“Eostre.” The pride of motherhood made Gerta’s deep voice richer. “She is our Cup-bearer in the Hall.”
The girl was well named, shining in this dark firmament like the Goddess of Spring. Her pale hair hung in long braids, and when she curtsied I thought of Rowena, that famous Saxon beauty who had become the wife of Vortigern. It was said the old tyrant fell in love with her as she knelt to offer him the wassail bowl. I wondered what had happened to her when Ambrosius defeated her husband—no one ever spoke of her after that.
When the presentations were over the evening filled with women’s chatter. Although they spoke some form of dialect, I could follow the gist of the conversation, most of which was about children. Everyone seemed to have produced offspring, and some complained of having more than they could manage. All I wanted was one, and I chafed at the unfairness of it, wondering what I had done to displease the Gods.
We left Wihtgar’s holding the next day with much cheering and a friendly farewell, for the men had enjoyed the visit much more than I did. Arthur assured these people that their rights would be upheld and grievances listened to, and they affirmed their loyalty in return. I had found it a colossal waste of time, but my husband was satisfied.
Wihtgar sent Brieda along as our guide through the Weald, that ancient forest where the Romans smelted so much iron that great mounds of slag were left behind. Now it was dotted with isolated Saxon settlements. We were hosted by men with names like Stuf and Maegla, and each new steading was much the same as the last—Arthur was successful in the Hall, I was miserable among the women.
When we were on the Road the Companions rode ahead and behind the women, just in case of adversity, and Lance took his place beside Arthur. I tried to stay with them for a while—the Road being more than wide enough—but the Breton confined his comments to Arthur and left me out entirely. The responsiveness I had glimpsed at the Saxon gate seemed never to be repeated.
Finally I dropped back to ride by myself, glaring at Lancelot’s back. When he first came I’d thought he might be shy and stiff with all women, but I’d seen him chat with Enid many times, laughing and easy. And he never indulged in the cryptic glances or private joking one generally finds between warriors who are lovers. So it appeared his hostility was aimed at me and me alone. I couldn’t care less about that, I told myself, if only he didn’t monopolize so much of Arthur’s time.
Excluded from my husband’s side during the day and relegated to the Federate kitchens at night, my world grew small and dim. I longed for the light, lilting mood of Cornwall and found instead the earnestness of Saxon life. Tough, determined immigrants who had arrived with nothing other than what they could carry, they were obsessed with wresting a future from the thick forests of Britain, and one felt their determination on every hand. By the time we reached London I was far less frightened of the Federates than bored by them, and even though I tried to be polite, I looked forward to the familiar comforts of a Roman town.
But Britain’s Imperial City was little better than the Federate camps; with trade and transport gone, it had lost its reason for being. Blocks of statuary had been used to fill the breaches in the towered walls, leaving them patched and motley. The docks they overlooked were deserted and the famous bridge that spans the Thames would scarcely support the weight of a farmer’s cart. We rode single file along the side where the strongest timbers lay, wary of those places where the wood was rotten. Even the City gates were useless, being propped half-open across the roadway.
Coming to a halt before the arch, Lance called out to the boy on guard. “Arthur Pendragon, High King of Britain, requests permission to enter the City of London.”
The lad peered at us curiously, then disappeared from his perch and returned, some minutes later, with a churchman who was hastily adjusting his vestments.
“Your Highness.” It was the Archbishop who had married us at Sarum, and he gave me a curt nod before turning to smile on Arthur. “You do us great honor, though we’re not prepared for a royal visit. I myself live in one wing of the Imperial Palace—if you don’t mind sharing it, we’ll try to make you comfortable.”
Arthur thanked him and we were soon following him through the half-deserted streets.
The people who watched our progress were an odd mixture: descendants of Roman administrators, Britons driven from Sussex when the barbarian Aelle took power, and a scattering of Saxons whose huts now leaned against the walls of ruined mansions. A straggle of them accompanied us to the Imperial Palace.
That old place was in an appalling state of disrepair, and the fine park that had once surrounded it was overgrown by every sort of bramble and weed. I tried not to let my distaste show and worked alongside the Grounds Keeper and his family to clear a courtyard room where we could host the Federates. At least I would be able to sit at my husband’s side during the Feast.
“Not this time, Gwen.” Arthur concentrated on lacing his boots. “Wouldn’t want to do anything that would unsettle our guests.”
“What are you talking about?” I flared, thoroughly sick of considering the Saxons. “These people are no better than the ones who slaughtered the Celts, and you’re worried about unsettling them? Have you gone mad?”
“It’s precisely because of past treachery I don’t want you there,” he said evenly. Reaching for the top of his boot, he slid the handle of a dagger up to where I could see it. “This time if they start something, we’ll be prepared. But you should be with their women—they’ll be expecting you, as hostess.”
I sagged against the doorjamb, cranky and weary and hating the idea of another night among the barbarians.
“Last stop, my dear,” he added cheerfully, taking up the crown the Christians had given him. “After this it’s heading for Caerleon and the Round Table gathering.” He planted the crown rakishly over one eyebrow and grinned at me. “I’m thinking it’s time we get back to our own.”
Arthur has the kind of confident charm that makes people eager to follow him, and not even I was proof against it. So I smiled tiredly, reaching up to straighten the golden band and wishing him luck with our guests.
“Don’t wait up,” he admonished. “You know how late the Saxons like to drink.”
And then he was heading for the Feast and I made my way to the kitchen, tired and cross and thoroughly miserable.
***
“The foreign queen looks sad,” a Saxon servant said, not realizing that I understood. I bridled at the word foreign and bit my lip to keep from giving her a piece of my mind. Both servants and slaves in this newcomer’s culture had rights by law, and though this woman wore the thrall collar of a slave, I fully suspected they would call me to account if I boxed her ears. So I folded my hands and stared down at Mama’s ring, wondering if she’d ever had to exercise this kind of patience.
“From her figure, I’d say she’s never had a child.” The woman appraised me from top to bottom. “Someone should take her to the wicca out in Westminster’s swamp.”
“And just what does this wicca do?” I demanded angrily.
“Makes charms, and potions; calls up spirits and quickens the empty womb,” came the staunch reply. If the Saxon was surprised to hear me speak her language, she didn’t show it. “I could take you there…for a price, that is,” she added, narrowing her eyes.
“How much?”
She scanned me more carefully this time, her gaze finally settling on Mama’s enamel ring. I tried to tuck that hand into my pocket, but the Saxon reached out a stubby finger.
“The ring…the many-colored ring. That’s all; surely a petty price to pay for a child of your own.”
I hesitated, wondering if she would understand that this was a special gift, a token of love from a parent now long dead.
“It will pay for the meeting with the wicca as well…we’ll not ask more,” the servant went on, greed making her willing to bargain.
I tried to weigh the two, the tie from the past against the hope for the future, but there was no way to equate them.
“I’ll take you out there now, before the sun sets…the day of a full moon is the best time,” the woman coaxed. “And within the next month you’ll conceive. Imagine, trading a little cold ring for a warm cradle and cheerful hearth.”
Still I paused, and she came closer, hissing in my ear. “But we must make it now, so as to be back before the men are ready for bedding. And then, when you lie with your lord tonight, you’ll know you’ll be giving him a child of his own.”
It was a skillful argument, and in the end I agreed to the trade. Frieda was called over to witness the contract, then went to fetch my cloak.
We slipped out the western gate of the City and found a path along the riverbank. On the higher ground the trees were old and gnarled, but as we neared the swamp they gave way to stands of willow and tufts of reed.
The air was heavy at the end of the day, like thick honey, and fat, fleshy lilies floated on waters that reeked of rot. Our guide threaded a path between puddles and backwaters, where unseen things plopped into the stinking soup as we approached. Once I felt something squishy underfoot that wriggled silently away in the dark waters.
My skin began to crawl. What if this wicca wasn’t a woman at all, but one of the hideous creatures the Saxons tell about around the fire? A horrid goblin, perhaps, or a were-creature, half beast, half human, that feeds on unsuspecting souls? The British sprites and spirits are generally bright and mischievous, but the sulky, bad-tempered creatures of the Saxon Otherworld are dark and ugly and thoroughly frightening.
By the time the shape of a hut rose out of the mists I wanted to bolt and run—only Frieda’s hand on my arm stopped me.
I stumbled across the doorstep into a chaotic mix of smells, but as my eyes adjusted to the gloom, it was clear the place was neat and tidy, if crammed with jars and bags, hanging herbs and stacks of folded packets.
The hag who greeted us was blind in one eye and deaf to boot. She leaned so close to hear my request, I could count the hairs on the end of her nose. When Frieda and our guide had explained the bargain, the old woman shooed them outside, then turned to face me directly.
“Is it an easy delivery you want,” she croaked, scrutinizing me with her one good eye, “or barrenness you wish to cure?”
“Delivery,” I blurted out, refusing even to consider the other idea. “I need the assurance of a safe delivery.”
The crone nodded thoughtfully, but that rheumy eye continued to peer at me. One scrawny finger scrabbled loosely against the air and at last, muttering to herself, she turned to the shelf of herbs behind her.
The last light of the sun glowed beyond a window paned with horn. A fly had gotten caught in a cobweb in its corner and buzzed noisily in an effort to escape.
The old woman’s attention shifted to the sound; quick as lightning she captured the thing and held it prisoner in her fist while pulling the stopper out of a glass bottle. With a flick of the wrist she loosed the fly into the container and replaced the stopper. I could see the creature crawling over the desiccated bodies of similar captives, long since dead and dry.
“Everything’s got a place in nature’s pharmacy,” the wicca admonished, grinning gleefully as she put the bottle back on the shelf. “Barrenness, you said,” she went on, reaching for the leathery remains of a flattened toad.
“No, no, good woman,” I burst out. “Just a safe delivery, that’s all I need.”
“Come now, child! Can’t deliver what hasn’t been spawned,” she chided. “You trying to tell me you’ve conceived before but couldn’t carry it full term?”
Hot, angry tears sprang to my eyes, and I wanted to shout at the old fool that she was wrong. I wasn’t barren, I wasn’t! But my need for the potion overrode my frustration, so I blinked hard and held my tongue.
“There, you see,” she confirmed with a nod. “It’s barrenness we need to find a cure for.”
The woman puttered about at her workbench, pounding and crumbling bits of stuff into the mortar. Everything that went into it was dried and black or brown, sometimes crisp and sometimes lumpy, but all of it noxious. As a last precaution she added what she said was the wool of a bat, then filled the mortar with hot wine from a pan by the hearth and set it aside to steep. Seating herself on a stool next to the fire, the crone stared into the embers, musing as much to herself as to me.
“What if your moira doesn’t include children? Many another queen has found her duties as a monarch more than enough to fill her time.”
I started, wondering how she knew my rank, for neither I nor my companions had mentioned my name or title, and the dark cape didn’t reflect my royal status.
“Ah, well.” The wicca sighed with a cackle that might have been a laugh. “Arthur’s son will keep you more than busy, my dear, so don’t you fret.”
The hair on my nape rose like a dog’s; suddenly I wished I’d never sought help from this creature who knew too much. A fine, uneasy sweat broke out over my whole body.
“’Tis no doubt well-enough done,” she mumbled, sticking her finger into the brew and stirring it about. “Now you just drink it down, and see if that won’t fix the problem.”
I wrapped both hands around the warm bowl of the mortar and taking a deep breath, closed my eyes and began to gulp the mixture—past experience had taught me that the recipes for fertility were more often revolting than pleasant, and best gotten down as quickly as possible. But before I had drained the contents my throat closed and my stomach rebelled. I lowered the vessel slowly, willing the potion to stay down as long as possible.
The wicca snuffled and snorted by her hearth, and when I was convinced I wasn’t going to vomit, I opened my eyes and found she had gone to sleep.
I stared at her closely, wondering if she was really the Goddess in her hag aspect. Saxon or Cumbri or Roman Briton, all old women draw closer to the Ancient Deity, no matter what name they call Her by. I searched for some sign of divinity, but all I found was a toothless crone whose fingers twitched as she snored by the fire.
Finally, clutching my cloak around me like a cocoon, I stole out the door and bumped into Frieda. That poor girl looked as frightened as I felt, and together with our guide we fled back to the gathering in London.
***
Ironically, between the mead that Arthur had drunk and the nausea the potion left me with, neither of us felt like making love that night. But I went to sleep convinced the experience had been worth it, for it had not escaped me that the witch had promised that Arthur and I would raise a son.
Chapter X
The Poisoning
Arthur was hopping up and down, trying to pull his legging over one foot while balancing on the other.
“Treaties, truces, and rights of trade,” he crowed. “Even more than I hoped for, Gwen. Why, some, like Wehha the Swede, have promised to join me in fighting the raiders, if need be. Do you realize what that means for the future?”
I nodded feebly, hard-pressed not to burst into tears. My belly ached from the brew I had drunk and my heart hurt each time I saw the bare spot on my finger where Mama’s ring should have been. I knew Arthur had every reason to be jubilant, but at the moment I was too miserable to manage more than a smile.
Fortunately he was so excited by the new developments, he didn’t question my indisposition. It was just as well—for some reason I didn’t want to explain about the wicca.
***
We left London that afternoon. Everyone else was in high spirits, so I sat my horse regally and tried not to moan. The aches and pains moved slowly through my body, and by the time we reached Caerleon I had begun to perk up, knowing that Brigit would be waiting to greet us.
“King Mark made quite a fuss over the silver tray, and the Saxons were all impressed with our pomp and presents,” I reported as she
helped me unpack the lavish wardrobe. But when I told her the story of the wicca, she looked at me with growing horror. “Mostly I’m sorry I didn’t see more of London—I’d like to go back sometime when I’m feeling better,” I concluded.
“God listen to the child!” My Irish friend hastily made the sign of the cross. “They almost succeed in poisoning her and she talks about going back. You should be thankful the Good Lord watches over you…though He must be hard-pressed at times.”
I grinned at that, suddenly very, very glad to be home.
Brigit’s own summer had been less adventurous, but as she spoke of life at the convent a serenity came into her voice that reminded me of Igraine. I reached out and put my hand on her arm, interrupting her.
“It really is the right thing for you, isn’t it?”
She looked up, half glowing with an inner conviction, half worried about how I would react. We stared into each other’s eyes, the whole of our lives’ caring summed in that long, searching gaze. A smile of relief began to fill her face.
“Yes, Gwen…it really is.”
“Then go with God,” I whispered, looking away before my sorrow at losing her could spoil it.
“Well, I won’t be leaving quite yet—I’d like to stay with you through the winter, or even until the baby comes, assuming the wicca’s potion works.”
We threw our arms around each other then, laughing and crying at the same time, and I blessed whatever Gods were responsible for having given me so loyal a friend.
***
Since there had been no military victories to celebrate, Arthur decided to hold a tournament for the autumn gathering in Caerleon. That tidy little town, tucked in a loop of the river Usk, had long since taken the Pendragon to its heart; it was here he’d been crowned king and here he’d stopped the Irish invasion. The town itself is full of the stone walls and arches the Empire’s engineers loved to make, but the people are Cumbri to the core, and they welcomed us with music and fanfares and great waves of cheering. Even the dancing bear was brought out, and I wondered if it remembered when we were here two years ago.
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