Cei went to live in one of Silchester’s finer deserted houses—the Seneschal’s love of privacy was well known. The rest of the Companions joined us in the Mansion near the city wall. Large and comfortable, it had been built to house members of the Imperial Post, and since restoration of a messenger service was one of Arthur’s dreams, it seemed a fitting place to make our headquarters.
The new men settled into the ways of the Fellowship and their mood was good. Only Gawain was touchy and short-tempered, no doubt still smarting from the knowledge that Tristan had beaten Marhaus when he could not. He sulked as though his honor had been damaged, when in fact it was only his pride that was hurt. As if by tacit agreement, no one brought the subject up.
“At least,” Arthur noted, “Tris has the sense to keep out of the way; I gather he spends most of his time at the infirmary with Bedivere.”
The tall Cornishman was a fine harper and seemed to enjoy entertaining the invalid. Like all warriors he had a following of young boys but there was one in particular, a scruffy shepherd lad named Taliesin, who idolized Tristan not because of his fierceness as a fighter, but because of his beautiful music.
Taliesin trailed after his hero like a smudged shadow, eager for a chance to carry the small traveling harp, or change a broken string, or oil the satiny wood. He was a quiet lad who watched the world around him intently but rarely spoke. I couldn’t tell if he was shy by nature or simply awed at finding himself in the High King’s Court.
One morning I came on the boy carefully polishing the harp with my Damascus scarf, which I must have left in the Hall the night before. I was so surprised, I forgot to be angry.
“Sir Tristan says a harp’s a living thing, M’lady,” Taliesin said reverently, quite oblivious to the fact he had appropriated his Queen’s property. “Like a beautiful woman, or a proud god, it needs to be cherished and treated with respect.”
I listened to him, fascinated, for his voice was rich and vibrant, and he spoke with a passion quite astounding for one so young. Apparently his love of the subject was powerful enough to overcome his usual reserve.
“Music was created in the Beginning, when there was only the Word, sung by the nymphs of the sacred wells,” he went on, jumbling up all manner of religions. “Why, even the Greeks worshiped the Harper because he sings the sun up in the morning, along with the birds and other beasts. And when I have a harp under my fingers, the music takes me everywhere and I become every living thing.”
The boy had spun a web of poignancy with his voice, as though striving to express the ineffable. Then just as unexpectedly, his tone changed to that of any other ten-year-old. “Sir Tristan says I’ll be a player of songs as well as a bard of history, when I grow up.”
Tris came into the room just then, and Taliesin leapt up to greet his mentor. With a bare nod in my direction, the two of them set off to see Bedivere.
I retrieved my scarf, shaking my head in bemusement and wondering who had given the lad the Cumbrian name of Shining Brow.
***
As the days shortened toward winter, the rituals were all observed—Arthur sacrificed a white bullock on the morning of Samhain to begin the slaughter of those beasts that could not be kept over for lack of forage. By evening the soft pall of smoke from curing fires hung over the meadow, marking the making of jerky, sausage, and hams for the larder.
I hurried on my rounds from spinning room to kitchen, kennel to infirmary. The Irish wolfhounds Brigit’s family had given Arthur as a wedding present had grown into great, shaggy beasts. The white bitch, Cabal, would be whelping come spring, so I took her whatever kitchen scraps might be good for her. Her devotion to Arthur was one reason she was being trained as his war-dog; she’d wag her tail politely and deign to accept my gifts but never let me forget that her loyalty was to Arthur, not me.
You and that Breton, I thought testily.
Bedivere grew strong enough to join us in the Mansion, sitting by the hearth and practicing the harp with the use of a gauntlet equipped with hooks to replace his hand. He sometimes spent hours at a time staring into the flames in silence but never, that I heard, complained of his fate. Whenever Brigit was near his mood lightened noticeably, and I watched their quiet courtship happily, for I could not imagine a finer mate for the Irish girl.
But on a gray, drizzly day the world caved in on Arthur’s foster-brother and after he told me, I went storming off in search of Brigit.
“Why?” I demanded, finding her folding the comforter at the foot of our bed. “I can’t understand why you turned him down.”
Startled, my friend turned on me with a look of disbelief. “You can’t understand? You, who wanted to run away rather than accept a groom you hadn’t chosen? How can you not understand?”
The force of her indignation shocked me into silence.
“Gwen, do you think you are the only one with dreams that went unanswered? The only woman who had to put aside her own desires to meet more important needs? Left to myself, I would have stayed in Ireland and gone to live in a convent when my family moved to Rheged…I told you that the first day we met. ’Tis the Christ I’ll be sworn to, not mortal man, and until the day comes when I can join a house of God, I’ll not be encouraging anyone’s hopes for marriage, no matter how dear he is!”
She began to sob and bit her lip to hold back the tears. I wrapped my arms around her and held her much as she had held me when I had needed to cry in times past.
“He’s a good man,” she sighed when the tears abated. “One of the best in the whole world. And I’d give anything to have had him fall in love with someone else. But it matters not whether he’s Pagan or Christian, whole or half-crippled…I do not want to marry, and it would be unfair to pretend otherwise. I’d be no kind of wife for him or anyone else. Can you understand that?” The look in her eyes was pained and pleading at the same time.
“Shush now…of course I understand,” I whispered, trying to find words to comfort her. “I just didn’t realize how important that dream was to you. I mean…Brigit, are you sure you want a convent? I don’t remember your talking about it much, and think of all you’d be giving up! Never to have a child, never to hold an infant close, never to be a mother? I cannot imagine such a life.”
“Aye, see now.” Brigit straightened her shoulders and gave me a small smile. “There’s dreams of your own that lie hidden, unspoken as it were. I can’t recall you mentioning a longing for children, either, yet there it is, strong and sure, waiting for the day it is fulfilled. And just as you accept your moira to be Queen and wife and mother, so I have accepted mine to be a Bride of Christ. Pray God give us both the patience to await the unfolding of our fates.”
I nodded slowly, beginning to realize that she’d put into words the feelings I had yet to phrase within myself. In the past I’d not thought much about becoming a mother, simply assuming it would follow once I was wed. Now that it wasn’t happening, it was a subject that came more often to my mind. I did not, however, mention it to others.
So I conceded Brigit had a point and left off scolding her about Bedivere, though my heart continued to ache for the gentle lieutenant.
***
It was later, when the storms of March were lashing the land, that I came out of the kitchen and all but tripped over Taliesin. Seated on a stool outside the door, he was plucking out such a mournful tune that I paused to look at him more closely.
“Whatever is the matter, child?” I asked, trying to remember where I’d left my scarf.
The boy gulped and looked up shyly. “It’s Sir Tristan, M’lady. His king has sent for him to return to Cornwall, and soon I’ll have no teacher.”
“Oh, come now, there’s still Riderich.”
“Aye.” Taliesin sighed. “And he’s good for learning history and stories that are just spoken. But I want to make songs that are special to the Gods, and for that I need a special teacher.”
The boy’s discouragement was almost tangible, so I said I’d see what could be arranged and turned my attention to the spice cupboard, wondering why Mark wanted Tristan to come home.
“It seems that after all these years of searching, the King of Cornwall has found a royal family who will give him a child-bride.”
Dinadan’s announcement took us all by surprise. Mark was a walking monument to self-indulgence—a great mountain of flesh who’d never curbed any of his appetites. His determination to wed a girl on the edge of puberty had been the cause of much comment over the years; the men made jokes about it and the women frowned in empathy for any child so chosen.
Even I had been considered, back when I was barely thirteen years old, but Mark kept a very Christian court and I’d managed to disqualify myself by stressing my Pagan beliefs.
Lancelot was sitting on the other side of the hearth, rubbing tallow into a pair of boots, and he looked up from the shadows. Although I was growing used to his coldness toward me, there were still moments when his similarity to Kevin took me unawares.
“Who is the girl?” he asked.
“Isolde, daughter of the Queen of Ireland and niece of Sir Marhaus.” Tris’s voice was glum.
“Whew…” I let out a whistle, wondering if Mark knew who had killed the Irish Champion.
“I just hope the Irish don’t know,” Tristan went on with a slow frown. “It’s me Mark is sending to fetch the girl for the wedding.”
Distaste for the errand was evident on the warrior’s face. Tristan wasn’t strong on either diplomacy or duplicity, nor was he particularly quick-witted, so I hoped he could take Dinadan along to keep him out of trouble.
“Well,” Arthur pointed out, “there’s no need to flaunt the fact that you were the one who wielded the sword. The deed was done in my name, after all.”
And so the matter was left. But later that night Arthur brought the subject up again as we prepared for bed.
“Even if they realize Tris’s role in Marhaus’s death, I have a hunch the Irish wouldn’t stop this marriage. It makes an ally of Cornwall, and they may hope to turn King Mark against me in the future.”
“Could they do that?” I asked, taking the pins and barrettes out of my hair.
“With Mark, who knows?” Arthur sighed and pulled off his boots. “He’s probably the least trustworthy ally in the whole of Britain.”
I nodded, remembering it was Mark who would not come to his own Duke’s aid when Uther had marched on Tintagel.
“We’ll miss Tristan sorely,” my husband continued. “He’s been wonderful in seeing Bedivere through his convalescence. He even suggested that Bedivere go to Rheged to study music with your family’s bard. Do you think Edwen would be willing to take on a student?”
The idea had never occurred to me, though everyone said Edwen was the best bard in Britain. Perhaps in his older years he would enjoy teaching others his craft. My father already liked Bedivere, and it seemed certain Gladys and Kaethi and all the rest of the household would take good care of him. If we sent Taliesin with him, the lad could study with Edwen, too, as well as provide the lieutenant with whatever help he needed as he learned to live with his new, hooked hand.
So when the weather lifted and the Roads opened, we said farewell to Tristan and Dinadan, who went south to Cornwall, and sent our two aspiring musicians north to Rheged with messages of love and good wishes for my family.
It was now two years since I’d seen my father and I would have liked to go with Bedivere, but we were expected to attend Mark’s wedding at Castle Dore. I settled for sending all the news I could think of, including how well Arthur and I got on. The one thing I couldn’t give them was word that I was pregnant; in spite of all our romping, my prayers, and the mistletoe talisman Kaethi had given me, my courses came as regularly as the new moon.
This summer, I told myself…this summer I would seek help from the old women who had charms for such things. In the meantime there were preparations to make for the journey to Cornwall, for we planned to leave right after Beltane and take the household with us.
***
It would be the first royal progress I’d ever organized myself.
The Invitation
And, of course, Geraint.”
Arthur was studying a map he’d unrolled on the long table as he ticked off the various leaders we’d be stopping to see along the way to Cornwall. Like most monarchs, he found it easier to check on the state of the crops, people, and warriors by visiting the client kings rather than relying on reports. Now he motioned me over.
“You’ve never been to the south, have you?” When I shook my head he grinned. “Give you a chance to see what the rest of Logres is like—and Devon and Cornwall as well. Here’s Mark’s country down here, in the west. And over here”—he swept his hand to the southeastern corner of the map—“is the Saxon Shore. Kent—the land Vortigern gave to Hengist as the bride price for Rowena. And Sussex, where Aelle calls himself King. Both of them ruled by Saxon chieftains. But between Cornwall and Sussex there’s everything from faded Roman glory to refurbished hill-forts, and a lot of Federate steadings as well. It’s the Federates I’d like to reach.”
“Why?” I peered at the area where the settlements showed a heavy sprinkling of Saxon names. “They’re no better than Vortigern’s mercenaries. The only difference is that they were brought in by the Legions instead of the tyrant.”