Child of the Northern Spring (Guinevere Trilogy)

by Persia Woolley

  “Makes me feel old,” Arthur grumbled one morning after such a visit.

  “Broken ribs are different from body wounds,” I replied, plumping up the bolster I had made for his chair.

  “And boys are quicker to mend than men,” he averred crossly.

  I got the draughtboard out and was setting up the pieces, hoping the game would improve his mood, but he pushed the thing away with an oath.

  “I’m fed up with games and idle chatter! Damn it, I should be about the business of ruling this country, not sitting here like some invalid, unable to mount my horse or my wife or even a diplomatic mission to my enemy’s camp!”

  “You have been working,” I pointed out. “Why, we’ve drafted treaties with the Irish settlers in Wales, giving them new governments with men like Agricola in power; men whose loyalty you can count on. Geraint is keeping things under control in Devon, and both Theo and his lieutenant, Marcellus, are committed to making sure the Bristol Channel is free of invaders. The different kingdoms have accepted their new leaders and are sending their best warriors to fight under your banner. That’s pretty impressive progress for having been home only a little more than two months now.”

  “Ah, but it’s not enough, Gwen…it’s not enough,” he fretted. “Treaties are only as good as the will of those who sign them…and they don’t mean much if I can’t get the kings to understand The Cause…the need to solidify into a working unit. Merlin says it will take a new ideal, a new concept to bond the people together; religion won’t do, because the people’s beliefs are too diverse.” He sighed wearily. “If we don’t find a solution pretty soon, the Saxons will recognize our weakness and pick up the offensive again. I know they have more plans for claiming the British heartlands; I can feel it in my blood. I don’t know which among the Federates I can trust and which have expansion on their minds. My information comes piecemeal, and then it’s generally only from observation, not from inside knowledge. What I need is someone who speaks the language.”

  “Frieda…Frieda does, and she can teach us,” I suggested. “We can both learn, and then when you have to deal with them we’ll be on firmer ground.”

  There was a long pause while Arthur thought the matter over, and finally he sighed and nodded. “It is a good idea,” he admitted, grudgingly pulling the game board back into position. “A really fine idea, actually. If I can’t meet them on the battlefield, at least I can prepare to best them in their own tongue.”

  So Frieda began tutoring us, trying to shape our fluid Welsh tones into the guttural growls of Saxon speech. Arthur was far worse as a student than I would have expected, and the Saxon girl far more patient, so between us we made steady, if not spectacular, progress. And it kept him occupied during the winter months. He even continued the lessons after he was back on his feet and able to join Bedivere at the drill field each day.

  Plans for the cavalry had blossomed after the Irish campaign proved the importance of stirrups, and our troop of horsemen had grown from a handful of Companions to an impressive fighting force. By the time Arthur was able to observe the practice sessions, Bedivere and Palomides had perfected a number of techniques essential to making the mounted unit effective. It was fascinating to watch, and Arthur’s spirits picked up immediately.

  The fact that we had begun to have sex again also helped. We drifted into that just as we drifted into administering the kingdom together; it was comfortable and productive (though not yet in terms of children), and if there was none of the grand passion and deep emotional communion I had expected, neither was there dissatisfaction. Arthur simply approached bed the same way he approached everything else: directly and openly, without dalliance or diversion. I hoped with time we might grow closer on a romantic level, but was content to accept the present as it was.

  “The new horsemen are looking better and better,” he mused one night as we lay cuddled together before sleep. “I’m thinking we should give them a chance to show off what they can do now. Maybe,” he added, propping himself up on one elbow and staring out the window at the half-moon, “it’s time to move the court to Caerleon and stage a kind of tournament. In fact, we can combine it with a celebration of my recovery, and a chance to impress on the Irish that I mean to keep Wales well in hand!”

  He bounded out of bed, all thought of sleep evaporating as the fire of his idea took hold. At the table he unhooded the lantern and tossing me a tablet and stylus, began dictating a list of all the people who should be invited. We debated the importance of each name on the list, and in the end it sounded much like a regathering of the people who had come to the wedding, except for King Mark, whom we both chose to ignore.

  When we got to Morgan’s name I glanced over at him, wondering if the Lady would accept. Honor forbade that I mention the cause of her leaving, and Arthur had never brought the subject up; he probably had no idea of the animosity she bore me.

  “We’ll present you to them with all the formal ritual due a High Queen,” he announced, pacing eagerly back and forth, “just as we would have if the Irish campaign hadn’t interrupted. Also, Merlin once told me it was a good idea to have the client kings reaffirm their loyalty every year. We’ll include it all in a proper Feast, at Pentecost, in the spring. What do you think?”

  “I think it will be a madhouse.” I laughed, wondering if we were tempting fate to bring together so many rival factions once again.

  “Aye,” he said with a nod, putting on a robe to combat the chill. “There’s got to be some way to rise above all those ‘royal egos.’ Who sits where, indeed,” he snorted.

  “That part’s easy enough to fix.” I shrugged. “Just set the trestles out in a circle, the way the Cumbri do at Council.” I drew my knees up under my chin and tucked the down quilt in around the edges. “That way all the guests are equal in status, and if you leave spaces between the trestles the servants can move in and out easily enough.”

  Arthur stopped dead in his tracks and, thrusting his hands deep in his pockets, stared at me. It was hard to know whether he was looking at me or through me, but I stared back, wondering what he was thinking up now.

  “We did it on the trip south, only without the tabletops,” I went on, “and my forefathers have been doing it for generations. If it works for the touchy Celts, it should work for the Romano-Britons as well.”

  A wonderful broad grin was stealing over Arthur’s face, and his eyes began to sparkle mischievously.

  “By Jove,” he swore in Latin, “Bedivere said I would do well to listen to you! A circle…like a great round table where there isn’t any ‘head’ or ‘foot.’ What a marvelous device; it’ll keep the politicians among them scratching their beards for weeks, trying to decide whether they’ve been insulted or complimented!”

  He grabbed up the lantern and headed for the door.

  “Arthur, where are you going?” I cried, scrambling out of bed and running after him.

  “I’ve got to tell Merlin about this,” he said, tugging impatiently on the ties that fastened the leather curtains.

  Throwing myself in front of him, I pointed out the window. “It’s long past the middle of the night…look, even the moon has set. Goodness’ sake, love, let the Magician enjoy his sleep. You can discuss it with him tomorrow.”

  The nip of the night air was sharp against my skin, and I started to shiver even as I laughed up at my husband. He stood there looking down on me, really and truly seeing me this time.

  “Maybe you’re right,” he said slyly, hanging the lantern on a hook by the doorway and sliding both arms around me. “Who knows what other ideas you might come up with if given a further chance?”

  I laughed again—the deeper, growling laugh that comes from the Goddess—and thought happily that Arthur was now at last finally and completely himself again.

  Chapter XXXXV

  The Round Table

  The idea of the Feast at Caerleon swept through the winter court with visions of color and pageantry and all the gaiety such occasions create.
Messengers were sent out across the realm with writs inviting the Kings of Britain to join us for Pentecost, and at the bottom of each scroll the Dragon Seal blazed in its crimson glory.

  Merlin called on the best craftsmen and cabinetmakers in Logres and took them with him to Caerleon, where they built the special trestles to be set in a circle at the Feast. Every woman at court picked up her needle and thread to help with the embroidering of the noble names of our guests; the horsemen spent hours polishing their trappings, and the cooks set about planning elegant menus that would do us all credit. Cei even scoured the countryside looking for caches of the prized Mediterranean fish sauce that might be found in nearby larders, and the amphoras he came up with were duly loaded on packhorses and carefully sent on ahead. By the time we left for Caerleon ourselves, no one had thought of anything but the Feast for weeks.

  Glad to be on the Road again, Arthur was everywhere at once, riding with Bedivere, jesting with Gawain, conferring with Merlin. For my own part, after a year of living with the long sea swells of the green downs, the chance to see a different face of Britain was a blessed relief.

  We traveled at a leisurely pace and on the second night set up camp on a hillside overlooking the steamy, fetid valley that had once been the Roman resort of Bath. Cei stared down at the ruins of the town, his tax appraiser’s eye taking in every crumbling column and broken arch.

  “What are the chances of repairing it?” Arthur asked, gesturing toward the heaps of rubble and fragments of stone arcades that glowed golden in the late-afternoon light.

  “Drain the swamp…see what we can do to shore up the buildings?” The Seneschal considered the matter. “There’s too much to try to rescue all of it, but perhaps the baths could be salvaged…probably not enough people living here to keep up the old elegance, but a place with naturally hot water shouldn’t go to waste. I can look into it, if you want.”

  Arthur grunted noncommittally, continuing to stare at the remnants of another age. Reeds and rushes now clogged the watercourse, and in the standing pools masses of water lilies floated, soft and fleshy and languid. The toppled masonry and broken statues around the hot springs were wrapped in vapors, sometimes plainly visible, sometimes hidden in clouds of steam. It was like a dream of remembered glory tugging pitifully at the cuff of the present.

  I made the rounds of the camp with Arthur that night, and we stopped afterward at a rocky outcrop to look down on the ruins again. They shone in the moonlight with a strange, eternal lure.

  “A sense of identity in the here and now…that’s what Britain needs,” my husband mused, as much to himself as to me. “The belief in something honorable and honest and real…This habit of looking back to the days of the Empire, or even the older time of Heroes…that’s fine, but it’s like a meal remembered: you can recapture the flavor mentally, but It doesn’t fill the stomach now. The people need to take pride in what they are doing now, today…with a chance to recognize their present worth. There’s nothing in Britain that isn’t salvageable if the people just put their minds to it, and that goes for everyday life and trade as well as clogged drains and decaying buildings. As long as they feel beaten and frightened and unable to fix things, they will be unable, and they’ll skulk like rats in the ruins of their own making…”

  He sighed, frowning into the night. I had learned that there were times when Arthur wanted nothing more of me than silent support, so I listened quietly, confident that when the time was right the solution to the problem he wrestled with would take shape, itself clear and whole and purposeful.

  ***

  The ferry crossing at the Severn went smoothly, and we rode into Caerleon on a bright afternoon with all our pennants flying in the June breeze.

  The town was resplendent with flowers, and banners and bright awnings adorned the buildings, while the outlying meadows bloomed with the tents of the nobles who had come to join us. Jugglers performed on the corners, and a dancing bear entertained the crowd outside the amphitheater.

  The arena had been prepared for cavalry demonstrations, with smiths and leatherworkers, horse doctors and military men all meeting to exchange tips and information, new remedies, and the most recent tactical developments. The tournament itself lasted for two days and included displays of individual riding skills, group maneuvers and mock battles, and that favorite of Celtic feats of bravery, the single combat between two heroes. Arthur and I sat under a canopy erected on the reviewing stand, applauding the various participants and hoping there was some way to balance out the awards so that no one faction became discontented and testy.

  Even the Queen Mother had come for the festivities, though it was obvious that her health was failing. She looked paler and more drawn than before, but her eyes still twinkled with a bright humor when we talked, and I was sorry there wasn’t more time to visit with her.

  “That’s all right, child,” she remonstrated gently. “You’re busy being a queen, after all.”

  I nodded, appreciative of her understanding, and hurried back to my chambers to dress for the Feast.

  Later, when Vinnie had finished piling my hair up in waves and braids so that the fillet rode proudly on a mass of apricot swirls and the long gold earrings from Brigit’s family swung free against the length of my neck, I picked up the elegant gold torque Igraine had given me as a wedding present. The piece had been in Cunedda’s family for more generations than anyone knew, and I stared at it now while the little animals on the knobbed ends peered back at me in pop-eyed surprise.

  How many other women had held it thus, thinking of the lives it linked together? The ancient badge of the freeborn, a treasure in itself, it would have been worn at times of great honor and ceremonies of deep grief, as well as State Occasions and the high holy days of magic and dancing. Down through the ages the braided strands glimmered like the intertwined moira of destinies: proud, untarnishable, symbol of the dignity and courage of all who had the right to wear it.

  I slipped it easily around my throat, then stood up to check the effect in the mirror. I might never have Mama’s striking beauty or serenity of nature, but the green silk dress had been remade to fit my taller, lankier frame, and the golden jewelry gave my reflection a regal air.

  Standing behind me, Brigit whispered loudly to Vinnie, “Looks like a regular High Queen, doesn’t she?” and the matron turned to stare at her, shocked.

  The mischief on the Irish girl’s face made even Vinnie smile, and after a moment of exaggerated reappraisal my governess nodded. “I think she’ll do…” she whispered back.

  I laughed with them, remembering how long I had tried to fight off just this fate. Somewhere in the gaiety that filled the room I heard Mama’s voice as well, and hoped that she would tell Nonny I’d turned out to be a credit to Cunedda’s line after all.

  Arthur gave me his own nod of approval when we came together outside the Great Hall, and I grinned up at him. Perhaps someday I’d tell him how I’d planned to run away rather than become his bride, but for the moment it was delicious just to slip my arm into his.

  At the entrance to the Great Hall I caught my breath. Merlin had insisted on laying out the room himself, saying that I would be far more useful helping Cei than setting up the trestles. So like the rest of the nobles, I was dazzled by my first sight of the Round Table.

  The room had been decorated with banners and shields and all manner of bright hangings on the walls. Towering sconces held great blazing torches, and on every table miniature suns floated in pools of crystal light, their wicks close-trimmed and neat.

  The tables were draped with white linen cloths which hid the sturdy trestles. They were ranged in a circle as for any feast at home, except that there was no fire pit in the center, so we could look directly across the intervening space without a forest of firedogs and hanging pots. Fresh rushes covered the floor and wildflowers were laid out before each guest’s place.

  Every noble at the table had a chair of his own, over the back of which hung a panel of embroidery p
roclaiming his name and rank, while his retinue was ranged behind him. Most of the guests were already seated, and I noted that the Companions had been carefully interspersed between client kings and notables of other realms.

  Merlin had created a splendid setting far beyond my expectations, and I mentally congratulated him on a job well done.

  The trumpeter raised his instrument and at a nod from Arthur, gave us a fanfare that brought our subjects to their feet. We crossed the Hall together, stride for stride. Arthur moved smoothly now, without a hint of limp or stiffness, and there was no way to tell he had been so seriously wounded. I stole a glance at him, noting that he looked wonderful: proud, eager, and sure of his world.

  When we were seated, Merlin moved to the center of the circle and raised his arms in the classic position for prayer. He invoked all the gods, Christian and Pagan alike, and then turned his attention to our guests.

  Slowly scanning each section of the gathering, he drew the audience’s attention as easily as a weaver draws his threads together when warping a loom. The room became absolutely silent, and the Magician’s amazing voice stole, softly at first, among the guests in the Hall.

  “Companions of Arthur, allies and rulers and heroes of many realms, you have come here in one of the finest of peacetime gatherings Britain has ever known. King and duke, count and warrior, freeman, noble, druid, and bishop…you are the best flowering of this land, gathered to honor the High King and his Queen. Thus, in the name of Arthur and Guinevere, I bid you well come, Lords and Ladies of the Realm.

  “Note well this union of all Albion, invited specifically at the request of your High King,” Merlin went on, spinning out the importance of the moment like thread from a distaff. “Are you not Cumbri and Cornish, Breton and Pict, Scot and Irish and Roman: freemen all, powerful in your own sovereignty, yet willing to put aside personal differences for the chance to participate in this great celebration? And do not your gods look down and smile on this fair couple who have brought you together thus?”