Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn (40 page)

“We’re much obliged,” Lance answered as I drew close to the fire-pit, grateful to be inside while the rain pelted down.

A small girl was sitting by the cooking pot, carefully carding a hank of wool. She stared at us open-mouthed, and when her mother came to stir the porridge, the child asked in a hoarse whisper, “Why’s he not wearing a kilt?”

“He’s from the south, I presume,” the woman answered, then gave her a dour look. “It’s rude to ask questions, child.”

So we sat in silence while the farm wife went about her chores. When she set out bowls and a chunk of thick barley bread, I asked what I might do to help, but received only a curt admonition to rest myself.

Luckily the storm drove Kimmins home early, a bag of young grouse slung over one shoulder. He was a weathered, hardy man, in all ways as outgoing as his wife was reticent. Both he and his two grown sons immediately made us welcome.

By the time the rains passed, we had feasted well and were sitting cozy around the fire. The farm wife disappeared into some dark corner while the younger children bundled up in their boxbed, but the older boys hunkered on the dirt floor by their father, and I sat on a cushion at Lance’s feet, my head resting against his knee. Kimmins searched through the firewood piled near the hearth, and finding a pine knot, drew his dagger and began to whittle on it.

“Two sets of visitors in barely a week—now that’s remarkable,” he noted casually, eyes intent on his woodwork. “Mayhap the two are connected?”

“Mayhap,” Lance responded carefully. “The first wouldn’t be someone from the High King’s Court, would it?”

The crofter snorted as his knife sent a scatter of chips flying. “A fellow wearing the badge of Orkney—said he was Agravain’s man. He was an arrogant sod, who searched the house in disbelief that we weren’t hiding Lancelot and the Queen.”

I sat very still, not making a sound, but looking back and forth between Kimmins and his sons.

Lancelot absorbed the news thoughtfully. “Did he say where he was headed? Further north, perhaps?”

“Doubt it.” Kimmins had outlined a face around a knot in the wood and paused now to hold it to the light, appraising it critically. “Don’t think Uwain would care for that. Urien was a good old King, but this son of his keeps a tight rein on his lands, even down here. He’s not about to put up with strangers marching through his territory, giving orders to those of us as lives here.”

“What sort of orders?” The words were out before I knew it.

Kimmins was bending over his work, intent on adding the last few touches, his blade flashing this way and that. “Demanded we send word if the couple showed up. Says they’re wanted for treason.”

At the word Lance put his hand on my head. But our host never looked up. “Such men’ll whistle up a snowstorm in August before they hear from the likes of us; we don’t take kindly to outlanders telling us what to do.” He made one last nick in the carving, then held it up for my inspection. “There now, I do believe it’s a bogey I found. Every piece of wood has its sprite, you know.”

A funny, lopsided face with huge horse teeth peered out of the whorls of the pine knot, and I smiled at the humor of it, in spite of my fear.

“I’d be honored if you’d take it, M’lady. Might help lift your spirits,” Kimmins allowed gruffly. “I think it’s that Hedley Kow who loves to disrupt things in the kitchen and always vanishes laughing.”

We slept that night in a bed—the children having been doubled up to make room for us—and, after a breakfast of porridge, prepared to continue on our way. The little wood carving was carefully packed in Lance’s saddlebag.

Kimmins never asked our names, but insisted on giving me a pony to ride.

“And not to worry about returning it,” he added, helping me up onto the beast’s back. “If I need it, I fancy I’ll find some way to let you know.”

We left him with a wave and a prayer of thanksgiving, sure our safety would be well guarded.

***

From there on, Lance and I rode constantly, making our way down Coquetdale with the dark escarpments of the Simonside Hills guarding the south and the bright, playful river leading us from the high moors through cool green canyons and out onto the coastal plane.

There, in the broad, sweeping loop that swings past its rocky knoll, Coquet River brought us to Joyous Gard and home.

Chapter XXXII

Bargains

There is much to love about the north—the hardy honesty of the people, the wild and untouched sweep of the land, the constant challenge of the weather. The south of Britain may be lush and poetic and pretty as a garden most of the year round; Northumbria is crisp apples in old orchards, and great huge clouds piling up over the North Sea, and the graying housekeeper who came running into the yard as we emerged from the forest track that leads to Joyous Gard.

“’Tis Himself returned!” she exclaimed, arms flapping and face aglow. “And he’s brought the Lady with him, safe and sound.” A sudden frown dampened her exuberance when she saw the bandage on Lance’s arm. “You aren’t bad hurt, are you?” she queried, looking anxiously up at him.

“No, Mrs. Badger,” he assured her as he swung down from Invictus. “Nothing that your good cooking and a little rest won’t cure.”

She reddened at the compliment and ducked her head bashfully; it always amused me how easily women of all ages were charmed by Lance. Then she turned her shrewd blue eyes my way, and I caught a moment of quick appraisal as she tried to assess how much trouble I was likely to be. Between the natural caution of the peasant confronted by royalty and her own fierce protectiveness of Lance, I had the bemusing thought the woman might run me off if she didn’t like what she saw.

“Well come, Your Majesty,” she said at last, essaying an awkward curtsey.

“Oh no, Mrs. Badger,” I interjected quickly. “There’s no need for that. I’m simply the Master’s Lady here.”

She flashed me another look, this one a bit warmer. But the voice remained stubbornly neutral. “We’ll see about that,” she declared, clearly reserving the right to restore my queenly status in the future, if she saw fit. “Now then, let’s get you inside and into some fresh clothes.”

Since her own garments would have gone around my lanky frame twice over, we settled for one of Lance’s old tunics and a pair of breeches her youngest son had outgrown. They weren’t fancy but were more convenient than either of the long-skirted garments I’d lived in for the last few weeks.

After I was dressed, she began trying to fix my hair, patiently undoing the braid and working out the snarls while she chattered on about Lancelot.

“What a relief it is to have him home. Been worried sick, those boys have, not knowing what had happened to him. Once they all met back here and discovered you and the Master hadn’t got home safe and sound ahead of them, it was all Bors and Lionel could do to keep Ector from riding back to Carlisle trying to find you two. It’s a good family, M’lady; one that stands together, and they all look to Lancelot as their leader. Would go anywhere for him, do anything he’d ask. They’ll be so glad to see him safe and sound…”

Her words trailed off as she frowned at my hair, now lying long and heavy down my back. A note of consternation crept into her voice. “We’re mostly simple folk at Warkworth—not much used to fancy things. How’s about I just put it in a bun?”

I assured her that would do admirably, and once she had anchored the washerwoman’s twist firmly to the top of my head, she went back to her chores, and I went out to join Lance in getting reacquainted with the place I always thought of as the most beautiful in the world.

Joyous Gard stands astride a ridge that swings around like a cocked arm extending out from the forested hills. High up, at the elbow, the house and barn and stables stand, while down below, at the base of the steep bluff and following the inner crook of the elbow, the Coquet doubles back on itself in a horseshoe curve before swinging wide around the fingers of the hand, where a small village had grown up since last I was here.

It was all much as I remembered: a world in miniature, subtly drawn in the browns and rusts and purples of the Cheviots, the billowing greens of the forests on its closer flanks; the golden sand and gray-green grasses along the dunes that formed a miniature estuary not more than a mile away. Only the village brought a new texture, adding to the palette an occasional glimpse of bright flowers blooming in the garden plots so dear to the British heart.

From Joyous Gard the eye beholds the best of wild and tilled, leafy and sea-swept, heart-lifting freedom and snug security, and my soul filled with gratitude that Lance and I had such a place in which to live and love for the rest of our days.

He took me on a tour of the steading, pointing out the kitchen plots tended by Mrs. Badger’s husband, the herbs and flowers and medicinal plants carefully arranged to take advantage of a sunny aspect or shaded nook. Even the orchard that filled the space between farmyard and forest was well cared for and full of both apples and pears.

A scruffy goatherd wearing a bright red cap appeared on the path that skirts the steading, bringing his charges home from a day’s browsing in the woods. He kept the nimble foragers moving lest they be tempted to jump the rail fences into the orchard, and only after the animals were safely headed down the hill to the village did he doff his hat in salute to us. I grinned and waved back, my heart as high-spirited as his goats.

News of our arrival spread as fast as the goatherd could run, and by evening not only Bors and Lionel and Ector shared our hearth, but also Palomides and Urr, as well as Lavaine and Cook’s nephew Kanahins, who had run away after the massacre at Carlisle’s Square. Even Gareth’s protégé, Melias, had joined the group in Northumbria.

They made their way into the big old farmhouse, ducking under the low-linteled door and greeting us with hugs and tears and deep joy at finding us both alive and safely home.

Only after they’d settled down in the long room, lounging by the fire or sitting on the benches, did it dawn on me how many were Companions. While I was relieved to know they had escaped Carlisle with their lives, the realization that they’d all left the Court to follow Lance came as a shock. So many defections among his elite were bound to hurt Arthur.

Mrs. Badger brought out a fine pot of chowder, and we caught up on the news of who had fallen in the battle at the Square.

“At least Agravain won’t poison any more lives,” Ector de Maris announced tersely. “I ran him through myself after he started the bloodshed. And I saw Mordred covered with blood, though whose it was, I’m not sure. Serves them all right for setting up such treachery.”

The rest nodded in agreement, and talk moved on to the other known dead; Lovel and Patris among Arthur’s men, Belliance and Nerovens in the group that came to rescue me.

And Gareth, of course. At the mention of the flaxen-haired Champion everyone paused to make some sign of protection or appeal to their individual deities. Lance swallowed hard, and I saw the tears in his eyes.

As to the present situation, Agravain’s men were clearly not going to let their leader’s death go unavenged, and though they had not ventured as far as Warkworth, Kimmins was not the only crofter in the Cheviots who had been contacted by strangers asking questions.

“That won’t sit well with Uwain,” Bors commented, stretching his feet toward the hearth. “What with his duties as King of Northumbria and Regent of Rheged, he has a full plate. I don’t imagine he wants a war between us and Arthur flaring on his flank. He sent word that he’s withdrawn his invitation to the High King for this summer’s visit, but asks you to come in his stead, after you’re well rested.”

This last was directed to me, and I pursed my lips thoughtfully, wondering what such a request presaged. It began to dawn on me that I was not as free of the past as I had imagined.

The question of Uwain was still on my mind later that night, when I perched on the bench by the window preparing to undo my hair. “It’s bound to be something politic,” I grumbled, much as I would have to Arthur.

“Probably,” Lance answered, coming to stand behind me. He put his hands on my shoulders as I reached for the comb Mrs. Badger had found for me, and suddenly, breathlessly, I knew what he would say. “Here, I want to do that.”

Taking the pins out of the bun, he let the heavy strands of hair tumble down through his hands, hefting the weight of them as though they were treasure.

“You have no idea how many times I dreamed of this.” He reached over my shoulder for the comb and began carefully drawing it through my tresses, making them soft and silky.

As though he were stroking a cat, or polishing fine metal, he combed out the whole of my mane while I blinked back tears of joy. Then, suddenly, lest I get too sentimental, I ducked away and tossed my head sideways. Most of my face was hidden by the sweep of hair, and I peered at him mischievously through the veil of it.

“Oh, really,” he exclaimed, seeing the challenge and taking a step back in mock surprise. But when I laughed and let him go back to combing it, he scooped my hair up into a pile on the top of my head and, bending over, began to kiss the nape of my neck.

I gave a yip and turned to grab him around the waist, full of rowdy laughter and devilment. We tumbled onto the bed, and I knelt beside him, shaking out my locks and letting them trail across his body in long, light, languid strokes that were half teasing, half tender adoration.

And all the while, inside, I was asking the Gods to keep our new life safe and inviolate and let us live in peace, far from the pressures of the world that had been so willing to see us die.

I might as well have asked for the moon on a silver salver, for all the good those prayers did!

We left for Yeavering a week later, traveling up the coast with Palomides, Melias, and a light escort. As we rode along the splendid dunes, the Arab, who had been living here for some time, regaled us with stories about the land he’d come to love.

“Once, after a storm, I came upon a sunken forest—ancient trees poking halfway up through the sand. I thought it was the entrance to the Otherworld, but try as I might, I couldn’t find the pathway in. And next time I came to the same beach, the petrified forest was gone—vanished—as mysteriously as it had come.”

He made a sign to one of his Eastern Gods, then went on with more practical matters. “There’s no better land for farming than that between the Cheviots and the North Sea…grains and cattle and fruit in abundance. Even on Holy Isle one can produce a credible harvest of barley.”

“Holy Isle?” I asked.

“Lindisfarne,” Lance explained. “It’s a spit of dune and rock extending into the waters beyond Bamburgh. When the tide’s out, you can walk across the sands to it…then the tide comes in and it turns into an island, separate and apart from the world. It’s a natural place for hermits and holy men to go to meditate. I’ve occasionally gone there myself, in the past…”

Lance didn’t say anything further, but I knew instinctively that some part of him wanted to be out there now, communing with the mystics. Later, after we’d spent an evening with the people of Bamburgh, I asked if he’d like to stay at Holy Isle while I met with Uwain.

He went right on combing my hair, following each stroke with his hand, and at last cleared his throat.

“You know how much I love you, Gwen. And how much I love God. I won’t ever let that separate us again, but I need to make my peace over Gareth’s death—if it weren’t for me, he’d still be alive. Maybe a stay at Lindisfarne would ease my heart…if you don’t need me at Yeavering.”

Of course I need you at Yeavering, I thought, feeling the same wretched jealousy that used to plague me about Elaine. But I had learned that lesson well, so I tilted my head back and smiled up at him.

“Why don’t you join us in a couple of days?” I suggested, and he bent forward to plant a kiss on my forehead.

We parted next morning, and I watched him riding off along the edge of Budle Bay, an elegant, dark man on a dark horse, silhouetted against the silvery morning sea. Then with a sigh I turned inland, following Palomides on an old track that led through the Kylo Hills.

I stayed that night in a cavern the Arab knew of. It is a shallow chamber, carved into the western face of a large gray sandstone outcrop that protrudes about halfway up the hillside. Its long ledge was high enough above the sloping approach to afford me privacy, and the men built a watch fire on the apron to discourage predators. In a small nook hidden away behind the fronting rock-form, I was snug and comfortable all night long.

Waking at first light, I clambered up through bracken and heather to the top of the hill, thinking to get the lay of the land as the sun rose. I had expected it to be a good vantage point, but the beauty of the world laid out below me was breathtaking, and I stared at it in amazement.

The ridge I stood on formed the barrier between night and day. In the west the valleys and hills leading inland to the Cheviots still lay in shadow, sleeping under a scatter of stars. But to the east the soft, golden light of dawn already lapped the shore that stretched from north to south as far as the eye could compass. Beyond that beach the North Sea spread out to the edge of the world, shimmering like gray-blue silk under the pale sky. Peach and apricot clouds tumbled on the horizon, growing brighter by the minute until, suddenly, the sun rose dripping from the sea. It was vibrant and fiery as a molten coal, and laid a path of gold across the rippling waters.

The tide had come in, cutting Holy Isle off from the shore, making it an unearthly ship riding upon fey waters. Cormorants and shearwaters coursed past it; mallards and wigeon, eider and godwit came and went along its shore, and on some hidden beach a colony of seals was coming awake. Their barking carried to me on the wind. Above, whole flocks of birds filled the sky, some banking and turning in the sunlight, some cutting through the air in ragged vees. All forms of life that lived in air or sea, unfettered by earth and roots, flowed around that little bit of sea wrack; ebbing, flowing, carrying the spirit out and away from petty cares and man-made strife. Just so the Goddess had once carried me far and away from myself; just so Lance now sought the same from the White Christ.