“Am I to assume you are leaving, child?”
Morgan turned back, made a quick curtsy, and replied, “With your permission, M’lady. I have things to prepare.”
The Queen Mother raised one hand in a gesture that was a cross between a blessing and a shooing away, then sighed when the door banged shut behind her daughter.
“I haven’t see her for five years, not since Uther’s death, and she hasn’t changed a bit.” Igraine shook her head wearily. “I had hoped that when she too became a mother she might soften some, but I didn’t see my grandson Uwain until he was well nigh eight years old.”
Igraine held out her cup and I poured the last of the tea for her. She leaned back in her chair and look speculatively at the door through which Morgan had just stormed.
“Uwain’s a nice boy, and mannerly…takes after his father,” she commented wryly. “Urien brought him to Uther’s funeral, and I thought then he didn’t even look like Morgan, much less act like her. I would say he’ll become a prince to be proud of.”
It seemed unlikely that she knew he had been tendered as a possible husband for me, but I was touched by the idea that I would have married into this great queen’s family one way or another.
“I know him and his father only by reputation,” I said, thinking it best not to mention the long history of border raids between Rheged and Northumberland.
“You’ll be meeting them at the Feast of Nobles tomorrow,” Igraine mused, her voice lifting in the way I found so endearing. “You’ll have a chance to meet not only the client kings but almost all of the family under one roof, and on their good behavior, at that! What a rambunctious brood they are, and as different from each other as could be imagined,” she added with a note of fond resignation.
“Will they all be there? I understood Morgause…” I hesitated, not knowing how much Igraine was aware of the tension between Arthur and his sister.
“No, my Orkney daughter is still on her islands, which is probably just as well,” the Queen Mother said slowly, smoothing the robe around her knees. “Morgause has a way of causing trouble wherever she goes. Gawain and Gaheris will represent that branch of the family; of the five boys, they are the only two at Arthur’s court.”
“Five?” I asked, puzzled. For the life of me I could only remember Lot boasting of four offspring, and wondered now whom I had forgotten.
“Gawain and Gaheris, Agravain, Gareth, and Mordred, who was born after Lot died. Had you not heard of him?” I shook my head, surprised that news of a new Prince of Orkney had not reached Rheged.
“Poor dear, I think of him so often, being raised without a father in those strange, bleak islands so far away. Gawain says he takes after Morgan in look and action: dark and quick and brooding. What else could one expect for a child conceived on the evening of his father’s death? I pray for all my offspring, but particularly for him,” she added softly. “It can’t be easy, especially with Morgause for a mother.”
I wondered what she meant, and might even have found the courage to ask, but Griflet and the pups came tumbling out of the kitchen just then, and the next thing I knew we were preparing to take our leave.
“Now you go home and get a good night’s rest, my dear,” Igraine said, smiling directly into my eyes, “so you’ll be fresh and rested when it’s time to be presented to the Nobles. It’s bound to be quite an experience, and I want you to enjoy it fully.”
On impulse, I bent over her frail form and laid my cheek against hers with a light hug.
“Thank you so much, M’lady,” I whispered, and for a moment her hand rested lightly on my head.
“Bless you, child. It’s nice to see someone in this family has some manners.”
I slept fitfully, with fleeting glimpses of Morgan flickering through my dreams, and came awake to the sound of Arthur tapping on my window. He gestured to me to let him in the kitchen door, and after waking Griflet to stand guard at the back of the house, led the way up the ladder to the loft. Hanging the horn lantern from a bracket, he sank into a pile of pillows.
I caught my breath in surprise, for he was gray with fatigue and looked as though he hadn’t slept for days.
“Gwen,” he said soberly, taking my hands in his and pulling me down beside him, “a colleague of Agricola’s, a man named Geraint, arrived this evening with news of Wales. He says the Irish are indeed supporting a rebellion, in the belief that we are too busy with the wedding to notice. So it looks as though we’ll be going to war tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” I choked. The lantern shadows wavered around the loft as I thought of the rites in disarray, the wedding called off, the chaos of a future neither confirmed nor denied.
“Aye, tomorrow.” He was watching me intently. “Would you prefer to…postpone…the marriage? It is a hard thing to ask, but worse yet to expect you to accept a battlefield in place of a wedding night, and the possibility of a dead husband even before your life is rightly begun. Or I might come home maimed, or blinded, or crippled beyond repair. There are no certainties in war, and I would hate to have you spend your life with a husband who was less than whole…that is no future for a lively young lass.”
I thought of Mama, and started to tell him that wounds and crippledness need not make a difference in our love, but the bleakness of his expression stopped me. The words had been wrung from him by great effort, and I searched his face for some clue as to what lay behind them. Maybe the whole idea of marriage had become an encumbrance he needed to be free of at this time.
“Postponement? Is that what you want?” I asked.
He shook his head solemnly. “No. I would have us wedded, and bedded, before I leave,” he answered, looking down at our intertwined hands and speaking in a low, husky voice. “I would like to know the future rests already in your womb, and if I do not return, you will manage the realm and raise the next king for me.”
I gasped, stunned by the idea. He was not looking at me directly, but the gravity of his tone reinforced the importance of his words.
“And,” he added shyly, “it would give me further incentive to know that I was fighting for wife and family as well as throne and subjects. Besides, if I die you are safer here as queen, with an army to protect you, than you would be as the almost-bride of a defeated king, trying to flee back to Rheged.”
“No, no!” I cried, the possibility of Arthur’s death rousing me from personal panic. Freeing my hands, I put them on either side of his head. “You will not die, I won’t let you! I will be your wife waiting for you.”
He stared back at me with misery and hope.
Seeing him so vulnerable, I reached beyond my own fear to give him whatever reassurance there might be. Pulling his head down, I kissed him passionately.
“I am to be your queen, your partner, your mate and confidante, and together we shall rule Britain for years to come…Nimue and the Goddess have said so,” I added with as much authority as I could muster. His arms went around me in a life-seeking embrace.
“When will you know how bad the situation is?” I asked finally, sitting up slowly and straightening my dress.
“Tomorrow morning, probably. We’re working on a plan tonight, but if it proves unfeasible, we’ll hold the wedding on Sunday as planned, and wait to see what further news comes from the north. That would give us more time to prepare, but we’d lose the advantage of surprise. In the meantime, we must keep the people from getting wind of it and panicking.”
“How soon will you tell them?”
He shook his head and sighed. “Not until we’ve decided what can be done. Once we’re committed to battle we can draw upon the warriors who are here for the festivities, but until the plans are settled, the entire situation must remain absolutely secret.”
I nodded, standing up and stretching in an effort to dispel the sense of being stuffed into a narrow, black bag.
“I understand you met Morgan this afternoon,” he said absently, and I half-snorted in reply.
“She’s upset that I�
��ve gone through the rites at Avebury. It seems she wants to do them all over again tomorrow.”
Compared with the importance of Arthur’s problems, the Lady’s attitude was petty and ridiculous. The more I thought about it, the less inclined I was to cooperate.
“This ritual Morgan has planned…it will take all day, won’t it?” Arthur inquired, slowly getting to his feet.
“Probably. She wants to do some form of exorcism first.” I shivered at the very idea. “I’m sure it isn’t necessary; the important ceremony has already been done, so I could miss this one if something urgent came up,” I suggested, following Arthur down the ladder. “Perhaps I need not go through the exorcism after all.”
We paused beside the hearth, and he pulled me close to him.
“No…no, I want you to go on with it as though nothing unusual were happening,” Arthur whispered. “You mustn’t cause any suspicion in your actions, and I need to know where to find you in a hurry.”
He put his hand under my chin and lifted it gently. Troubled, I stared up at him in the hope he would say something tender and reassuring, but he bent to kiss me instead, more roughly than he realized.
“Get some sleep,” he whispered, “and I will get word to you as soon as it’s clear what we must do.”
And then he was gone, and I stood looking down into the ashes of the cold hearth, wondering what it would all come to.
Chapter XXXXI
The Wedding
Unseen hands were scrabbling at my back, picking at my flesh through the cloth of the dream, and I watched with horror as Morgan’s face began to melt and twist into something hideous and unreal. I tried to wrench myself away from her but the Priestess laughed with the high, shrill whine of a blade against the whirling stone…and then I was falling through eons of darkness.
The hammering of my pulse became the sound of rain on the roof, and I struggled to wakefulness in a bed that had become a tangle of covers. Somewhere I heard a cock crow and the sound brought me fully awake. It seemed a night not made for sleep, and with a sigh I got up. At least there would be no more nightmares before I must face the Lady in person.
I slipped into the white dress as quietly as possible, but Brigit woke and rose to help, joining me afterward in a silent vigil by the hearth in the main room. We huddled over the small blaze she coaxed to life, letting the warmth of hearthside friendship drive the demons of doom back into their corners.
The dogs leapt to attention when the knock came. Sleepily Griflet took them in hand, and Brigit opened the door as I reached for Igraine’s great dark cloak.
A white form stepped through the doorway and when he pushed back his hood I recognized Cathbad.
“Is it still raining?” I asked him, coming forward to greet my old tutor.
“It looks to be starting to clear, Your Highness,” he answered stiffly. His tone was so cold I wondered if he now shared the Lady’s antipathy toward me. “I have been appointed to stand for you in your father’s place, if you have no objections,” he added.
“I would be honored,” I assured him carefully, and after a hasty farewell to my household, followed him outside.
An armed escort stood at attention, and I looked slowly from one to another in dismay. The men and women in white robes posed no threat, but the guards and warriors bristled with purpose. Perhaps the Lady thought I would have to be brought to her by force.
To the east the sky was lightening, but overhead the stars were hidden by clouds, and the torches that smoked in the damp air cast a lurid red reflection off paving stones and puddles. Huge shadows danced about the walls, and as we made our way through the streets the low rumble of a muffled hand drum gave cadence to our steps.
When we reached the fields the druids began to chant, at first soft and plaintively, then more loudly as the drum became more insistent. It was so different from the trip to the temple at Avebury, where the nightingale had welcomed us and the Gods had sent my name whispering all through the trees; by comparison, this morning’s music was heavy and ponderous, like an ominous, guttural dirge.
The prospect of spending an entire day in the Lady’s hands loomed ever more terrifying. Though Nimue had led me gently through the initiation, it was clear the High Priestess had a very different manner, and while the grandeur might be more impressive when conjured up by Morgan, surely the result would not be half so beautiful. Then too, there was the unknown rite meant to erase what had already been done. I could not imagine what it would entail, and the throbbing drum echoing around me underscored my growing panic.
Even Cathbad’s presence offered no solace, for a quick glance at his hooded face convinced me there would be no help from him. And physical flight was out of the question, for there would be no escaping so many pursuers if I gave in to the panic and bolted. Certainly I had no desire to be dragged to Morgan’s feet like a runaway slave. So whether I ran or stayed, the result would be the same, and my stomach heaved at the realization.
The Lady stood waiting at the edge of the woods, wrapped in her black hooded mantle like the spirit of night. We came to a stop in front of her, the escort fanning out to form a circle in the gloom as the chanting slowly died. The drum, however, continued its relentless rhythm.
A smile of satisfaction played about Morgan’s mouth, and when she extended her arms, I saw the glimmer of the armband she had been wearing when she raised the unspeakable goblet at the Black Lake.
“The time has come, my sister, when we are at last well met,” she said, her voice purring with triumph.
Behind me, unseen hands began to tug at Igraine’s cloak, as though to strip me of all defense, and the nightmare rose while the drums pounded until they shook the ground.
“Hold!”
A horse and rider burst through the ring of druids as the drumming turned into hoofbeats, and my captors froze. The steed came to a rearing, whinnying halt in front of Morgan like some ancient god unleashed by her spell.
“How dare you?” the Priestess demanded, stepping back to glare up at the intruder. Her wrath filled the glen and focused on the unknown element. “Who are you to command the Lady of the Lake?”
“It is I, Arthur Pendragon!” the horseman roared, fighting to gain control of the situation.
The words ripped through my terror, shredding it like rotted fabric, and I went limp with relief. Arthur swung down from the saddle and handed me the reins without even a glance. All his energies were concentrated on the Priestess.
“M’lady Guinevere and I must be wed this morning, and I have come to ask your blessing. Will you perform the ceremony now, here, on the spot?”
Morgan took a step backward as though physically assaulted.
“Of course not!” She spat the words out, her voice full of outrage at such an idea. Drawing herself up to her full height, she announced, “The bride must first undergo the preparations.”
“But that has already been done at Avebury,” Arthur pointed out, “and we cannot wait another day.”
“I have reason to think they were not done properly,” Morgan retorted coldly.
There was a moment of silence while brother and sister assessed each other in a naked confrontation of power. At last Arthur turned on his heel and reached for me.
“Then we shall be wed by the Archbishop,” he announced flatly. He gave me a boost up onto the stallion’s back and, finding the stirrups, swung up behind me.
“You’ll do what?” The shrill edge of disbelief made Morgan’s smooth voice ragged. “I forbid it!” she screamed, fists clenched and eyes burning with fury. “As the High Priestess of Albion, I forbid it.”
“And as High King of Britain, I say there is no time to argue!” Arthur replied, wheeling the stallion round and spurring him down the track.
The animal, trained for war and quick as mercury, sprang forward as the Lady’s people drew back in a flicker of white robes, and within seconds we were free of the circle and racing for the town.
I crouched low on the horse’s
neck, and Arthur slid one arm around my waist, lying close above me so that the two of us clung to the flying steed like two burrs on a blanket. The stallion plunged and rose beneath us, his hooves throwing up clods of grass and damp earth. I closed my eyes and let the rhythm of the gallop and the warmth and firmness of Arthur’s hold on me replace the recent terror.
The wind was whipping my hair into a cloud around both our heads and Arthur had to bury his face in it to make himself heard.
“Sorry about that,” he said, but when we pulled up to a more respectable pace at the edge of town, I twisted round to look up at him and the gleeful grin on his face was neither contrite nor apologetic.
“I’ll make it up to her, somehow,” he promised. “Loss of face and all that. But last night’s plans went perfectly; we have three boatloads of warriors halfway to the coast this morning, and I’ve promised Theo a kingdom for his trouble. Cador and Pellinore and all the others are getting their men together, and we’re set to march come eventide. There’s nothing left now but finding a priest for the ceremony. And collecting witnesses,” he added, laughing at my expression. “Who really has to be there?”
“Well, Vinnie and Brigit, and Nimue and Merlin, and of course your mother…and Agricola and Pelli if they can make it, and Bedivere and…whoever else can come, I guess.”
I burst out laughing at the realization that this State Occasion was turning into a cross between an elopement and a May-dance. Waves of relief and surprise and joy were surging through me.
“Are we really going to get married right now?” I asked, leaning back against Arthur as he guided the stallion between the houses.
“Unless you’ve changed your mind,” he whispered, nuzzling through the tangle of hair around my ear. I gasped and scrunched my shoulders happily.
We came trotting into the Square to find it full of people scurrying about in the early-morning light. Spits were being set up and coals banked in open fires which had been lit well before dawn. Vast arrays of meat and fish, game and fowl were already spitted and waiting to be cooked.
Child of the Northern Spring (Guinevere Trilogy) Page 43
