Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn (27 page)

“No trouble that I’ve heard of.” Uwain put down his pointer and turned to the Breton. “That’s where Joyous Gard is, isn’t it? There in the loop of the river? You might consider putting up walls, if you haven’t already.”

“That likely to be attacked?”

Uwain lifted one shoulder noncommittally. “Considering what I’ve seen and heard on the Continent, I’d say Britain will be seeing an overflow of Saxons and Frisians, Angles and Jutes, for years to come. With the Goths having displaced so many of the tribes across Europe, these are the people who’ve been pushed to the water’s edge. Naturally, if they can make it to Britain in a single day’s journey across the sea, they’re going to try.”

Uwain’s words made me think of Theodoric leading his hordes across the mountains into Italy—a wave of history that couldn’t be stopped. It sent a shiver down my back.

“I don’t want to turn Joyous Gard into a fortress,” Lance noted as we walked back to the fancy terraced house Uwain had put at our disposal. “But perhaps something around the farmyard…”

Arthur agreed, so when we came to Portgate where the Roman Road known as Dere Street passes through the Wall, Lancelot bade us farewell and continued north to his Joyous Garden. He took some of his own men and Gareth as well, and as I watched them canter off down the broad pavement, I thought how fortunate it was that the boy he’d taken in as a squire had grown into such a close friend.

We turned west, traveling along the supply road that clings to the base of the Wall. According to Cathbad, it was some old Caesar who built the stone bulwark across the width of Britain, stretching from Newcastle to Carlisle. It rides the north-facing ridges and bristles with forts designed to keep the Pict and Scot from raiding the richer lands to the south. No doubt it has been successful; from base to parapet it rises to three times the height of a man. Certainly I wouldn’t want to scale it.

The towers, which were built within shouting distance of each other, mostly stand empty and deserted. A few of the smaller forts are still used to shelter shepherds or farmers or the occasional traveler journeying to or from Carlisle. Villages had grown up outside the larger compounds such as Chester, and although they had dwindled in size after the Legions left, they still manned the Wall for local leaders.

The Romans were noted for moving men and goods in a straight line, rarely deviating for such things as rivers or gullies. Where these were too steep, they threw bridges across the canyons, as in the stretch of Dere Street north of the fort at Binchester. But along the Wall itself, bridges were used only for crossing major rivers, as the barrier had to hug the earth. Where the Wall followed the broad valley of the lower Tyne we rode comfortably enough, but as the land grew more rugged, the way became too steep for horses, and we had to dismount.

“Might as well climb to the parapet and walk along the top,” Arthur suggested since we had to go by foot anyway. I thought it a splendid idea, so while squires took the horses down to the more level Road known as the Stone Gate, we strode along like Roman soldiers, surveying the land on either side of the Wall. A cleared area of trackways or ditches ran along its base, leaving few places where an enemy could hide, and I pitied anyone who tried to cross the thing by stealth.

“The Romans even fixed grates under the arches of the bridge,” Arthur noted as the Wall took a huge, flying leap across the North Tyne at Chester. “They wanted to make sure no one could sneak through, either by swimming or using a boat.”

We were standing outside the tower that protects the eastern abutment, where the guards were all in a dither to find the High King so suddenly in their midst. One of the sentries at the other end of the bridge dashed down the stairs to find someone who could welcome us officially.

While we waited for this little nicety—no Celtic ruler enters a town or fort without permission of the inhabitants, unless it is his own—I leaned over the railing of the bridge and stared down into the turbulent river. Stained dark as tea by the peat they seeped through, the waters leapt and tumbled along their rocky bed, and when I squinted, I could just make out the shadow of the grates Arthur had mentioned. Probably made of elm, I decided, since it is the wood that best survives years of submersion, and the Romans were nothing if not thorough in planning their defenses to last for lifetimes.

In every aspect the Tyne is a lovely river—broad and rambunctious as it flows toward the sea, bright and swirling in its upper branches where it foams over rocky rapids and drops into pools below fern-clad banks. Over the years I’d come to love the rivers of Logres and the Midlands, Caerleon and London and York, but none carries with it the clear, lovely music of an upland stream, or reminds me so much of my childhood. Now, with the sound of the Tyne in my ears, I looked at Arthur and laughed, just for the pleasure of it.

The people of Chester were a boisterous lot, rugged and vocal in their welcome, so we were fed and entertained in typical northern fashion. They might be proud and sometimes fractious, but their admiration for the Pendragon was beyond question.

We were greeted with equal enthusiasm at Carlisle, where the stuffy bishop delivered a welcoming speech in the name of the entire community. It seemed that the Christian leader had managed to convert a large number of the locals, and his cathedral was flourishing. Considering that, I should not have been surprised when the monk Gildas requested an audience with us at the big house by the river a week later.

When we were young, my father had turned down Gildas as a potential husband for me. I eyed the wispy little man with the haughty air and narrow eyes who now stood before us and was grateful to have escaped becoming his wife. The Church had proved the best place for him, and of late he’d been overseeing Maelgwn’s stay at the monastery at Bangor. The notion he had come to report on my loathsome cousin brought a frown, but it seemed he had more pleasant things on his mind.

“A king of your stature needs someone to keep your archives,” the monk told Arthur over dinner that night, setting his lips in a pinched fashion as he reached for a second helping of sea trout.

“Archives?” My husband hooted in surprise, and the cleric jerked his hand back guiltily. “What do I need archives for? I’ve a perfectly good bard to compose songs of my achievements—and a jester to remind anyone else who might forget.”

“Besides,” I interjected, gently pushing the platter of fishes toward our guest, “an old man at Oxford already asked to compile them.”

“Yes, I know.” Gildas gave me a smug smile. “I happened to be in Oxford when the fellow lay dying, and I gave him last rites. He was most upset at not having someone to carry on his task, so I promised to look into the matter. I have his scrolls in my luggage. If I came to live with you, I could catch up on whatever he hasn’t already recorded. Besides”—this to Arthur with an ingratiating smile—“it seems to me your Court needs a holy man to round it out.”

“Oh, we already have several,” I assured him. “There’s Cathbad the Druid, and Lionel, who officiates at the Mithraic rites. And, of course, Father Baldwin for the Christians. I think you’ll find our household quite ecumenical.”

The monk shot me a disapproving look and irritably pronged a trout.

“You’re welcome to stay with us as long as you wish,” Arthur interjected, giving me a nudge under the table. Clearly he felt it was important to have the Church’s backing. “We’ll be on the move much of the time. I don’t expect to get back to Camelot until Samhain, but if you don’t mind the traveling…”

Gildas gave the High King a gracious nod and studiously avoided my gaze.

So the prissy monk joined our entourage. At first I was sure he’d be a bother, but in truth I was so busy with other things, I hardly remembered he was there until his brother Hueil was hauled into Court on a charge of stealing cattle from a steading on this side of the Wall.

“I’ve been to your glens in the Trossachs,” Arthur fumed, glaring at the Caledonian. “You’ve no reason to raid other people’s livestock when your own lands abound with stag and boar and other game.”

“’Tis the way we entertain ourselves on nights with no moon,” Hueil growled. He was a brutish man, with knotted muscles and a thick neck, and was clearly trying to decide if he could beat Arthur in a fight. I glanced at Gawain, who slid his hand down to his dagger.

“But it’s my meat you’ll be eating when winter comes,” the aggrieved farmer replied hotly. “I demand the return of my cattle, reparations for my troubles, and justice in the King’s name!”

Arthur was struggling to keep a straight face, for the farmer would never have been so belligerent if we hadn’t been there. On the other hand, this was a perfect opportunity to try out the new legal system, so my husband convinced all involved to let the case be argued before a jury of peers, with the High King acting as moderator and judge.

The evidence went heavily against Hueil, who, in prideful folly, boasted of his acts. The jury of local farmers not only found the Scotsman guilty of stealing another man’s food, they sentenced him to be beheaded. “Bloodthirsty lot, your subjects in Rheged,” my husband opined that night.

The farmer and his neighbors thought the new system admirable and filled the Square on the day the public execution was held. But Arthur went hunting—“You don’t think I’m going to stay and listen for that blade to fall, do you?” Gildas waited until he returned, then gave the High King a tongue-lashing before packing up and leaving. The man’s personal hurt and anger were no doubt understandable, but I bridled at the idea that his alliance with the Christian God gave him the right to chastise monarchs. Later I discovered a pile of ashes where he’d burned the scrolls containing Arthur’s history. I brushed them away with a broom and prayed the petty little man wouldn’t cross our path again.

As the harvest drew to a close, we left Carlisle for the last stage of our progress, swinging over to Chester while Gawain and Gingalin went off to visit Bercilak in the Wirral. On the way down Watling Street we stayed in the new hunting lodge that Arthur had commissioned to be built beside the basilica wall in Wroxeter. It was a handsome building, but between the association with Maelgwn and the memory of Pelli’s death nearby, I knew I would never be comfortable there.

And then at last we were home again, riding up the steep cobbled drive to our fortress on a nippy October evening that promised a night full of icy stars. Bedivere had taken the house staff on ahead, so the torches were lit, the smoke from the hearth climbed skyward, and after a simple supper Arthur and I tumbled into bed with a huge sigh of relief. Neither of us had the energy for romping, but lay curled against each other, more than content to be back where we belonged.

“For all the rest of Britain’s wonder, I don’t think there’s anywhere as splendid as Camelot,” my husband sighed.

“Nor I,” I whispered, sliding my hand into his. Long ago I’d realized Arthur would never be able to tell me that he loved me or willingly hear my words of love for him. But as we lay there on the verge of sleep, the fabric of our marriage, the interweave and overlay, occasional slubs and wonderful brocading of our years together, warmed us as much as the pelts we lay under. I might never know the fruition of a romantic love such as my parents had had, but still and all, I was content.

The soft, haunting sound of the curlew flying overhead stirred the night, and I smiled to myself, totally unaware of the clouds that were gathering on distant horizons.

Chapter XXII

New Dreams for Old

I sometimes think that the young converse with the future much as we remember the past. Perhaps because their eyes have not seen all that ours have, they perceive a different world—one that can be frightening to their elders. Certainly there was a touch of fear in Arthur’s reaction when Mordred, in his first report on the Federates, suggested that they be made part of the Round Table.

“What?” the High King’s astonishment filled the office. “You ask me to give them a seat at my Council?”

“They’ve recognized you as overlord for twenty years, Your Highness. There’s been no further western movement, no annexing of British farms or displacing of British subjects. What more proof of loyalty and peaceful intentions do you require?”

“Peaceful for the time, I grant you,” Arthur replied, his shock beginning to subside. “But obeying my orders does not in itself give them the right to join the Round Table.”

Mordred moved to the window where the white winter light played on the golden headband the Saxons had given him. After months of living among the Federates, he’d adopted a number of their fashions: his red tunic was trimmed with fancy braids and a polished crystal ball of the sort they term a life-stone hung from the scabbard of his sword. The sunlight glinted off the chip-carved pin at his shoulder as he turned and began to pace quietly back and forth across the room.

“It would bring them more fully into the fabric of your realm; encourage an exchange of ideas and philosophies—I’ve found some of them both interesting and useful.”

Mordred’s enthusiasm was evident, and he spoke with the controlled passion of a man who has found his cause. Just so had I heard Arthur speak when trying to ally the members of the Round Table, or advance the idea of a law code. “Listen to their request, Your Majesty—recognize their fundamental rights. Let this be the verification of your good faith.”

“
My
good faith?” Arthur’s surprise turned to anger and his fist hit the table so hard the ink pot jumped and threatened to spill. “Proof of my good faith? What kind of nonsense is that?”

Startled, Mordred paused in his pacing and looked directly at his father.”I promised them you are an honorable man and therefore would consider it.”

“You overstep yourself, Mordred.”

The cold fury in Arthur’s face made his son drop his gaze. I watched him search for a way to move the discussion to a more reasonable footing.

“What would earn them the right of recognition?” he asked, carefully keeping his voice even.

“I haven’t thought on the matter,” Arthur growled, reining in his anger.

“Then I would like to encourage you to do so, Your Highness.” It was a simple plea, open and honest and devoid of hidden stresses. I let out a sigh of maternal admiration; the boy had grown into a statesman of stature.

Arthur looked long and hard at Mordred, then nodded curtly. “We will take the matter under consideration. Otherwise your report has been satisfactory.” With that he dismissed the subject, turning his attention to the new tax rolls before us.

“Don’t say it, Gwen,” he warned after Mordred had left the room.”I grant you the boy does a good job of representing us. But what does he know of Saxon treachery? Has he forgotten that they broke the treaties I made with them, forming secret alliances, rebelling against my rule? By Jove, are the lives of the men I lost in that war to be counted for naught, that I should now include their killers among the Fellowship?”

“He was barely a child then, growing up on the Orkney Islands, so far from the center of things. He may not understand what a betrayal that was.” I spoke gently, not wanting to press the subject too hard. The lives of the men he’d lost always weighed heavily on Arthur’s soul.

“Betrayal is still betrayal,” he muttered darkly, pushing the subject away.

But Mordred brought it up again the next morning as he and I came back from a ride. We’d taken the wolfhounds with us and Augustus, who was still puppy enough to want to get Brutus to play, kept nipping at his sire’s heels.

“Is there no way to reach the King?” Mordred queried, calling the younger dog into line. “Or am I asking something unreasonable?”

I glanced over at him, wondering how to explain Arthur’s attitude. “No—at least
I
don’t think it’s unreasonable. But he’s the one who had to lead his men against the Saxons, who saw the civilians they’d flayed alive for not joining their side; found his warriors scalped, mutilated, left to bleed to death. Those are hard memories for any leader to live with, Mordred. Your point is well taken, so let him think about it. It’s likely he’ll come round to seeing the value of what you say.”

The young man appraised me carefully, as though trying to decide how much was my honest reaction and how much simply siding with my husband out of loyalty. The curtain had dropped behind his eyes, making it impossible for me to read his conclusion. At last, with a small smile, he agreed to drop the subject.

“But the Saxons aren’t going to go away any more than I am, M’lady—and he’d do well to realize that.”

Oh, Arthur, if only you’d been able to see the new dreams forming, the new realities around us! They were good dreams, solid ideas for the future. Yet you clung as much to the glory of the past as to your distrust of Uwain, and the energy we could have harnessed began to seek other outlets and flow into other channels…

***

Later, in spring, Taliesin returned from Northumbria. He had become famous as Urien’s chief bard, and his patron had rewarded him well with fine horses and golden bracelets, beautiful clothes and a splendid new harp. But although he arrived in splendor, his countenance was mournful, for he brought word that Urien, the Raven King of the north, was dead.

“Poisoned by a jealous ally who hoped to claim leadership of the north for himself,” Taliesin reported with a shake of his head. “Uwain put a stop to that—tracked the man down and hacked him to pieces. Afterward the warbands elected Uwain to succeed his father, and he now bears the title of King in Northumbria.”

The news sped through the household, and after dinner everyone gathered round, wanting to learn the details and curious to hear them told by Taliesin himself, who, as a child, was thought to be a changeling. Even I remembered how, in his youth, weird, wonderful words would pour from his mouth.

Taliesin was no more physically remarkable as an adult than he had been as a youth—of middle height and pudgy, with nondescript hair and a coarse mouth. But when he put fingers to strings, when his great bass-baritone filled the Hall, one felt the power of the Gods waiting within him.

This night it was the death song he sang, the eulogy that captures for all times the story of a slain leader, and he voiced the lament of a people lost and grieving for the lord who had sustained them through good times and bad.

His memory I carry, close to my heart;

The memory of Urien, generous leader of hosts.

On his white breast, a black carrion crow now sits.

The man I hold up, once upheld me.

My arm is numb, my body trembles, my heart breaks;

This one I cherish, who formerly cherished me.

The last line fell into silence, the faint echo of harp strings rippled on a pool of grief. Tears were running down the faces of the older Companions, and Gawain sobbed aloud at the loss of his uncle.

Putting his instrument aside, Taliesin spoke in his normal voice, proclaiming that life and kingship went on in Northumbria despite the passing of so great a leader. “Hail to his son and successor, Uwain of the Lion’s Shield, as proud and generous as ever his father was—and loyal to Your Majesties.”

“For which we are grateful,” the Pendragon acknowledged, then asked if Taliesin would stay with us and be our bard, since Riderich had died more than a year before.

Taliesin looked about the Hall, his eyes lingering on the various Champions he’d known since childhood—Gawain and Gaheris, Agravain, Bedivere, Lancelot and Cei—and a smile that was part arrogance, part mischief played over his features as he answered. “I would be honored to serve the High King thus.”

I wondered suddenly if we would regret the invitation, for a bard can ruin the reputation of king or hero as easily as a sword can shatter glass. But in the end, Taliesin did not so much destroy the old dream as sow the seeds of a new one at Caerleon, when we held the Round Table on the Christian feast of Pentecost.

As usual, the town was full of excitement and color. “Can’t remember a time when things were better,” Cei acknowledged as we made a last-minute check of provisions and accommodations. “Everyone in high spirits, and the locals setting up a market to take advantage of so many visitors.”

Indeed, although they no longer boasted a dancing bear, there were games and mimes and musicians to charm the Round Table Fellowship. In the taverns young warriors bragged of their own deeds and boasted about friendships with older, more legendary heroes, while at various camps in the surrounding meadows and woods, squires kept watch over their sponsors’ horse and armor, and dreamed of the days when they, too, would be asked to join the elite at Arthur’s side.

At the praetorium, older kings and warlords reminisced while newer rulers listened, and Vortipor of Demetia—he of the arrogant attitude—condescended to thank me for the suite I’d put at his disposal. I resisted the temptation to say it was only because of his rank, not because he deserved it—compared with his uncle, Agricola, the man was an oppressive tyrant and a disgrace as a ruler.

Over the years Cei had worked wonders in the basilica. He’d managed to halt the ravages of ruin, repairing the corner of the roof that had fallen in, or replacing the missing flagstones in the floor. With its huge columns and incredibly high clerestory ceiling, it had become a majestic setting for the Round Table.

On the night of the first feast, the long nave was full of gaiety and laughter. We’d set the curved trestles in a full circle, each draped with white linen, each lit by the oil lamp in its standard. Urns of flowers flanked the doorways, and well-seasoned torches gave the huge room a clean and glowing light.

Throughout the Hall friend greeted friend, catching up on news of the months or years since their last encounter. They moved about like brightly colored leaves caught in a swirling wind, and in the center was Arthur. Wearing a new green tunic, arms laden with the golden bracelets he would bestow on his followers, he smiled and laughed, listened, nodded, frowned in concern, or extended a hand in sympathy to the various leaders who approached him.

Seeing him thus, like the sun in his element surrounded by lesser stars, I smiled to myself. If only Merlin could see how well it had all turned out!

There would be work enough at the next day’s Council. Tonight friendship took precedence, with toasts to past allegiances, hints that Lamorak’s youngest daughter was reaching marriageable age, even the introduction of Gwynlliw’s brother, Petroc, recently arrived from Devon, where he was known as the finest spearman in the south. Colgrevance’s sisters from the Continent had all married, but I noticed that didn’t keep them from flirting outrageously, and even Pelleas, Nimue’s quiet husband, was more outgoing than usual.

Seated next to me, Lance was full of droll observations about the different people who made up our Round Table family. And we toasted the new moon together, for I’d told him about Nimue’s spell, and we took the crescent as the symbol of the love that was between us.

The food was superb, and I’d arranged to have the different courses brought in behind the pomp and majesty of a Highland piper. Trays and trenchers of meat were paraded—venison and boar, mutton and beef—roasted, boiled, stewed, or braised. Whole poached salmon lay on beds of cress, while duck and goose and even swan made up the fowl course. There were puddings and aspics, pâtés and pickles—and spiced cakes full of raisins and dried figs, and that rarest of spices, ginger.

As the meal came to an end, our guests washed their fingers in rose-scented water and wiped their knives clean on linen towels before replacing them in their belts. I saw the gleam of lamplight on silver and gold, ivory and pewter, and smiled as the boy carrying the water pitcher refilled my beaker; he was using the Egyptian flagon with blue enamel designs around its lid which had been part of my dowry. It had once held the wine I’d poured for Arthur, the first time we met.

It occurred to me that all the treasures and toil of my life had come together at that great feast, and I reached up and touched the golden torc on my neck, feeling once more its timeless connection with great occasions, past and present, and was glad to add this one to its history.

The evening’s entertainment was about to start when a fierce commotion erupted at the door, and Lucan the Gatekeeper ran into the center of the Round Table as though propelled by the stocky youth pounding at his heels.

“Perceval of Wales seeks admission,” the butler panted, none too happily. Before Arthur had a chance to reply, the newcomer thrust Lucan to one side and, after a hasty bow in our direction, turned to survey the gathering.