds for the men who regularly defended Sarum.

  We made our way into the gathering and headed for a raised platform where Arthur and some of the Companions were taking their seats.

  “Glad you could come.” My bridegroom beamed as he patted a place beside him on the bench, then looked past me to Bedivere. “Why don’t you introduce the boy, since you know best what he can do?”

  Bedivere nodded and went to find Palomides, and Arthur turned back to his discussion with Gawain while I stared about at the people.

  They covered the range of rulers, from the brightly dressed dandies of the south to the plaid-draped men of the Highlands. There were silk brocade and linen and homespun and old leather in great abundance, and their horses were just as diverse: stocky Celtic ponies from the north, big Shires from the Pennines, and the elegant Welsh Mountain Ponies, like Featherfoot, from Caesar’s own Oriental stud. Like their riders, they reflected the variety of men and cultures Arthur was trying to hold together.

  Between the groups of gaudy warriors the common people mingled, dressed in all the natural shades of homespun, with here and there a bright scarf or jaunty cap. A husky milkmaid had set up a stand with a wheel of cheese on it and was doing a steady business. An older woman, her graying hair wisping untidily out of the bun on the top of her head, carried a tray of breads through the throng, hawking her biscuits and portions of loaves with a harassed good nature. I wondered if the two boys who dodged in and out of the assemblage offering onions for sale were part of her brood, for they had the same ragged air and bright smile as she did.

  Bedivere and Palomides rode into the center of the oval, and Bedivere raised his arm for attention.

  “I bring you Palomides of Ribchester,” Arthur’s foster brother called out, his voice carrying well on the soft spring air. “Where he comes from, the horsemen use a special kind of tack, and that innovation, so simple but oh, so effective, gives him a tremendous advantage. Watch him now, and see what can be done.”

  Palomides looked nervously about the group, and it occurred to me the boy must be under tremendous pressure. A young foreigner not even experienced in court ways, he was being made the center of all attention, and I wondered if we were doing him a disservice in exposing him to this sudden change.

  He saluted Arthur formally, but though the High King nodded back, he didn’t interrupt his conversation with Gawain. So I raised my own hand in salute, waving my scarf back and forth to be sure that Palomides saw me, and when I had captured his attention, I gave him the old Roman “thumbs up” sign and a big grin.

  With a flash of recognition and a broad smile he tossed his head back and surveyed the crowd, an eagle about to take wing. On command his horse moved out in loping strides and Palomides rose in his stirrups and went the length of the course balanced well above the animal’s back. The crowd buzzed and murmured, watching curiously and commenting to itself, and the lad turned and came back down the oval, this time crouching low on one side, his purchase on his mount still secured by the leather loops.

  A ripple of response ran along the course, and even Arthur turned away from Gawain to watch the exhibition. The boy went through the rest of his routine, and with each new maneuver the crowd grew more excited, clapping in appreciation as he went past them.

  Then Bedivere joined him on the field, carrying two shields and a pair of lances from Ribchester, and gave a set to Palomides when they met. The crowd hushed while the horsemen withdrew to opposite ends of the oval, and turning, rushed at each other head on. The first time was a clean pass, with the horses holding firmly to the line and neither shying from the other, but passing with barely a foot between them. It was so smoothly done, I suspected that the two riders had been practicing in secret.

  When each had reached the far end of the track they turned and headed back at full gallop. The onlookers were watching avidly as the opponents couched their lances. The drumming of hooves was thunderous, and when they met there was a crack and thud that shook one’s bones. Each man took the blow on his shield; but while Palomides kept his balance, the unstirruped Bedivere went sailing, none too gracefully, off his horse’s rump.

  The crowd gasped at seeing Bedivere so quickly put at the stranger’s mercy, and there was a moment of tension while Palomides came back to the center of the oval and kicking his feet free of the straps, leaped lightly to the ground beside his fallen friend. Arthur’s lieutenant got shakily to his feet and embraced the boy, pounding him on the back and grinning as they turned to face the reviewing stand together. The onlookers, now thoroughly impressed, roared their approval, and after a deep bow Palomides turned back to his mount and swung easily up into the saddle.

  The movement caught the audience by surprise, and at Bedivere’s urging Palomides repeated it, leaping to the ground and then remounting without any assistance.

  Pandemonium broke out among the spectators. With a rush of excitement and clamoring voices, everyone converged on the pair to get a better look at the stirrups, and Bedivere had to call on a trumpeter to get the people’s attention for Arthur.

  “We have already modified several saddles,” the High King told them, obviously pleased by the reception of this new idea, “and I invite every mounted warrior to try them for himself. It’s an easy change to make to your own tack, but you should try it first, to be sure you want it.”

  Most of the warriors had dismounted and all were trying to examine the stirrups at once. Gawain spoke briefly with Palomides and became the first to have a go at riding with them.

  “If they accept it,” Arthur said, as much to himself as to me, “we may have just secured Britain for the British!”

  He turned and looked at me with a grin and pointed over to the greenwood where Griflet and the dogs were lounging.

  “How’s about a walk?” he suggested, taking my elbow and helping me down off the platform.

  “Sure,” I responded, waving to Ulfin’s son as we headed across the grass. The boy was leaning against a tree, casually peeling something with his dagger, and he waved back as we approached.

  “How goes it?” Arthur asked, nodding to the lad and squatting down to tousle the heads of the two pups. The animals wriggled close in against him, vying for his attention.

  “Couldn’t be better,” Griflet averred, carving a chunk from the onion he was holding. Spearing it with the point of his knife, he popped it into his mouth and began munching happily. “It may not be as fancy as Winchester, but it’s certainly a fine place for a picnic.”

  Arthur laughed and got to his feet, and the pups exploded in a frenzy of wagging tails and excited prancing. We relieved Griflet of his charges and once we got their leashes untangled, headed through the patch of wood.

  “How was your visit with the Queen Mother?” Arthur asked as we came out from under the trees.

  “It went very well,” I assured him, stopping to wait while Cabal squatted in the weeds. “She’s a very dear person. It’s a pity the two of you haven’t had a chance to get to know each other.”

  Arthur squinted up at the sun, and seemed to be calculating the d
irection of the wind. “Hmmmmm,” he said noncommittally.

  And that was that. We went on walking, the dogs went on sniffing and snuffling and marking the area, the conversation slid around the thin ice of an emotional subject and I told myself to stay out of the Pendragon family affairs. They were far too complex and uncomfortable for me to fathom, and it only seemed to make Arthur more distant when I brought them up. Clearly things would be smoother if I avoided the matter altogether.

  “And how is it with you?” I inquired, slipping my arm through Arthur’s and letting the mood of the day wrap us in leisure.

  He grinned and sighed, and gave me one of his sidewise looks.

  “Well, outside of the fact that we have half the country bivouacked on our doorstep, I guess everything is fine.” Arthur laughed then and looked down at me. “I know they think they’re paying us homage, but they’re also presenting a terrible headache!”

  I laughed with him, appreciating the irony of the situation. We loosed the pups from their leads and found a comfortable spot to plop down in. I sat with my back against a stump, in the wind shadow of the rampart, and let the warmth of the sun soak in. Arthur threw himself down nearby, then turned so as to rest his head against my belly and continued his appraisal of the sky.

  The pearly mirage of a cloud was sailing majestically overhead, and I told him about the merchant ship that had gotten stuck in the sand of the Morecambe when I was a child.

  “Sounds like the ships that used to come to London,” he said thoughtfully. “I hear the Saxons don’t trade with the Mediterranean lands, so the big ships no longer ply the Thames, but in the old days they used to be tied up three deep along the wharves. Now they only occasionally find their way to the wealthy princes along the Welsh coast.”

  I tried to imagine several of those giant boats in one spot, but the notion of it seemed totally improbable. I sighed and let my hand move smoothly across Arthur’s brow and idly twine through his hair while we chatted.