“You can count on me,” Lancelot said, once again reading my thoughts.
“Right then,” I said to Mynyddog and Evina. I would work with Kiara and whoever else she recommended to produce a training plan for the students I prayed would materialize. “Send word to the people of the four tribes that you require their attendance at the Lughnasa festivities.”
Chapter Fifteen
Autumn 522
Looking out from Evina’s royal tent over the gathered tribes playing at games of sport and betting on the horse races, it was difficult to believe that it was on this day so many years ago I first met Arthur and Lancelot. I still felt like that girl, though my hair was now shot through with gray and my hips thickened with age. Part of me said I should be one of the lasses dancing ‘round the hallowed first sheaf of the harvest. Or at the very least I should be one of the young women being handfast today, as Evina’s daughter was being bound to one of Morcant’s descendants to ensure peace with the Picts and Mynyddog’s youngest brother was pledged to a widowed woman with ties to Bernicia.
But there was I, an old woman lost in the folly of nostalgia of bygone days. It was on that same Lughnasa that Galen disappeared with Isolde, abandoning Elaine to her broken heart and the wrath of her indignant mother. Yet we were together again, Galen waiting patiently behind me to attend to my every whim. Years ago I could not earn his attention no matter what I did; now he was duty-bound to give it to me. In so many ways, life had brought us full circle. I sighed.
Lancelot must have heard the note of wistfulness in it, because he came to my side and slipped an arm around me. “What troubles you, my love?”
I looked up at him, my heart warming every bit as much as it did that first time I had met his gaze at the tournament. “Oh, nothing. I’m just feeling my age, I suppose,” I answered with forced lightheartedness.
“Why is that a problem?” he asked with a smile. “I personally find you more beautiful and wise with each passing day.” He followed my gaze to the festivities. “Shall I accompany you to the fair? It would be my honor and will take your mind off your troubles.” He held out his arm.
I smiled and looped my arm through his. Yet again, Lancelot knew what I needed before I did. I could not have chosen a better champion and lover.
As soon as we stepped inside the maze of tents and stalls, all the aches and pains of age, all the wrinkles and age spots disappeared. I allowed the girl within to take over as we passed from vendor to vendor, nibbling on sweet rolls and admiring acrobats and jugglers. We cheered as Sobian bested Galen in a horserace, and we held hands in anticipatory horror as Kiara performed hair-raising tricks with knives and swords for the amusement of the crowd.
At one stall, Lancelot braided a fine red ribbon into my hair and placed a chaplet of poppies, dried wheat, and cowslip onto my head. We wandered over to one of the many bands providing music for the crowd—this one composed of drum, fiddle, flute, and lyre—and listened appreciatively, sipping cups of sweet heather ale and keeping time by tapping our toes and lightly patting our hands on our thighs. Soon, the music was in our blood—or perhaps it was the ale—and we took hold of one another, dancing bravely into the crowd. We turned and whirled, speeding with the tempo of the music, the world around us blurring until the only sight in my focus was Lancelot’s beautiful blue eyes.
“Marry me,” he said into my ear.
Lost in the trance of the dance, I shook my head. Surely he could not have said what I thought I heard. “Come again?”
He grinned. “You heard me. Let me take you to wife. After all these years, do you not think it is time?”
We stopped our twirling at the edge of the crowd.
“Do you mean it?” I asked incredulously.
“Of course. You know I do not jest about matters of love. We could be handfast before sunset.” He tossed his head back, indicating behind him, where couples nervously stood outside a stone circle, waiting for their turn before the Druid who would bind them for a year and a day. “You have previously said you have no desire to wed again, but I thought since we have escaped death together a second time, it might be wise not to tempt fate. What say you?”
He looked at me with such love, gentleness, and caring, my heart melted and pooled at my feet. Seized by a streak of impetuousness, I nodded. “Oh, why not!”
Lancelot took my hand, and we raced downhill to the small circle of stones, stopping behind a tow-headed couple young enough to be our children.
My heart pounded as we inched closer to the entrance of the circle. Several Druids and priestesses were performing the rites, each positioned at one of the cardinal points within the circle. At the center was Calliac. Gone were her skulls and fierce markings, replaced by feathers and flowers and three blue dots in the shape of a triangle on her brow, where the crescent was set into my own. In place of her horse-hair cloak was a simple white gown cinched by three red cords in varying shades.
She beamed at us. “What a happy occasion to see the two of you here. I assume you wish to be wed?”
Lancelot and I looked at one another shyly, grinning like adolescents in the first throes of love.
“We do,” he answered.
Calliac nodded to me. “Do you love this man?”
“I do,” I answered without hesitation. “He has been for me a balm in some of my darkest moments.”
She faced Lancelot. “And you love this woman?”
“More than anything.”
“Do you wish to be bound to one another in spirit as well as flesh?”
In this ancient wedding rite, blessed by the Druids long before the days of Rome and their written contracts, when a couple pledged their love and declared themselves spirit-bound, they were tied to one another until death.
Looking into Lancelot’s eyes, I said, “I would like nothing more.”
“I am hers and she is mine,” Lancelot answered.
Calliac took my right hand, joining it to Lancelot’s, and wound around our wrists a thick gold and red ribbon embroidered with intricate Ogham symbols for fertility, love, peace, and prosperity. She then presented each of us with an end of the ribbon. “To show your mutual consent and dedication to this union, your hands alone will tie the knot that binds you.”
With nerve-slicked palms and shaking fingers, we wound our ribbons together, at first stumbling over how to interlace them to form a knot. But our second attempt succeeded. We pulled and the knot held fast.
“By sun and moon, light and dark, night and day, you are bound. May the gods bless you and bring you long life and peace, along with every grace and blessing.” She placed a hand over our intertwined palms.
The priestesses surrounding the circle sent up a cheer then chanted in a language I did not understand.
“They are thanking the gods and asking their blessing on us in their native tongue, far older than the one we use now,” Lancelot explained, leaning down to me.
I placed a hand on the back of his neck, drawing him even closer to me. “Then perhaps we should seal our union.” Without waiting for a response, I pulled him in and kissed him deeply, the way I had so long wished to do at Camelot, free of fear and secure in our love.
On the fourth day of the festival, our revelry was blighted by word of war. The Saxons had taken Catraeth, a strategic town south of York that controlled the fork of Dere Street where it branched off into the main trade routes to Corbridge and Carlisle. I cringed inwardly at the news. Elga and her ilk now had a direct line to Camelot, should they choose to try to defeat Constantine. Even though he’d taken Cadbury for his capital, the symbolic importance of Camelot remained deeply embedded in the hearts and minds of generations of Britons. Whoever controlled it, ruled them.
Upon hearing the news, Evina withdrew from the festivities, dragging Lancelot and me with her, leaving Sobian and Galen to entertain and serve her husband. Privately, I questioned the
wisdom of that decision. Mynyddog had taken quite a shine to Sobian as of late, something the besotted Galen surely would not appreciate. On the other hand, if Sobian’s feelings weren’t as strong as I believed, she might well break Galen’s heart. She had no compunction about trysting with a married man if it benefited her, and being in the Votad’s bed certainly would. Either way, this likely would end in disaster.
“I have sent messengers to try to ascertain whether the House of Rheged intends to try to march on Catraeth,” Evina announced as soon as the door to her private chambers clicked shut behind us.
Oh, they would. With Owain dead and Accolon captured, the family, if not the people as well, would want revenge. Catraeth, though not geographically connected to the kingdom of Rheged, was part of Accolon’s ancestral holdings, just like the Isle of Winds. If pride did not motivate them, the town’s importance would, for it could prove a convenient staging ground for Elga and Theodric to push west into the fertile lands of Rheged.
“Are you thinking of joining them?” I asked.
Evina chewed her lower lip, eyes faraway with thought. “Perhaps.” She sighed. “We have to do something. If we don’t oppose the Saxons before they march north, they may be too strong to defeat by the time they arrive here. If anything, the loss of the Isle of Winds made them more determined.”
“So why don’t we use their methods against them?” Lancelot suggested. At my quizzical expression, he explained. “Look what they did at Camlann. They didn’t have enough men to come at us alone, so they joined with Mordred and the Picts. We already have Accolon’s army, so if we do the same and ally with the Picts, we should outnumber them.” He looked to Evina for encouragement. “Do you think that is something your daughter might be able to arrange through Morcant?”
Evina considered the proposition. “Perhaps.” She blinked as if rousing herself from a great stupor. “Guinevere, what do you think?”
I shook my head. “I don’t like it. What is to stop the Picts from pillaging Bernicia or Rheged once they get there? Or going back on their word and staying here to fight you? There are too many ways they could use this proposed alliance as an excuse to get a foothold in our lands.”
“My lands. You have no lands,” Evina reminded me spitefully.
I closed my eyes and swallowed down a retort to her pettiness. “Regardless, they have shown they are not to be trusted.”
“Then why did the Votadess bother to marry her daughter into their line?” Lancelot countered. “If we are not going to begin to trust one another, what is the point?” He turned to Evina. “I have fought in many battles with people from many lands. I can tell you this, nothing unites disparate men like a common enemy. If we can show them the Saxons are as big a threat to them as they are to us, we need not fear treachery.”
Evina narrowed her eyes at him, probably thinking through how this might play out. “How do we do that? The Saxons would have to eat up all of our lands before they ever reached the Picts. There is nothing to say their ambition stretches so far that they would pass into such inhospitable land.”
“I agree,” I said. “I understand your way of thinking, Lancelot, but I don’t think it will work. However, we could find a compromise, something that still invites the Highlanders who wish to fight to our table, but does not require anything of those who do not.”
Evina’s eyes brightened at the suggestion. “Yes. When we make the announcement at the closing feast that we are recruiting warriors from all lands, we can be sure to emphasize that those from the north are invited to join. I want to be certain that—”
Before she could finish her sentence, the door burst open. Mynyddog’s personal slave knelt low, head to the floor before Evina.
She jumped to her feet. “Speak, man.” Her tone said more about her fear for her husband than words ever could.
“Forgive me, Lady Votadess, but you are needed.”
We followed him to the main tent, where Mynyddog sat, clutching his nose. His eyes spoke of murder.
“I want that man publicly flogged,” he commanded, pointing at Galen. I could barely make out his words through the wad of fabric he held to his bloody nose.
Evina knelt next to him to examine his wounds. “What happened here?” She looked from Mynyddog to Galen and back to me, as though I would know.
Sobian stepped forward from where she’d been hidden in the shadows. “Galen was only defending my honor,” she said, looking at him with great admiration.
Galen, in turn, looked as though he would reach out to her from his place kneeling on the ground, but his wrists were bound behind his back.
“Guinevere’s slave punched the Votad,” Mynyddog’s slave explained.
Evina set her steely glare upon me, as though as his mistress, I was responsible for his actions even though I hadn’t been present. “He dared lay a hand on his ruler?” Her tone was incredulous.
The slave bowed. “Yes, Lady.”
She whirled on Sobian. “What did you do to provoke this?”
Sobian stared her down, never one to bow to authority, real or imagined. “Why are you so certain the guilt lies with me? Your husband is the one with wandering hands. Ask him.” She crossed her arms as though the gesture put an end to the matter.
Evina shook her head. “Take him away,” she ordered the man keeping Galen in check. “Toss him in the gaol. I will deal with him later.” She stalked toward me, finger pointing into my face. “He is your property, and as such, you are responsible for him. Do you wish to take his flogging, or should I add this to the list of offenses for which you are still in my debt? I would levy a massive fine on you, but everything you have is thanks to my mercy.”
As she went on about my responsibility, I questioned her sanity. How was I to be held responsible for another person’s actions? Galen was a slave, but he still had free will. Surely she did not think I had broken him entirely. It was foolish for Galen to have struck Mynyddog, but it was not worth all of this.
As she raged, the look in her eyes became familiar, for I had once borne it as well. She felt threatened by her husband’s interest in Sobian, just as I had by Arthur’s interest in Morgan. Nothing I could say or do would change her mind. All I could do was apologize and offer to make amends, as though such a thing were really possible.
“I assure you no one meant any harm. I will speak with Galen and ensure he understands the gravity of his crime.” Even to my own ears, I sounded like a mother making excuses for a recalcitrant child. “I will also ensure he submits himself to the required punishment. After that, if the Votad would like to have use of him until his debt is paid, he has my blessing.” I said the words, but it was a lie. I didn’t want Galen anywhere near that man, but I had no choice.
“I suppose that is sufficient,” she said, sulking. “But know the day is coming when your debts to me will come due. Prepare yourself.”
On the last evening of the Lughnasa festival, Evina and Mynyddog gathered all the young men and women in training at forts across the four tribes for a friendly competition. The overall victors of the nine challenges would be responsible for helping Kiara and me train the volunteers who came to Din Eidyn to join our army over the next ten months. The events they competed in today would be the exact same training they would administer to those who wished to endure the grueling challenge of condensing years of training into three seasons, a remarkable test of endurance, fortitude, and will.
Before the competition began, Kiara explained to me the tradition behind the way the warriors of the four tribes trained. “For centuries we have been caught between two competing peoples who each want our land, so our strength as warriors is our primary asset against our foes. The ancient tribes trained this way to ensure their land would not be taken by another tribe. Now we do so in order that it not be stolen by invaders.”
For the young people, this day was deadly serious, comparable to the day
they tested to first become warriors. Just as in actual battle, they painted their skin and limed their hair, drinking henbane and winding themselves up into bloodlust with battle cries, chants, and banging on shields.
For the adults, it was a time of fun, sporting bets, and nostalgia for their own youth. As Kiara and I walked the perimeter of the competition field, I heard more than one lord and lady reminiscing about their own testing or telling tales of battles long since won or lost.
Some of the judges—like Mynyddog, who was off in the forest monitoring those completing the evasion test; Evina, who led the hunt; Sobian, who ran the stealth course; and Lancelot, who was evaluating the competitors’ handling of horses—were stationed at specific events. Others, like Kiara and me, were general judges. We had a responsibility to view each competitor at least once in each of the five remaining events.
We had already seen all manner of blade dexterity, from showy sword juggling and spear dancing to more basic skills like knife throwing and general sparring. My ears were still ringing from the voice test, in which each warrior demonstrated his or her ability to strike fear in the heart of the enemy with a fearsome battle cry.
Up next was the spear vault, a famous move I had heard of in tales of old but had never witnessed, not even by my mother. It had been the most common way for warriors to mount a horse before the coming of the Romans, but was rarely used anymore. Those who knew it kept its secret, as it was advantageous in quickly evading the enemy in times of war.
Two men led a small, stocky pony into the center of the clearing. Cinon took up a shorter spear and stood facing the pony as though he was staring down the enemy. Lancelot often adopted that look when he was concentrating. Then without warning, the boy took off at a sprint, racing toward the animal, spear held high. For a moment, it seemed he would impale the beast, but at the last second, he rammed the spear into the ground and leapt like a stag, using the handle to vault himself onto the horse’s back.
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