So the next morning we headed for the Wrekin, that long, whalelike ridge that rises up out of the forest so unexpectedly. The broad path climbs through woods of oak and holly, birch and yew, and when we paused partway up the trail, a wild, cackling laugh suddenly split the air. I shivered in spite of seeing the green woodpecker flit away, and Arthur gave me an amused look.
But by the time we reached the massive walls of the fort atop the ridge, an eerie, chilling wail welled out to greet us. The cries of keening women ricocheted from Hall to barn as Lamorak came to meet us at the gate, his face haggard and eyes red.
“It’s my father,” he said flatly, as the tears ran down his cheeks. “Yesterday a hurdle maker was gathering hazel rods in the forest by Wenlock Edge when he stumbled on the body…or what was left of it.”
I gasped aloud and reached out to steady myself against Arthur, appalled at the idea that such a bulwark of the realm was gone.
“He must have died shortly after leaving home,” Lamorak went on. “What with the warm summer months, only the cape was recognizable—that and the brooch you gave him at his last tournament, Your Highness.”
His words echoed in my head: “I’ll wear it till the day I die.” The memory shook me like a wind.
“So he wasn’t robbed,” Arthur noted, absently helping me sit down. “At least we can assume it wasn’t foul play.”
“Not quite.” Lamorak shook his head. “From the slashes in his cape, I’d say he was stabbed in the back. And his big bay stallion has not been seen; someone must have ridden it away, or it would have returned to the stable. They weren’t that far from home.”
“And his wife?” I asked, trying to remember her name. “How’s Tallia taking it?”
“Ah, Tallia died several years back, M’lady, during childbirth. My father remarried soon after—a young girl I think you never met, who is a distant relative of King Pellam’s in Carbonek. She’s half out of her mind with grief, sobbing and wailing and swearing she’ll take her son, Perceval, back to Wales. She’s never made friends here and has no wish to stay.”
I nodded slowly, hoping that Elaine and King Pellam would take the new widow in—otherwise she and the tyke could be lost, forced to become beggars, or live half wild among the outlaws and other forest peoples.
When we went into the Hall I tried to talk with her, to ease her grief and suggest that she join our household, at least temporarily. But she grew even more distraught, declaring that it was Arthur and the Round Table that had killed her husband with the lure of honor and glory. In the end we left her there, and once we paid our respects to the dead, returned to the caravan waiting for us at Wroxeter.
“At least it can’t be blamed on the Green Man,” Arthur noted sourly. “The Gods don’t use daggers in the back, so it must have been a flesh-and-blood enemy.” Startled, I remembered the Orcadians’ hatred for the men of the Wrekin. And glancing at Arthur, I saw his jaw set grimly.”I will not tolerate blood-feuds in the Round Table!”
But when the news was shared, Gawain and Gaheris both swore they’d had nothing to do with Pellinore’s death, and considering the importance Gawain put on honor these days, I thought it unlikely he’d kill an enemy so treacherously. It was also implausible that sweet-natured Gareth would have done such a thing, and Mordred, who was too young to be truly suspect, had been at Court during the time when Pelli died. Agravain, the only other member of the Orkney faction, was still held captive in the northern isles, struggling with the memory of killing his own mother.
“Perhaps,” Bedivere suggested, “we’ll never know who killed Pellinore. And I for one would rather remember the vitality and enthusiasm of his life, and not dwell on the bitterness of his end.”
As usual, Bedivere’s advice was both excellent and well taken.
***
We laid over at Chester while Arthur met with Maelgwn’s regent, reviewing the readiness of the warriors, seeing to the state of the crops, and settling whatever disputes needed his attention. The city itself is one of my favorites, but the fact that it belonged to my cousin made me glad to leave, and we arrived at Carlisle well before Samhain.
As a child I had not cared much for Rheged’s only city, preferring the lakeside steadings and mountain enclaves. But years of living in the comfort of the south had made me more appreciative of the Roman trading center at the western end of Hadrian’s Wall. The big old house on the riverbank is quite comfortable, the aqueduct to the fountain in the Square still functions, and the constant stream of traders, moving not only north and south over the big stone bridge but also east and west along the Wall, means that both news and merchants give the town a lively air. It was here we would spend the winter, and I settled into our house with the additional gladness of being close to my own people once more.
On a rainy evening shortly after Samhain, Gareth returned from his trip to the Sanctuary. He was soaked to the skin and came into the Hall, teeth chattering and long hair dripping, just after the evening meal. I took one look at him and ordered that he get dry and warm while Cook scurried off to fix him a steaming bowl of brose.
The young warrior sank to his knees in front of me, however, and humbly bowed his head.
“Your Highness, I have failed to find Lancelot.” When he looked up at me, I could have sworn there were tears as well as raindrops coursing down his face, and I put my hand on his shoulder in commiseration. “I cannot keep your brooch when the cause was not met,” he went on, putting the blue pin from the Mote into my hand. I tried to insist it was well earned, but he wouldn’t hear of it. “There is a matter of honor involved, Your Highness,” he said, sounding very much like Gawain.
“Ah well,” Arthur sighed, “the Breton will show up sooner or later.”
“But there is other, much better news,” Gareth went on, gratefully taking the foaming bowl Cook offered him and sitting down before the hearth. The warmth of the fire made his wet clothes steam, wreathing him in mists, but his eyes were full of excitement and he took no notice. A fine smile spread across his face. “My brother Agravain now lives at the Sanctuary, and Aunt Morgan’s rescuing him from the terrors of his past.”
Agravain—the dark and handsome son of King Lot. He was cunning and devious where Gawain was open; lazy and self-centered where Gaheris was hard working; cruel and arrogant where Gareth was sincerity itself. And though Gareth was clearly delighted by the news, I stared at him and wondered if he had any idea how vicious his older sibling was. What with living at Joyous Gard with Lancelot, he’d not been at Court when Morgause died, not seen the horror up close.
Arthur gave Gareth a piercing look and began chewing on the ends of his mustache. “So Agravain is with Morgan? And she’s cured him of his fits and rages?”
“Indeed, M’lord,” the young man beamed. “I spent several evenings with him, and outside of an occasional nervous outburst, he seems perfectly sane again.”
“I’ve had no word he’d left the Orkneys. How long has he been at the Sanctuary?” Gawain asked with a scowl. He at least seemed to realize this might be a mixed blessing.
“Came a few weeks back. Some Druids found him wandering in the Marches, lost and frightened, and out of his wits. Who knows how long he’d been that way before they brought him to the Black Lake?”
Arthur and I exchanged glances, both no doubt thinking of Pellinore, but neither of us spoke.
“Agravain knew neither his own name nor his past,” Gareth marveled, “but if he’d come on foot the length of Scotland, hiding from the Picts and living by his wits in the wildwood, it’s no wonder he’d turned raving. The High Priestess has restored his mind as well as his body, and one would never guess the agonies he’s known. I don’t wonder the people worship her or call her the greatest healer in the land.”
I bit my lip and looked at my lap, wondering what Arthur was making of the news. But instead of the anger I expected from him, he clamped his mouth shut and stared into the fire.
A chill ran through me and I pulled my scarf
tighter around my shoulders. The loss of hope for Lancelot was a deep, quiet ache, but the arrival of Agravain brought quick sharp fear. It was entirely possible Morgan would try to turn him against us—or even tempt him to usurp the throne.
After her attempt on his life, Arthur had forbidden her to leave the Sanctuary without our permission, thereby hoping to isolate her among the mountains and dales of the Lake District. Yet even from a distance she had managed to draw the most untrustworthy of the Orcadians to her Sanctuary. I began to wonder which was worse: watching her traveling freely through the land, stirring up trouble among the peasants, or having to worry what kind of treachery she was conjuring in her lair, hidden away beside the Black Lake.
Slowly and surely I felt the woman’s presence grow stronger, and prayed that she would do nothing to spoil our return to Rheged. It was my first visit home in many years, and I wanted so much to enjoy a country winter, back among the people of my own land.
Chapter XII
Rheged
Fergus had been a big, red-headed Irishman when he had given his daughter, Brigit, to my father as a peace-hostage, back when both she and I were youngsters. He was balding and paunchy now, with a weathered face well creased with laugh lines, and he surveyed the Irish wolfhounds that lounged by our fire with paternal pride.
“Descendants of the pup I gave you as a wedding present? Think of that!”
Arthur grinned in response, and began to tell the man how famous the first wardog, Cabal, had become. “Bravest bitch I ever owned: quick to learn, and wonderfully loyal—saved my life during the Saxon wars.”
The Irishman beamed at the notion of having contributed to his High King’s safety, and hooking his thumbs into the top of his breeches, leaned back against the sheepskin of his chair, thoroughly enjoying the visit. To a man who lived in a wattle and daub roundhouse, our solid Roman building with heated floors and muraled walls must have seemed the height of luxury.
The dog breeder was not our only guest that winter. Rough-dressed men from beyond the Wall swaggered in, led by chieftains in plaid kilts and shaggy fur capes. A Pictish envoy, his body covered with tattoos, made the trip down from the Highlands, and any number of merchants, peddlars, and occasional holy men came to pay their respects at the big house in Carlisle.
“I’ve been thinking,” my husband would say casually to each guest as they sat over mugs of ale while the fire blazed. “Been reading this Edictum of Theodoric’s, and it seems to me we should have something like it—laws that a man can count on wherever he lives in Britain. Oh, nothing to do with taxes, mind—each lord needs to settle those among his people—but about keeping the peace, establishing justice…”
And our guests, depending on their nature, would nod vaguely or question pointedly or sometimes offer suggestions as to what all it should contain. After so many years of trying to implement the idea, it was gratifying to get some positive reactions.
“I’ll civilize them yet,” my husband allowed one night, reaching for me under the down comforter. “If I can tame Rheged’s most famous tomboy, I ought to be able to convert its men.”
“Don’t you go counting on my tameness,” I shot back. “This country’s been led by more than one independent queen.” And then we were tussling and teasing like newlyweds until our coupling was complete and we lay in a heap of exhaustion. There might be whole worlds of emotions I couldn’t share with my husband, but our bedding was always a pleasure.
When the weather was nice we sallied forth from Carlisle, visiting the towns and steadings that I’d grown up in. Being so far north, Rheged had missed the devastation the south suffered before Arthur quelled the Saxon uprisings at the battle of Mount Badon. The Lakes with their steep fells and hidden valleys, Pennine towns such as Appleby and Kirkby Thor, even the farms around Carlisle, had all prospered during those years.
A steady stream of travelers crossed the great stone bridge over the Eden, carrying made goods and messages to the fractious kingdoms beyond the Wall, returning with news and pelts and occasionally a fine golden torc accepted as barter along the way. The town thrived as a center of trade and hosted a weekly market where farmers brought their goods as well. There was even a cathedral, and the little Roman matron, Vinnie, immediately made the Bishop’s acquaintance.
“He’s a fine man,” she informed me, “who would be glad to have you grace his congregation.” So on a bright Sunday morning Vinnie and I and many of my ladies-in-waiting all went to Mass together. “You should invite him to Court,” the matron prompted afterward, and made a point of hustling me up to meet the Christian patriarch.
“Well,” he announced, looking me slowly up and down as though I were a fish of dubious freshness, “it’s not often we get a Pagan of your stature in our humble church.”
Considering that the building was originally the fort’s basilica, I had a hard time thinking of it as humble. Still, I was about to ask him to join us for dinner when he spoke again, disdain dripping from his voice. “Of course, the one I look forward to meeting is your husband.”
“Perhaps he’ll come to call on you sometime,” I snapped, gathering up my skirts and flouncing away. I could see no reason to ask anyone that rude to share my table. Nor would I change my mind, even though Arthur suggested such an invitation would give the Bishop and Father Baldwin a chance to get better acquainted.
I did send for the Bishop when Vinnie was dying, however, and he not only gave her last rites, but arranged for a Christian burial as well. We all stood saddened beside the marble coffin when she was interred in the Roman cemetery outside of town, and I found a large stone pinecone to put by the grave.
Vinnie’s wasn’t the only death that year. Shortly after the midwinter festival a messenger from Wales brought word that Sir Ector had died. Father of Cei, foster father of Arthur and Bedivere, he’d served his kings loyally, even taking in the young Saxon hostage, Cynric. I thought of how well he’d shaped the boys in his care and hoped the son of Cerdic had benefited from his guidance as well.
Arthur and Cei and Bedivere all went to Bala Lake for the funeral, leaving Gawain with me in Rheged. “It is the least I can do, when he gave me such a childhood,” my husband said, a catch coming into his voice. “Besides, Cerdic caused me enough grief at Mount Badon. Geraint may say the Saxons are quiet around Winchester, but I intend to keep a close rein on Cynric—we can’t afford to let him slip away when there’s more than enough of his father’s old allies who could raise an army against me if they had someone to rally them.”
While they were gone, I wondered what it would be like to live with the offspring of our sworn enemy in the household—like a warbler hatching a cuckoo chick, we might find out too late what a threat he was. The very notion sent a prickling down my spine, and I had to remind myself that I knew several Saxons—the Kennel Master’s wife, Frieda, among them—who were loyal, friendly, and industrious.
The men returned within a fortnight, a young blond squire riding between them.
“Your Highness,” Cynric said, bowing stiffly to me. In the seven years he’d been with Ector he’d taken up our tongue, and now spoke with only a slight German accent. “I am honored to be a guest at your Court.”
It was a pretty speech, and I smiled at the newcomer, thinking that Ector had accomplished far more than we’d expected. The lad was comely, with an open face and an air of quiet self-possession. At least, I decided, wait and see how he fits in before you condemn out of hand. It’s one thing to be cautious about Saxons and quite another to see enemies where there may not be any.
“I’m Mordred,” my stepson said, suddenly stepping forward to greet the lad. For a moment the two boys eyed each other, like young dogs deciding whether to play or fight. Then Mordred grinned. “I, too, was born far away, but the High King’s Court has become my home…I hope you’ll find it such yourself.”
Cynric’s reserve melted just a bit, though he continued to study me gravely and certainly was uneasy with Arthur. That was natural enough,
however, considering that the boy was a hostage.
The northern spring is still as crisp and beautiful as I remembered from childhood, and when lilies-of-the-valley carpeted the feet of oaks, I found myself thinking often of Lancelot and wishing he were here to share it with me. And there was never a new moon went by that I didn’t make the prayer Nimue had given me, wishing fervently that it would bring the Breton back to me.
As soon as the Roads opened following the thaw, Arthur and Gawain went out along the Wall to solidify alliances, while I took a small contingent of warriors through Rheged to see that Urien was doing a suitable job as my regent.
“Just wish he lived closer,” Eirwyn told me. The man was one of the country barons who governed his dale in the age-old manner of the Cumbri, and he squinted out over his holdings as we stood by the gate in the drystone wall. The steep sides of the mountains that hemmed in the valley were casting long shadows upon the lake where an osprey dove for a fish and rose in a shower of water, his catch dangling from one claw. It was a sight dear to my heart, in a world as remote and cut off from the rest of Britain as my past was from my present. “Makes it very awkward having Urien all the way in York when we want to hold a Council here,” the Baron added thoughtfully.
“But he’s fair and honorable? You’ve no complaints on that score?”
“None at all,” Eirwyn answered. “He’s as good a monarch as we could ask for—unless we had you back, of course.” I caught the twinkle in the old man’s eye and laughed with pleasure at the compliment. There was no way I would consider leaving Arthur to come rule Rheged, but it was nice to know I was wanted.
We stopped at Galava, staying in the Roman fort at the end of Windermere’s water, and the people crowded along the path to bid me welcome. I paid my respects to the Standing Stones at Castlerigg and told Mordred of having brought Gawain to see them, back when we were both children and the red-headed Orcadian was visiting with his father, King Lot. And at Patterdale I stood under the tree that guards Saint Patrick’s Well and offered a prayer for Kevin for old-time’s sake.
Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn Page 14
