“But it’s a difference that counts. Some of those Federates have been here for generations, swearing fealty to British kings all the while. Most have no truck with the raiders who plunder and sneak away. They could hold the key to keeping the invaders out, if I can just make sure who among them is loyal—”
“Ummm,” I responded uncertainly. Every British child knows the story of how the Saxons rebelled against Vortigern—and when the Saxons sued for peace, the Britons came unarmed to the Truce Feast, believing they dealt with honorable men. Until Hengist gave the signal, filling the Hall with wild, curdling screams as hidden daggers glinted in the torchlight and plunged into the heart of Britain. Murdered—all our statesmen murdered—each by a Saxon tablemate.
Later Merlin repaired the fallen lintels of Stonehenge, making it a memorial to the slaughtered Celts, but that didn’t bring back our leaders, and the murderous Saxons ended up with their own kingdoms. I didn’t think of that story when I was dealing with Frieda, in spite of her Saxon background—but I couldn’t forget it when thinking of those people as a whole.
***
Several days later the dairymaid appeared in our doorway, her face contorted with a sob. Alarmed, I jumped to my feet and rushed to her side.
“My grandfather’s been crushed under a wagon,” she explained as I led her into the room. “I know we’re packing for Cornwall, M’lady, but I’d like to go home for the funeral.”
“Of course,” I assured her. “Is there anything we can do to help?”
She hesitated, then looked from me to Arthur. “Grandpapa was an ealderman—and there’s many a Saxon leader who will pay his respects at the funeral pyre. My family would be honored if you would come as well. I’ll vouch for your safety,” she added, fingering the bone handle of the knife tucked into her belt.
Arthur and I exchanged glances. I knew he was seeing a chance to advance the Cause among the Federates, but I just saw a chance for betrayal. His dream overweighed my caution, however, and we agreed to leave for the Saxon funeral the next morning. But after Frieda left the room, Arthur suggested I should stay in Silchester.
“And sit here patching your breeches while you go off on all the adventures?” I joked, not believing he was serious. So far, in everything but war, we’d worked together side by side and I saw no reason to think that would change. “Besides, I’m better at the language than you are. You’ll need me to translate.”
Arthur was on his feet, making a slow turn around the room, and he came to a stop at the end of the table.
“Well, I’m thinking I’ll take Lance. He’s fluent enough in Saxon and between us we’ll pretty well know what’s going on.”
The realization that he honestly did mean to leave me behind brought me to my feet. Not only had that haughty Breton replaced Bedivere, he was threatening to replace me as well. An indignant retort sprang to my tongue.
Arthur saw the look on my face and hastily added, “He and I can fight back to back if it comes to that.”
I paused, my reaction deflected by the practicality of his words. I might be his rightful partner and co-ruler, but I couldn’t argue I was as good a swordsman as Lancelot. It took the wind out of me, like falling off a horse. Plunking down on the chair without a word, I silently cursed the day they quit teaching women how to handle arms.
Next morning Arthur and Lance left with Frieda; if my husband had any trepidations, he kept them to himself. All I could do was stay home and fret.
It was midday when I went down to the kennels. Arthur had spent many happy hours as a youngster looking after Sir Ector’s dogs, and I knew when he made Ulfin’s son Griflet the Kennel Master, it was a more important honor than many courtiers might realize. Arthur valued the lad for his ability with the dogs; I valued him for the loyalty and forthrightness he’d inherited from his father.
Griflet wasn’t in any better mood than I was. He and Frieda had been sweethearts for the last two years, and he had hoped to accompany her to the funeral.
I knelt down next to him and we watched the puppies tussle in the straw. Cabal was keeping a close eye on both her offspring and me, so I asked Griflet to pick up the runt of the litter and hand it to me. It was gray like its sire and had the same gregarious personality, immediately sinking its milk-teeth into the cuff of my tunic.
“Have you met Frieda’s family?” I inquired, hoping the Kennel Master had firsthand knowledge of these people.
“No. She says they would not accept me; that she’d be disowned if she married a foreigner.”
He laid an ironic stress on the last word. Like most Britons, it infuriated him that the immigrants call us “foreigners” in our own land. Frieda said it was no more disrespectful than our calling all the newcomers “Saxons” when there were just as many Angles or Jutes or Franks among the Federates as there were people from Saxony. No doubt she had a point, but I still didn’t like the implication.
“Does that mean you and Frieda won’t be marrying?”
“I don’t know, M’lady. She loves me, of that I’m sure…and likes being part of the Court as well. But the Saxons are awfully clannish—always talking about the Old Country and keeping in touch with relatives left behind. I daren’t push her, for fear she’ll leave and go back to her folks entirely.”
The lad sighed heavily and ran a finger down the nose of the pup. “I’ll be much relieved when she and His Highness are back,” he acknowledged.
I couldn’t agree more.
During the next four days I went about my chores with a lump of fear lodged just below my heart, and when it was time for the travelers to return, Griflet and I took the dogs out to meet them.
The wolfhounds heard the hoofbeats first and went streaking ahead over the rise. Caesar gamboled about full of wags and enthusiasm, but Cabal was content to take her place at Arthur’s side, pacing quietly at the stallion’s off-fore leg just as she would when they went into battle.
Frieda had not returned but stayed behind with her family in mourning, though she promised to join us before we left for Cornwall. Griflet’s face mirrored the uneasiness of his heart, and he dropped back to ride in silence next to Lance while Arthur and I pulled ahead.
Featherfoot was prancing and playful, but I kept her on a short rein as my husband peered at me from red-rimmed eyes.
“By Jove, how those barbarians love to drink,” he said with a sheepish grin. “Spend all their time in the Hall, swilling brews that set you on your ear.”
He went on to describe the funeral with its tall pyre and the wind that roared up when the kindling caught—flickers of flame dancing and crackling while women wailed and men rushed forward to fling amulets into the inferno. Spirit and prayer and terrible grief rose on the towering column of smoke, carrying the dead man’s soul to the Saxon Gods, who live in the sky rather than under the water as Celtic Gods do.
But what had intrigued Arthur most was not the rites themselves but the man for whom they were held.
“He was neither a warrior nor a noble, but an ealderman, Gwen—a freeman who’d devoted his life to studying the Saxon Law. Their Law is a living thing that grows as they use it, and he was one of many who define and determine it. He didn’t have royal power or great wealth, but you should have seen the number of chieftains who came to pay him tribute!” Arthur shook his head in admiration. “Afterward, in the Mead Hall, Frieda’s father welcomed us as special guests, and introduced us around the gathering.”
My husband was trying to stifle a smile, like a youngster who is having trouble keeping a secret. I waited expectantly, and after a moment it burst from him.
“We’ve been invited to visit the Federate leaders in the south this summer. It could lead to all sorts of things: truces and treaties and trade agreements. Maybe even some way to blend these newcomers into the fabric of Britain. It’s a wonderful chance to advance the Cause!”
He was full of enthusiasm, but I gave only a dubious nod. As far as I was concerned it was one thing to befriend an individual and quite another to have dealings with the very people who wanted to steal our land.
“What else did you find out about them?” I asked cautiously.
“Well, their women don’t sit on the Councils—they bring forth the bowls of mead or ale and serve the men in the Hall, but leave before the serious discussions begin.”
“What sort of Council has half the population missing?” I bridled.
Mischief tugged at the corner of Arthur’s mouth. “A very timely one. I’ve been thinking about instigating it here at home. We might get more accomplished without the distraction of the fairer sex.”
“Nonsense!” I sputtered, unwilling to let a slick compliment mask an idea that was insulting to the core. Featherfoot tossed her head and snorted as if in agreement, and I laughed. “Fairer sex, my foot. Your head’s still full of cobwebs from all that drinking. Beat you to that outcrop,” I challenged, seeing a long stretch of verge opening beside the Road ahead.
Never one to turn down a race, Arthur spurred his stallion forwards and then we were flying over the land, laughing and panting and daring each other to keep up. The dogs stretched out beside us, running at full speed. A flock of starlings rose in consternation as we thundered past their copse of ash trees, and by the time we came pounding, windblown and happy, to the walls of Silchester, all thought of the Saxons had been left behind.
It didn’t stay that way long.
My old governess, Lavinia, was thrilled at the prospect of the trip. Claiming that nothing impresses barbarians as much as a grand display of pomp and color, she and Ettard set out to refurbish my wardrobe. For years Vinnie had struggled to get me out of breeches and into clothes “befitting my station,” and here at last was her grand opportunity. I grinned and left it up to her.
State visits, as well as royal marriages, require the presentation of gifts, and while Vinnie put store in a fancy wardrobe, both Arthur and I had more faith in the gold and silver presents that betoken a rich treasury. But household treasure is not as easily replaced as the golden jewelry kings give to their Champions; every warlord grows rich from the jewelry stripped off his dead enemies, but few warriors carry hollowware into battle. So Arthur had Cei bring all of Silchester’s treasure trove to the mansion, and the three of us went through it together.
There were flagons and goblets, trays and plates, bowls and baskets and boxes of every description. The afternoon sun streamed into the room, highlighting bright enamels and satiny bronzeware, pewter and fine red Samian pottery, inlaid wood and carved ivory. Spread out over table and floor, it was an impressive display that ranged from useful to handsome. There were many things suitable for the Saxon chiefs, “but nothing fit for a king’s wedding present,” Cei grumbled.
I hauled the last bundle from the bottom of an olive-wood box and, sitting cross-legged on the floor, began folding back the protective sheepskin. A gleam of polished metal winked up at me and I gasped as a beautiful silver piece lay exposed on my lap.
“Ah, yes, the Anastasius Bowl,” Cei remarked as I lifted it up. Sunlight sparkled from the fluted ribs that graced its sides, and in the center of the basin a woman’s head had been chased into the metal. It was every bit as elegant as the silver tray Agricola had used to serve us peaches, back before we were married.
Arthur bent down to run a finger along the rim. “That Frankish leader, Clovis, sent it to me as a Gift of State when I became King. I’d forgotten all about the thing.”
Cei turned the bowl over and pointed to the mark of the silversmith, which indicated it had come from Constantinople. That fact alone made it a gift worthy of any monarch.
“I suspect that Clovis gave it to me as a bribe to keep me from going to King Ban’s aid should the Franks launch an attack against Brittany.” Arthur grimaced. “It wouldn’t work, of course…but still I’m loath to give it to someone like Mark, who might use it to make Clovis feel I had not appreciated his gift. Ye Gods, diplomacy gets tiresome. There’s times when I’d gladly trade it all for the life of a peasant!”
I laughed, knowing exactly what he meant. Carefully rewrapping the bowl, I returned it to its box, still wondering what to give Mark and Isolde.
The problem was solved when Agricola insisted on donating his own silver platter to the cause of the Cornish King’s marriage.
“But M’lord,” I protested, “didn’t you tell me that was a wedding present when you yourself got married? Surely you don’t want to part with it?”
“Yes, it was. And my wife and I had a fine life together—but I have no interest in marrying again; there’s quite enough for me to do as the King of Demetia without taking on a new wife as well. Let’s hope the gift will augur as much good fortune and pleasure in Mark’s marriage as it did in mine.”
His words were light and cheerful, but I was glad that Vinnie wasn’t present; she harbored a special fondness for the Roman widower and, I suspected, a secret dream of matrimony.
A messenger was sent to get the tray from Agricola’s villa near Gloucester and it arrived the morning before Beltane. I wrapped it carefully in my shearling cape and put it in the willow trunk with my personal possessions for safekeeping.
Frieda returned that day as well, and seemed to be glad to be back at Court. I was relieved not only for Griflet, but for myself, too, as Brigit had requested permission to go north to the convent over the summer, instead of traveling with the household.