"More real?" Morgan, in her usual annoying way, finished my thought. "Talyn, I ask you, what could be more real than this?" She gestured to us lying there intertwined in the splendid fourposted bed.
But I was not annoyed… "Naught, cariad. Never. But I wish it even so. So, if it please Your Highness—"
She laughed, a lovely, silvery sound, and taking my face between her hands kissed me lightly and lovingly.
"It pleases my Highness very much indeed."
* * *
* * *
Chapter Eighteen
ARTHUR PENARVON wedded Gweniver Pendreic on the day of Beltain, the first of summer, in the holy circle of Ni-maen, in the presence of Court and kindred, in the sight of all Kelts.
It was a wedding at the stones, a full legal union in the faith; though not, to the surprise of no one, a handfasting. That was different: A handfasting is the true wedding, the Great Marriage, the earthly counterpart of the sacred union between the Goddess and the King; not to be entered into lightly, or without deepest love and firmest purpose, for it lasts not merely until death or the law shall dissolve it but endures beyond death and law alike. Even couples wedded civilly or religiously, blissfully companionate for thrice fifty years, ofttimes never deem themselves ready for the vast undertaking that is a handfasting, or what such faith requires. Small wonder then that Arthur and Gweniver had fought shy of this; it is more than a marriage, it is a union of souls. Even Morgan and I had chosen it for ourselves with some awe; though never once doubts…
But that came later. Following straight upon their marriage, Arthur and Gweniver were crowned, right there in the circle, Ard-righ and Ard-rian. The Copper Crown rested briefly upon each of their heads in turn, the auburn and the ebon; the Silver Branch felt the touch of their hands together. While below, in the Hall of Heroes, Gweniver's jesting word to me had been improved upon: In front of the empty Throne of Scone, not benches but two high seats, scarcely less grand than the throne itself, had been set up, and stood waiting for the new-made monarchs to fill them.
The rings had been a knottier problem. There had been, of course, a Great Seal of Keltia, used by the monarch for all official matters of state; of no particular antiquity, this latest one had been only a few hundred years old—they change often, with a change in House or merely at a new monarch's whim.
For continuity's sake, Arthur and Gweniver had wished to use this very ring; but Edeyrn had defiled it, and it had been destroyed when Ratherne was thrown down. That left us with the problem: Two monarchs, no Seal; and they could not have used the same Seal in any case…
In the end, two rings had been cast: Arthur, perhaps not surprisingly, had made them both, glad of the chance to exercise his long-unpracticed craft. For himself, he had chosen from the Crown treasuries a huge flawed emerald that had belonged to Athyn Cahanagh, his boyhood hero. Her lord had given her the stone on their handfasting, and it had never left her finger thereafter, but once only, until the day she died. Gweniver's choice for Seal was a sapphire, blue as Kernish skies or the cornflower that carpets the Loom valleys in high summer,—it had a history of its own, having been Breila Douglas's tinnol to Alawn Last-king, and had a strong link to the House of Don. Both stones had been newly carved inghearrad with the knot of the Six Nations—undifferenced, naught to show whose hand had made which sealing—and set by Arthur in bands of heavy gold knotwork, and hallowed by the new heads of the Druid and Ban-draoi orders. And I was not the only one who remarked on the fact that both stones had been in their origin gifts of love…
Any road, they were wed; and as I stood on Arthur's left, as his supporter or groomsman (Gweniver had wished Morgan as brideswoman, but knew well the outfall if Marguessan were so slighted in public, and so had chosen instead Tarian Douglas, who was so old and close a friend) I could not help but feel a sense of surging hope and joy and optimism, a buoyancy of heart that even all our victories in the field had not managed to bestow upon me.
Why should not this work out, after all? They had been through so much together: They shared even their childhood loves and losses, they had so many years of being friends and colleagues and co-workers for Keltia's weal. They understood one another and respected one another; and love too was there, if not yet perhaps admitted or acknowledged, or even truly understood… It could happen, that this would be a true marriage, could even come to a handfasting, some time down the way. They would have to work at it, more even than the ordinary pair,—but they were not ordinary, and still it could be—
With a start I realized that the ceremonies at the stones were over, and we were falling back in line to return to Caerdroia and the far longer ceremonies that would follow, in the Hall of Heroes, where Arthur and Gweniver together would receive the traditional oaths 'of hand and heart,' the fealty Keltia's lieges paid their sovereigns on the day of coronation. As a bard, I had been keenly interested in this aspect of the day—for never had such a thing been before in Keltia, a dual sovereignty—and myself had helped the brehons work out the wording of the new-written oaths.
So that when I myself came to stand before my High King and High Queen—and make no mistake, they were in that moment not Artos and Gwennach—there was such a shaking in my chest that it seemed all must see me tremble with the force of it.
But that was merely my perception,—Morgan told me later I had stood like a rock in the sea. I myself remember very little: the coldness of my hands, the warmth of Gwennach's enfolding them,—the extra pressure of love and friendship and brotherhood that Arthur's hands gave round mine; the love on both their faces, as I looked up on finishing my oaths; the sly glint of humor behind Arthur's eyes; the veiled sadness in Gweniver's.
It was a moment of remarkable solemnity, and it caught me all unawares. I had been expecting something, oh, I know not, something less awesome, less freighted with dan,—why I should have expected so, I have not the smallest clue—everything else for the past forty-five years had been packed with high purpose, stuffed full of dan from now to Nevermas,—why should this moment have been any different?
I tried to explain it later to Ygrawn, as we sat side by side at the great banquet table in Mi-cuarta, the palace's feast hall, larger than Tair Rhamant's entirety.
The Queen-mother—that was the style Arthur and Gweniver had begged her to accept, thinking Queen-Dowager, Rian-dhuair, not precisely suited to Ygrawn's sensibilities—looked lovely on this day; care seemed to have left her, and though loss still shadowed her, those famous amethyst eyes were clear and bright as she looked out over the hall below us.
"I tell you, Talyn," she said in the voice I remembered from my earliest years, "glad am I it is Artos and Gwennach to be sitting in the high seats this night, and not Uthyr and myself."
I glanced at her keenly; but all my Druid truth-sense told me she was speaking her heart. She saw the doubt behind my look, and laughed.
"Aye, truth enough, if perhaps not all the truth—' The lovely face changed indefinably. "I was thinking of Amris today,—of how it would have been had he lived, of us together on the throne."
I was astounded, for I had not heard Ygrawn mention her first lord since, oh, our days in Coldgates thirty years ago. But nor did I wish to upset or offend her—
"Do you think of him often, methryn?"
And was again astounded, as Ygrawn replied simply and starkly, "Every hour." She smiled at my discomfiture. "Nay, amhic, do not think I have dwelt unhealthily upon it—But I have never loved any man as I loved my lost prince, Talyn. Had I not had Artos to think of, it might well have been that after Amris I would never have wedded again; certain it was I had no real wish to. Though I respected Gorlas, and I cared for Uthyr—none but Amris ever had my heart, and that is as it is. Perhaps a stronger woman would not have remarried even so; I am only Ygrawn, and did what I thought was right." Her glance went to her son, who was replying to some shouted pleasantry from the lower tables. "Yet he was Arthur's father, and he would have been King himself in this hour—it is hard not to t
hink on, not to sorrow for might-have-beens."
"He would have been most proud of you, Lady," I said softly, and took her hand to kiss it. "You did well; he would be the first to tell you so. For Arthur, and for Keltia, and for yourself. You would have made him a noble Queen; nay—you were his Queen, and are still, and did so."
Ygrawn bent her head. "Wicked lad—you have made me weep…"
"Ah, that is naught new for us!" And we both laughed, and so got through the moment together.
But Ygrawn was not the only one to be thinking of the past this night… On my other side, Morgan—or, as she had earlier been proclaimed in the Hall of Heroes, Morguenna, Princess of the House of Don and of the Name of Pendreic, Duchess of Ys—too had been reflecting, and turned to me with a sudden rush.
"Oh, Talyn, Merlynn—" She could say no more,—but no more was needed. I too had been missing my old teacher; this day, this night, were the fruit of his workings, and he should have been with us to feast upon it.
"He knows," was all I could offer; and knew, somehow, that it was true. But it was not enough…
Of the others at the high table, suffice it to say that they were all much mindful of how we had come there: Tarian, Grehan, Keils, Daronwy, Ferdia, Elen, Betwyr, Tryffin, all of our oldest and closest Companionship,—officers of state, such as we had—Alun Cameron, Marigh the Taoiseach, Maderil Gabric our Chief Bard, a few others; and the royal family, by extension and courtesy as well as by blood.
Arthur and Gweniver seemed above it, sitting side by side in the great high-backed carved chairs at the table's midpoint. They had shed the robes of state they had worn in the Hall of Heroes, and were clad now in simple splendor: Artos in velvet tunic and trews, Gwennach in a long silky guna that showed off her form to perfection. And each wore the tinnol the other had given, the marriage-gift exchanged Between partners: Usually given in private, either on the wedding-night or the morning following, tinnol is as a rule something substantial, but also meaningful—jewels or land or titles and such come generally under the purview of the tinnscra gift or the portions arranged by the kindreds involved. Still, a tinnol of jewels was most usual, and so it was in this case: Arthur's shoulders bore a significant and heavy collar of gold links worked with the Pendreic devices of white stag and red dragon; while a magnificent necklace of seastones and rose-cut diamonds, Arthur's undoubted workmanship, graced Gweniver's throat.
I was suddenly sad; these gifts were meant to be private offerings, not shared straightway with onlookers but kept close awhile, between the wedded pair. There seemed to be a statement here, by King and Queen alike, but I was not quite sure, for myself, just what it was that was being so plainly declared…
At last Arthur and Gweniver looked at one another, as they had done with sad infrequency over the course of the evening's feast, and as one rose up in their places. We followed suit instantly, and fell silent to hear what they would say to us.
With deference plain to all, Arthur waited for Gweniver to speak first; when she did not, he smiled easily to cover the moment.
"My very dears—my kin, my Companions, my friends—I give you thanks, and blessing, and good even to you all. For the High Queen and for myself—and for Artos and Gwennach, still more so."
He paused expectantly, as if to give Gweniver a further chance to address the Hall; but she simply gave a small smile, to him and to us, and a regal inclination of her head, and left her place beside him. For one moment I actually thought Arthur would refuse to follow her out; but after a plain hesitation he did so, and our cheers and good wishes pursued them from Mi-cuarta.
The festivities bubbled up again,—indeed, before the doors had closed behind Gweniver and Arthur, Irian Locryn, Marguessan's husband, had himself risen in his own place at table, to rather drunkenly bid us all remain and make merry before he collapsed back into his chair.
I shook my head; it was Irian's place, strictly speaking as nearest male relation—he was, after all, husband to the heir-presumptive to the Throne of Scone. Marguessan, not Morgan was the elder of Uthyr's children; and the mother of Mordryth' so far the only royal child of the next generation. But still.
Marguessan. I drummed my fingers on the wine-stained linen cloth and looked to my left, past the empty chairs of the King and Queen, to the profile that was so uncannily like my Morgan's own. Marguessan Pendreic, for the moment Tanista of Keltia—and a scareful thought that was, you have no idea—sat sipping wine from a silver cup, listening to some tale being told her by—I strained to see—Ferdia, of all people.
She looked not best pleased to be there at all; and I could guess that there was a fierce tiny war going on just now in Marguessan's—well, what it pleased her to call her heart. Marguessan and I went back many years in unfriendship: back to a time when I had thwarted her working ruin, for her own amusement, on a helpless sailing ship off the Gwynedd coast. She had never forgiven; and I had never forgotten…
As if all at once she had become aware of my scrutiny, she suddenly turned those strange eyes of hers on me—blue-irised, black-rimmed, most unsettling. I inclined my head to her in politeness to a princess, lifted my own cup in salute; she flushed a dull angry red, and turned away.
"You and my sister should just fight it out one day, Talyn, you know," said Morgan, amused; for all Marguessan was her twin sister, Morgan stayed clear of her as a cat does of water, with something of the cat's same finicking distaste too. Even now, I could almost see Morgan shaking figurative paws at the idea of having to be in such proximity to her elder sib.
I was a little chagrined. "Does it show as much as that?"
"You must be joking! All Keltia probably knows how cordially the two of you do mislike one another—"
"Never mind. Where is Mordryth?" I looked around. "Surely she would have had him here for the ceremony."
"Oh aye, he was up at the stones, and Irian held him for the oath-taking in the Hall; did you not see? I think the nurses have taken him away,—he is not yet a year old, remember."
I remembered, right enough; but said no more of it. After the coronation festivities were over, Marguessan and Irian and their spawn would be going back to Gwynedd, to their lordships there; I could endure her presence at least until that happier day.
But as we two quitted the banquet a few hours later, and strolled hand in hand down the endless empty carpeted corridors of Turusachan to our own chambers, I could not, for all my regard for propriety, keep my thoughts from going to Arthur and Gweniver. And though it is no part of my duties as bard and historian to indulge in revelations of the marriage-bed, I could not help but wonder, and hope, all the same.
The next morning saw no prodigies or astonishments: Arthur and Gweniver, looking just like themselves, appeared for the daymeal in Mi-cuarta, and vanished afterwards to their separate offices and shared Councils. All of us who had been hoping for some fireflaw of revelation to have blasted them both in the hours between middlenight and morning were doomed to disappointment: They behaved to one another as they had ever done, with courtesy and humor and respect and friendship. And all of us were sick about it.
"Nay, come!" said Morgan incredulously, when she had finally stopped laughing. "Did you truly think they would take one look at each other across the pillows, the scales would fall from their eyes and they would be instantly and evermore in love?"
"I must admit," I said with tremendous dignity, "that the thought had crossed my mind. And not I alone, Guenna!" I hastened to add, for she was laughing again. "I lay you odds ten-tenths of Mi-cuarta last night was hoping the same—"
Then more fools all of you. Can you not accept that Arthur and Gwennach are wed where once we never thought them to be, will rule together, have a close and enviable relationship, yet still need not of bounden imperative be in love with one another? They can be a perfectly good King and Queen without it, you know,—maybe even a better King and Queen without it, who can say?"
I muttered something shamefaced and savage all in one and Morgan relented.<
br />
"Ha-yaud! Listen, Talyn, while I try to put this as delicately as I can for your bardic sensibilities: Gwennach told me earlier that she and Arthur last night fulfilled in every particular their function as monarchs; and too, that neither of them found it precisely the onerous chore both of them had thought." Her mirth renewed itself as she saw the look on my face. "Not that I think they will make a pleasant habit of it, mind! But aye, they have lain together, and not for the last time, either; so the succession will be direct, and all you old wives of both sexes can stop fretting, and none of us need worry about my sister or her brat stepping in."
"Well. I am chastened as well as instructed—Perhaps that is all we can hope for, after all," I said after some thought. "An heir in time, and two monarchs who have care and liking and respect for one another,—that is not so bad a bargain."
"So my father thought when first he made it," said Morgan at her driest. "Let us go now to Council, you and I, if you are done looking under other folk's coverlets. The real work is about to begin."
Lest you think Morgan was one of those extremely tiresome folk who are always right no matter what (I mean, genuinely right; not just thinking they are in the evidence's despite), let me hasten to add she was wrong on this occasion. The real work, as she would put it, had in fact begun long since.
From Edeyrn's overthrow and Uthyr's passing to the crowning of Keltia's first double sovereignty had been six weeks or so, from the spring Daynighting to the coming of summer,—and in those weeks we had not yet even begun to make the tiniest of inroads on what had to be done in Keltia. Only think: Two hundred years of Edeyrn's rule to make right again; the Fainne and the representative bodies of governance to be re-established; the clann system to be restored to its old smooth functioning. Not to mention ridding the realm of the worst (we could hardly hope for it to be the last) of Edeyrn's lackeys and marplots and turncloaks, and setting at naught any lingering magics the Marbh-draoi or his spoiled priests may have left us as surprises, and rounding up any Ravens that may have eluded the great sweeps Grehan and Elen and Betwyr had been conducting.
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