Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn (26 page)

I nodded, knowing in my head he was right—there are enough things to worry about that we are responsible for, without taking on those we can do nothing about. I hadn’t any more encouraged Yder in this than I’d needed rescuing from the bear at Caerleon. Still, it hurt to know a good man’s life was lost because of such foolishness.

“What if Gwyn holds me to blame?” I whispered, taking the cup of valerian tea Enid brought.

“He won’t.” Arthur was firm in his answer. “After all these years, I know Gwyn of Neath better than most. He doesn’t place blame or look for scapegoats. Yder did what he felt he had to do; Gwyn will respect that, no matter how much he grieves the loss.”

Sitting there, watching my husband through the steam from my cup, it occurred to me that, as Isolde was for me, Gwyn was the closest thing Arthur had to a peer. Bedivere and Cei were his foster brothers, and Lancelot his dearest friend, but these were men who looked to him as their monarch as well. The fey Welshman was just enough different to be set apart from other men, just as the High King was. Perhaps it explained the remarkable camaraderie that had grown between the two of them.

“I hope you’re right,” I ventured at last. “I’d hate to have the man think I brought about his brother’s death.”

As it turned out, Gwyn made a point of letting me know he considered his brother lucky to have met his end doing something he believed in so deeply. “Gave his death some meaning,” the little man said solemnly. “I can’t think of a finer end, even among the old heroes.” I found his effort to make me feel better deeply touching.

We offered to delay our departure in order that Yder might have a proper funeral, but Gwyn preferred to take his brother back to their home in Neath and there perform the appropriate rites. I had a hunch they would be more fey than most, and not for the eyes of normal mortals.

“Yder and I don’t need you on our journey, and you don’t need me on yours,” Gwyn confirmed in his odd, cryptic fashion. Squinting from Arthur to Mordred and back, he gave a little shrug. “Some moiras fulfill themselves no matter what we do.”

I heard the prophecy and smiled. Over the winter months the High King and his new envoy to the Federates had worked diligently together—first on the law, now on what was to be expected from the Saxons. Surely, I told myself, the little man with Second Sight was referring to the growing rapprochement between father and son.

So we left Camelot on the first stage of a progress that would occupy us for the next six months. In retrospect, it ranged from early memories of our rule to the bright and terrible promise of the future, but at the time all I saw was the multihued present. Perhaps it was better that way.

Chapter XXI

The State of the Realm

Our itinerary took us to Winchester, and on the way we spent a night at the hill-fort of Sarum, the scene of Arthur’s and my wedding.

While the High King met with the Dorset warlords, I went out and walked the ramparts of the ancient stronghold by myself. The sentries were young and had no reason to recognize me, and more than one challenged my right to be on the parapet. There were several stammered apologies, and someone hastened to explain, “We can’t be too cautious, with Saxons living so close by.”

I asked if there was any specific cause for concern and was told the measures were precautionary only—though the presence of the High King had led to a doubling of the guards. I was reassured that they took such measures, and disturbed that they were necessary.

As I rounded the far curve, past the grove of trees where Griflet had first met his Saxon dairymaid, Frieda, a solitary figure came into view, leaning against the parapet and gazing over the misty lands to the south.

“Ah, Gwen—takes you back a bit, doesn’t it?” Bedivere commented as I came to stand beside him.

“Indeed,” I answered, warming to the presence of my first true friend at Court. “One can almost imagine the woods and meadows full of tents again, with commons and nobles and kings all jumbled up together. Everyone trying out the stirrups Palomides brought to us, and sizing up the young High King and his bride. And you…” I grinned up at the familiar, craggy face. “You, running across the Square at daybreak, trying to round up enough people to witness our very hasty wedding while the drums of war were beating—what a time that was!”

“Ah, yes,” the one-handed lieutenant concurred. “That war was won, and the Irish never threatened again; those stirrups have given our cavalry the edge in every campaign; the people now know and love their monarchs; and the marriage has gone well for over two decades.” Bedivere lifted one eyebrow. “No matter how chaotic the beginning, the structure has proved sound.”

“Even the shadow over Arthur is lifting,” I said, for it was Bedivere who referred to Mordred and his origins as a darkness that blighted Arthur’s life. “Mordred knows, and Arthur no longer avoids him.”

“I suspected as much.” The lieutenant nodded thoughtfully. “It’s an excellent idea, giving him a special post with the Federates. They need to be included as respected members of the realm; Arthur needs to understand and address their concerns; and Mordred needs a position that puts his energy to constructive use. I sometimes think Arthur doesn’t realize how talented his son is. With any luck, this appointment will benefit everyone.”

“Benefit everyone”—it was a phrase that came to mind over and over as we went through the Saxon territories. Both Mordred and Cynric sat beside the King when the local leaders came to pay their respects at Winchester. Once the walled city had been a bastion of Roman power, a stronghold against the incoming Saxons. Now it was an island of Britons surrounded by a sea of Federates, and their eyes moved ever and again to Cynric’s prominence in our party. A rustle of whispers lapped about us.

“Did you notice the fellow beside the High King’s envoy?”

“Aye, the son of Cerdic, who almost took the south away from the Pendragon. I wonder that Arthur trusts him enough to bring him back among his father’s followers…”

“Shows how confident the King is. Kept the boy as a peace-hostage, now uses him to build that peace. Whatever else you can say of the Pendragon, he’s a man of his word.”

It was the same everywhere—Federates looking cautiously at the unusual sight, noting the fair head and dark so often together—for Mordred and Cynric were well-nigh inseparable on this trip. In the marketplace, at the Council table, even at the feasts our hosts provided, the young Briton and German faced the world side by side.

The more warlike of our allies watched it too, shaking their heads as their hands drifted toward their sword hilts.

“Ain’t natural having such close dealings with Saxons. A fox is still a fox, and can’t be tamed.”

“Maybe the High King’s gone soft. Someone told me he’s planning to become a Christian; you don’t suppose he’ll turn into a monk like some of those other converts, do you?”

“Not likely, with Merlin as his guide.” This from Ironside, who was every bit as set in the Old Ways as Gawain had become in the ways of the White Christ. “They say the Archdruid still watches over his reign, even if he does speak through that doire who married Pelleas.”

At this there was much nodding of heads and a surreptitious making of signs against evil, for Nimue commanded almost as much respect as Merlin had.

“We’ve a good man in Arthur—finest king Britain’s seen in ages,” someone averred, and a mutter of agreement ran round them. “Or for ages to come,” someone else called out, remembering Merlin’s prophecy of a timeless monarch. And before long there would be shouts and applause for the Pendragon as everyone rushed to align themselves with our reign.

Sometimes the Saxons themselves joined in, caught up by the hope of men who want to follow a just leader. But I noted how many of them were youngsters, boys not even born when Arthur had defeated their fathers at the Battle of Mount Badon. And part of me couldn’t help wondering if they weren’t just biding their time, waiting to find the soft underbelly of a king grown lax and careless. Unless we recruited them to our Cause, they might develop a separate one of their own.

As we moved deeper into Saxon territory, the changes in the landscape became more obvious. With their heavy, iron-tipped plows and great teams of oxen, the Federates were turning the heavy clay of the river valleys into rich farms. Steadings that were once isolated farms, as remote and lonely as Wehha’s outpost, had now grown into villages where craftsmen displayed their wares around the edges of a common green; wooden buckets and barrels, clay pots and handsome baskets, well-turned wheels and iron-clad shovels that were wonderfully sturdy. Remarkable treasures from the Saxon homeland caught my eye: chip-carved brooches and beautiful goldwork, as well as glassware from the Rhineland factories. I marveled at the range of items and wished they were available to all our people. Perhaps Arthur could be encouraged to end the decree that kept Saxon boats from docking at the British ports.

Among the Federates I found no change in their notion that women had no place in government or matters of state, and High Queen or not, I was expected to follow our hosts’ customs. Even in Canterbury my women and I had to stay in the kitchen area while the men boasted and caroused and drank themselves to sleep in the separate mead-hall.

“Do not fret, Good Lady,” the Saxon Queen reassured me. “Ours is the finest Hall in the whole of Kent, as proud and comfortable as the famous Heorot built by Hrothgar. A fine hearth, with many sturdy tables and strong benches, and torches to keep the shadows away while the skalds sing of our great heroes—everything a man could want for comfort and ease. Your lord will be well cared for.”

I stared at the woman, thinking her mind must be made of mush. How else could one explain a queen who presided over the kitchen and took no part in ruling the realm with her husband?

We stayed at Canterbury for three long days, during which the men talked and drank, went hunting, and played at games. On the last morning the Companions put on a display of cavalry maneuvers for our hosts.

Although the Saxons revere the white horse, they do not ride often, so there was much comment when the Companions took the field, mounted on the black horses which had become synonymous with our cavalry. Both animals and men were in splendid shape—vigorous, energetic, and lavishly turned out. Even the trappings were elegant—bronze bosses shone, bridle-bells rang, and on every headstall the red enameled rondels marked each as a member of Arthur’s own corps. Seeing them in close drill and synchronized riding, I nodded with an inner satisfaction. It couldn’t hurt to keep the Federates in awe of us.

Arthur had announced early on that Mordred would become their liaison with us, and would remain at Canterbury after we left. The Saxons were so pleased with the idea, they insisted on giving him a headband woven of golden threads. It was a handsome example of one of their most exacting arts, and when it circled Mordred’s fair brow and black hair, it reflected the special status they accorded him.

On the last afternoon of our stay my stepson and I took a leisurely stroll through the market area, past stalls of local pottery, cages of chickens, and piles of freshly harvested greens. Ironically, it was the only place we could say our good-byes in private, away from the pressures of Court.

“I appreciate the opportunity to serve His Highness,” Mordred began. I heard the carefulness of his tone and shot him a quick glance. His jaw was set as firmly as ever his father’s had been, but when he caught my eye, he gave me a mischievous smile. “I don’t have to ask how much you had to do with it…and I’m deeply grateful.”

“It was his own idea, and his own decision,” I interjected hastily. But he only gave me a skeptical look, then glanced away.

“Mordred—” I took his arm and guided him into the shadow of a Roman temple, away from the crowded market. “Whatever else you may think of King Arthur, he’s a fair man. He was impressed by your evaluation of the Bristol coast; he’ll be equally impressed by good, competent work here. Just keep your eyes and ears open, and report to him regularly. He’s never been one to stint on recognition.”

“Except for a son.” Mordred stared at his feet, not even aware he’d spoken aloud, but his words had the sting of hornets.

“Look at me,” I demanded, taking his chin in my hand. “Don’t ask the impossible. And don’t go around feeling sorry for yourself—there’s much too much to be done in life to wallow in self-pity. Let him get to know you for the person you are, separate from the blood-tie—he’ll respect you more and better that way. You can earn his admiration, I know you can.”

The dark eyes burned with a sulky fire, half rebellion, half pain, but at last he gave a slight nod, followed by a boyish smile. “If
you
think I can, M’lady…then I guess I can.”

“Of course you can,” I teased as we ambled back into the stream of shoppers. “Why else would I have spent all those years raising you?”

Next morning, when our party was ready to leave, Mordred and Cynric rode with our hosts as they accompanied us to the city gates. It was a grand procession, with the Banner of the Red Dragon unfurled, and the white-horsetail standards of the Saxons shining in the sunlight. There was the usual formal declaration of friendship and leave-taking, and Mordred was the first to salute our party as we turned to go. I gave him not only a royal nod but also a quick thumbs up, and every silent vote of confidence I could think of, though I was only vaguely aware of the remarkable future he would soon be offering all of us.

***

The rest of the summer was spent in travel. London was glad to see us, and we arrived in time to enjoy the fruits from the old cherry tree in the Park beside the Imperial Palace. On the way to Cambridge we stayed at a moldering mansion in Chelmsford, which was being renovated as a hostel for the Royal Messengers. The nearby temple was an ornate, octagonal building several stories high where we all paused to pay homage to the collection of Roman and British gods that had been worshiped there for centuries.

I looked down the Roman Road that leads to East Anglia and wondered how things were going at Wehha’s settlement now that Wuffa was in charge. Unfortunately, he’d left on one of his regular trips back to the homeland, and so would not be able to host us this time.

Cambridge had not grown much over the years, but was still an army outpost—one of the many Uther Pendragon had set up to keep the Saxons within the agreed-upon boundaries. We camped on a nearby ridge and watched a whey-white moon rise out of the misty Fens on a soft night in July.

At Lincoln the troops assured us that all had been quiet in their area since each local Saxon had personally sworn fealty to the High King, following the Battle of Mount Badon. “They remember how you put them in chains and only released them when they bent the knee and made their oath,” the captain of the outpost said. “Nothing like a good dose of authority to keep ’em in line.”

“And a bit of humanity,” Lancelot noted softly, remembering that if Arthur had not released those men, their crops would have gone unharvested and many a Saxon steading would have known famine that year.

York was considerably quieter since Urien had moved so many of his men north. Uwain kept the fort manned, however, and he took us to a room in one of the many-sided towers that overlooked the river Ouse. It was light and airy as tower rooms go, and held nothing but a table and some chairs, while a frame on the wall supported a stretched cowhide. A map of Urien’s country had been drawn on the leather, from York all the way up to the river Tweed.

“My father’s decided to make Yeavering his northern headquarters,” Uwain explained, tapping the map with an ivory pointer. “It’s an old hill-fort tucked into the hills above the river Glen. A bit off the track, but it commands a splendid view in all directions. There’s been enough activity to warrant fortifying the area, keep out invaders, and protect the villages along the northern coast. He’s thinking about refurbishing the Roman signal towers, and the red-rock bluffs at Bamburgh are a natural spot for a seaside fortress.”

Arthur stroked his mustaches and scowled, but it was Lance who spoke up. “What about the lands around Warkworth?”