Guinevere (34 page)

“Dear Lord,” he prayed, although to whom he wasn’t sure. “Can’t you make something happen between now and the calends of January?”

• • •

Spring was in radiant form two weeks later as a man and a woman slowly climbed the narrow path through the forest. They did not seem fatigued by the walk, only not very interested in quickly getting to their destination. To them the world was a rainbow of green, gold, brown, and blue. A delicate mist seemed to float around them. The natural elements were doing their best to measure up to the high opinion the couple had of them, but at the stage they had reached, raging winds and hail wouldn’t have worried them greatly. Alswytha and Mark had found their haven in each other and knew that nothing could ever harm them again.

“Would you rather have waited for a proper marriage?” Mark asked.

“Would the words of any man make me more or less your wife than I am now?” Alswytha replied smiling.

“I can think of no ceremony that would not seem a sacrilege to my love for you. It is so far beyond anything mortal man could hope to know.”

Alswytha knew that, but she enjoyed listening to him say so.

“Would you like me to learn to read?” she asked.

“If you wish it. Would you like me to learn to fly?”

“It might entertain our children.”

“Very well. I will start crafting wings tomorrow.”

They were so intent upon each other that they almost missed the clearing altogether, and only the deep sound of laughter caused them to stop and notice that they had reached their destination.

“Do you intend to pass your old friend by, Mark, simply because you have something better to look at?” Timon’s voice boomed. “Or will you stay a while and introduce me to your wife?”

Mark was pleased to see that Alswytha was not intimidated by Timon’s size. Her slender hand was so pale and fragile in his rough brown paw. But she held it tightly and greeted him with soft pleasure.

“You must be Alswytha,” Timon grinned. “A lovely name. I’ve often heard the trees sing it in the evening. So, you have come to visit us. Wonderful! We always have room for guests. I haven’t had help with the planting since Guinevere stayed with us. Will you stay that long? Perhaps you could even stay with us through the fall and help me brew the mead?”

“If you will have us,” Alswytha answered, not at all surprised that he knew her name. A man like this must know the secret names of the stars.

“Since you are so well informed,” Mark added, “you must already have heard of my sister’s betrothal to Arthur.”

“I have,” Timon grinned tauntingly. “And Gaia and I are even considering attending this event. There has been nothing interesting enough to get me from this mountain for over twenty years, but that may be something worth seeing. But now, I have kept you standing here talking after your long walk. You must have a wash and some food. Gaia is out gathering mushrooms now for our dinner. She will be happy to see you both.”

He lowered his voice, as if she were near enough to overhear.

“Try not to notice how she has aged. We have not seen Nennius for two years now, and word has come that he may have been lost at sea. Another wanderer told us that Nennius had some very rare old manuscript from Egypt that he wanted copied by some Irish scribes. There is such turmoil in Gaul now, what with the Franks practically controlling the entire country, that he decided to sail through the pillars of Hercules and return by the Atlantic. There has been no word of him since.”

“But I always thought Gaia hated him!” Mark said.

Timon looked at him in wry amusement. “If she had hated him,” he replied, “she probably would have married him twenty years ago. But then I would have had to find something else to do with my life not nearly so pleasant as living up here. Please don’t mention this. I only told you so that you will be prepared for her and not mind her so much.”

They promised to be considerate of Gaia and, having gotten that off his mind, Timon proceeded to make them comfortable. It was well that they had been warned, for on Gaia’s return the gaunt sorrow on her face would have shocked them otherwise. As it was, they showed no surprise and spent the evening conversing politely about other matters and making plans for their visit. Timon offered them a corner of the hut to sleep in but Mark said they would rather lie under the stars since the night was so mild. He did not wish to inconvenience them. Timon smiled with understanding and gave them several thick woolen coverlets and a sort of mattress stuffed with wild herbs and grasses. They took these a little distance from the hut and made up their bed.

Much later, Alswytha lay watching the moon rise through the trees. She assumed that Mark was asleep, but he rose on one elbow and put his other arm around her.

“What are you thinking of?” he murmured tenderly.

She turned in his arm to embrace him but then playfully pushed him away. “For the moment, not of you. I was worrying about that poor woman in there. I cannot understand how she could purposely destroy her own happiness.”

“I have known her all my life, but it has never been clear to me either.”

“She wants me to be baptized in your religion. But I do not see how I could accept a faith that could cause such sorrow.”

“The sorrow is of her own making, Wytha, my love. God had nothing to do with it. But you do not need to become a Christian. I have told you that before. There is nothing in you that would deny you entrance to heaven, I am certain. And I want nothing greater to believe in than what I have before me now.”

She drew him back close to her and felt the warmth of his breath upon her neck. All her life she had heard that the forest night was full of wild beasts and horrible ghouls. The earth itself was a constant battle between forces, none of them caring about the humans involved. But at last she knew that these stories were lies, only fireside tales for children and fools. There would be no more battles for her. Even death could not frighten her. Alswytha had found her place in the universe and there was a still, clear feeling inside her which assured her that she would never be an exile again.

Chapter Eighteen

As the months passed and January approached, it became clear to everyone that this was not simply to be a marriage ceremony, or even a union of two houses. It was a political event; a social phenomenon; a rebirth of society. Guinevere, fortunately, had no private plans or wishes about the matter, and so all arrangements were handled by her elders. Only occasionally was she told about the progress of events, when it was necessary to remind her of what she was to say or do. She didn’t care. She had no idea of exactly how much preparation and fuss was going on.

The family remained at Cador for a time. The spot on the Saxon shore was better for sending messages and organizing a wide variety of people. Guenlian threw herself into the planning with a grim intensity, hoping to forget her disappointment in Mark. It had been agreed that the best place for the nuptials was London. It had not been damaged by Saxon raids. There was a small but thriving community and a church. It was accessible not only to those coming from all over Britain but to those returning from Armorica.

This last group delighted Arthur so much that he was reconciled to his wedding becoming a national event. Leodegrance had sent messengers to various families who had emigrated long before, telling them of the new order and requesting them to return for the festivities and to help rebuild Britain into what it once had been. The news came at exactly the right moment for the homesick Britons. The tribes of the Franks had, in the past few years, overrun all of the northern part of Gaul. Trade had fallen off and many of the younger members of the families were becoming disenchanted with their self-imposed exile. Each day brought word that another group was returning, at least to survey their old estates and decide if it would be feasible to settle there again. Those who didn’t wish to see Britain again were eagerly sending younger sons and nephews who had no land of their own and were willing to start again in the abandoned homesteads. Here was the sort of manpower Arthur had dreamed of; educated people who knew the old ways and would accept the old authority. He could hardly wait. His head was so full of plans that he took to wandering about the countryside, talking to anyone who would listen about the new society he would give them. He couldn’t stand being kept in the castle, doing nothing. When he was back there, he paced the floors like a caged lion.

Only Guinevere could calm him. Just looking at her made him feel peaceful and comforted. She radiated serenity and he bathed in the quiet of it. Each evening he was there he sat with her and told her, again and again, of every intricate detail. First the roads would be rebuilt, then the towns could be linked and trade would grow and then government could be established, all of it answerable to and centered at Camelot.

“Camelot? Where is that? What a strange name. Isn’t it a kind of cloth?”

“No, that’s what I mean to call my new city. It isn’t built yet, but we will do it together, you and I. I want you to advise me on everything. I’ve found just where it should be, near Glastonbury. There is a high, level hill. There is plenty of room for buildings and shops there but the whole thing will rise above the plain.”

“Glastonbury? Isn’t it rather marshy there? The damp air is not good for the chest, you know.”

“A bit,” he admitted. “But Merlin has a plan of draining some of the swampy areas and planting grain. Also, it’s a very defensible place. Of course, I don’t want it ever to need defending, but I still tend to see things from a military viewpoint.”

“That’s very sensible of you,” she assured him. “I shall feel quite safe there.”

One day he surprised her with a large package. It was a wooden box wrapped in oilcloth and leather to keep it dry. On the cover were strange designs that she couldn’t decipher. With difficulty she pried the lid off. There was more oilcloth inside. She carefully unwrapped it and then stared in wonder at what she had revealed.

“Oh, Arthur,” she breathed.

“Is it all right?” he asked worriedly. “I sent for it myself, months ago. I didn’t tell anyone for I was afraid it wouldn’t arrive. If it’s not what you want, I will send it back. I just wanted so much to have something to give you myself.”

“I have never seen anything so beautiful,” she said. She slipped her hands under the rich material and held it up to catch the light. It was a thick silk of midnight blue, threaded with strands of pure gold. Beneath it in the box was another bolt of white silk, thinner and stronger than anything she had ever worn.

She just held it for a moment in wonder. Then she threw her arms around him. It was the first time she had done so of her own accord.

“How did you ever think of it? Not a woman in Britain will have a dress so fine! I was so afraid I would shame you by having to be married in rough, faded robes. Thank you, Arthur! You are so good to me!”

She scooped up the box and ran to show her mother, leaving Arthur groping in the air for her. But in his life he had learned patience and he reminded himself that after the calends of January he would be able to hold her all he wished.

A few days later, another messenger came to the castle. He told Sidra that he had come all the way from Gaul with a present for the Lady Guinevere and had been charged with powerful oaths to deliver it to no one else.

When Guinevere arrived, the man studied her closely before he would give over his package.

“Yes, you must be the one. His description couldn’t fit another woman,” he finally decided.

Guinevere laughed. “Who was this person who can picture me so well?”

She held out her hand for the gift.

The man drew forth a small packet from a hidden pocket in his cloak.

“He wouldn’t tell me his name,” he explained. “It was at a court in the east of Armorica that I met him. He was some sort of man at arms for the household of this lord, although his rank may have been higher. He seemed to have some reputation as a horseman. I delivered my invitation to the lord of the place, as was my mission. They were not interested. They have a good life there. But as I was preparing to leave, this man came up to me and gave me this, charging me to deliver it to the Lady Guinevere and no other. I have kept my word.”

Guinevere took the small package. She couldn’t imagine who could send her a gift from so far away. “What did this man look like?”

“Oh, I thought I told you. Well, if I had been home, I’d have said that he was one of the oldest people. Small and dark but very strong, and with that glow in their eyes that they’ve got, sort of like a cat.”

Guinevere quickly ripped off the outer layers of cloth and found a small hard object, wrapped in parchment. She unrolled it and out dropped a pearl, perfectly pear-shaped and of the most lustrous sheen. She held it in her palm, fearing it might magically vanish. She knew who must have sent it, but couldn’t believe it was possible. Then she noticed that there was writing on the parchment. Still carefully cradling the pearl in her hand she smoothed the parchment out on her lap. There, in large, painstaking letters were the words “Caet Pretani.” How could it be? How did Caet get so far from home, and who had taught him to write his name? Even more, how could he have come by such a rare and beautiful gift? Yet there it lay, like a frozen tear. Guinevere finally remembered the messenger.

“Do you remember the place where this man lived?” she asked.

“Of course,” he replied scornfully. “Would you like me to return there for you?”

“Yes. Don’t worry, I will pay you well. He must know that I have received this. You must take this to him.” She pulled a few strands from her hair, bound them with thread and wrapped them again in the cloth. “There. Now he will know that it came to me. Tell him that I have no other way to thank him for this treasure, but if he should ever return, I would be terribly hurt if he did not come to see me.”

Guinevere had the pearl set on a gold chain to wear with the robes sewn from Arthur’s gift. Sidra disapproved.