Suddenly a toddler broke away from his mother, gleefully propelling himself toward Cabal. “Bow-wow,” he caroled, lurching under her chin. The adults froze, though whether from awe or fear I couldn’t tell. The war-dog didn’t even blink.
With a snarl the mongrel charged through the crowd, teeth bared in challenge. For a moment I thought the baby would be caught in the chaos of a dog fight, until a Saxon stopped the cur with a well-placed kick.
It broke the tension and a murmur of comment rose around us. When the toddler began to whimper, his mother scooped him up in her arms, and Wihtgar came slamming out of his hall.
“So you are here, British King,” the Saxon called out, scanning our party quickly. “I salute your courage.”
“And I salute your hospitality.” Arthur’s tone was positively majestic. “We come in peace, and I assume we shall be free to leave in peace.”
Wihtgar nodded and began a speech about the loyalty of the Federates, invoking the years of faithful service his people had given. I took the opportunity to study the man.
He was solidly built, with graying hair and skin that was weathered to the tan of leather. An amber talisman hung from the pommel of the sword at his side, and the edges of his tunic were sewn with bright braid. Though he was obviously the lord of the place, his boots were covered with mud from the fields and there was no Roman gentility in his stance.
On a rise behind him loomed the Mead Hall, the thick planks of its walls set vertically into the ground. In shape it was rectangular, like Roman buildings, but not nearly as elegant. A steep, thatched roof sloped down from the roofbeam, which was carved to the likeness of a monster, and several sets of antlers graced the doorway in the middle of the long side. What windows there were were shuttered, not glazed.
A number of huts and hovels clustered around the main building like piglets around a sow. Squatting under roofs that came almost to the ground, they seemed too little to be used for anything other than storage.
“Well, where are your manners, oafs!” Wihtgar had come to the end of his speech and now turned to his people. “Make the British leader comfortable. Brieda, see to the horses. Gerta, take the women with you. And you, Eostre, prepare the wassail for our guests.”
The men and women began to mill, still murmuring as they crowded around me and reached out to touch my mare. Shadow, never the calmest of animals, tossed her head and tried to back away. Frieda plowed through the little crowd and, grabbing Shadow’s bridle, held her steady so that I could dismount.
“The people mean you no harm,” she whispered. “A white horse is sacred to them. They want to touch her for good luck.”
I didn’t relish having my mare pawed over by strangers, but Arthur was moving away and I was afraid of getting separated from him. As I turned to run after him a large woman planted herself firmly in front of me.
From the ornateness of the brooches that were pinned on each shoulder and the wealth of beads and chains that swagged over her bosom between them, I surmised she was the chieftain’s wife.
She was as broad and sturdy as Wihtgar, with hands that were strong and callused from hard work. I thought of the Roman matron in Dorchester; whatever “place” that latter-day noble thought the Saxons kept, it was clear the Federates defined themselves as keepers of the land.
“The guest bowers are this way,” our hostess announced. “You will be quite comfortable.”
I sent a last pleading look toward Arthur, but he was already climbing the rise to the Hall and Frieda put a restraining hand on my arm. So while the men disappeared into the main building to eat and drink, I entered the somber world of Saxon women.
The “bowers” were the outbuildings I’d noticed. There were sheds and shanties for everything from spinning and weaving to leatherwork, and they were not only dark and stuffy but also cramped. Our sleeping quarters were somewhat bigger and more comfortable, with benches for beds and raised wooden floors that were warmer than the stone and tile pavements I was used to. Pelts and skins were piled in the corners, and I suspected it would be a cozy retreat when winter came.
Once I was settled Frieda led us to the kitchen where the Saxon women waited while their men were in the Hall. They studied us openly, eyes widening as they saw Igraine’s gold torque. Even my dress was a cause of wonder, and Vinnie basked happily in the reflected glory of Saxon admiration.
After I was seated on a stool by the oven, the chieftain’s wife introduced her household, coming at last to her youngest daughter.
“Eostre.” The pride of motherhood made Gerta’s deep voice richer. “She is our Cup-bearer in the Hall.”
The girl was well named, shining in this dark firmament like the Goddess of Spring. Her pale hair hung in long braids, and when she curtsied I thought of Rowena, that famous Saxon beauty who had become the wife of Vortigern. It was said the old tyrant fell in love with her as she knelt to offer him the wassail bowl. I wondered what had happened to her when Ambrosius defeated her husband—no one ever spoke of her after that.
When the presentations were over the evening filled with women’s chatter. Although they spoke some form of dialect, I could follow the gist of the conversation, most of which was about children. Everyone seemed to have produced offspring, and some complained of having more than they could manage. All I wanted was one, and I chafed at the unfairness of it, wondering what I had done to displease the Gods.
We left Wihtgar’s holding the next day with much cheering and a friendly farewell, for the men had enjoyed the visit much more than I did. Arthur assured these people that their rights would be upheld and grievances listened to, and they affirmed their loyalty in return. I had found it a colossal waste of time, but my husband was satisfied.
Wihtgar sent Brieda along as our guide through the Weald, that ancient forest where the Romans smelted so much iron that great mounds of slag were left behind. Now it was dotted with isolated Saxon settlements. We were hosted by men with names like Stuf and Maegla, and each new steading was much the same as the last—Arthur was successful in the Hall, I was miserable among the women.
When we were on the Road the Companions rode ahead and behind the women, just in case of adversity, and Lance took his place beside Arthur. I tried to stay with them for a while—the Road being more than wide enough—but the Breton confined his comments to Arthur and left me out entirely. The responsiveness I had glimpsed at the Saxon gate seemed never to be repeated.
Finally I dropped back to ride by myself, glaring at Lancelot’s back. When he first came I’d thought he might be shy and stiff with all women, but I’d seen him chat with Enid many times, laughing and easy. And he never indulged in the cryptic glances or private joking one generally finds between warriors who are lovers. So it appeared his hostility was aimed at me and me alone. I couldn’t care less about that, I told myself, if only he didn’t monopolize so much of Arthur’s time.
Excluded from my husband’s side during the day and relegated to the Federate kitchens at night, my world grew small and dim. I longed for the light, lilting mood of Cornwall and found instead the earnestness of Saxon life. Tough, determined immigrants who had arrived with nothing other than what they could carry, they were obsessed with wresting a future from the thick forests of Britain, and one felt their determination on every hand. By the time we reached London I was far less frightened of the Federates than bored by them, and even though I tried to be polite, I looked forward to the familiar comforts of a Roman town.
But Britain’s Imperial City was little better than the Federate camps; with trade and transport gone, it had lost its reason for being. Blocks of statuary had been used to fill the breaches in the towered walls, leaving them patched and motley. The docks they overlooked were deserted and the famous bridge that spans the Thames would scarcely support the weight of a farmer’s cart. We rode single file along the side where the strongest timbers lay, wary of those places where the wood was rotten. Even the City gates were useless, being propped half-open across the roadway.
Coming to a halt before the arch, Lance called out to the boy on guard. “Arthur Pendragon, High King of Britain, requests permission to enter the City of London.”
The lad peered at us curiously, then disappeared from his perch and returned, some minutes later, with a churchman who was hastily adjusting his vestments.
“Your Highness.” It was the Archbishop who had married us at Sarum, and he gave me a curt nod before turning to smile on Arthur. “You do us great honor, though we’re not prepared for a royal visit. I myself live in one wing of the Imperial Palace—if you don’t mind sharing it, we’ll try to make you comfortable.”
Arthur thanked him and we were soon following him through the half-deserted streets.
The people who watched our progress were an odd mixture: descendants of Roman administrators, Britons driven from Sussex when the barbarian Aelle took power, and a scattering of Saxons whose huts now leaned against the walls of ruined mansions. A straggle of them accompanied us to the Imperial Palace.
That old place was in an appalling state of disrepair, and the fine park that had once surrounded it was overgrown by every sort of bramble and weed. I tried not to let my distaste show and worked alongside the Grounds Keeper and his family to clear a courtyard room where we could host the Federates. At least I would be able to sit at my husband’s side during the Feast.
“Not this time, Gwen.” Arthur concentrated on lacing his boots. “Wouldn’t want to do anything that would unsettle our guests.”
“What are you talking about?” I flared, thoroughly sick of considering the Saxons. “These people are no better than the ones who slaughtered the Celts, and you’re worried about unsettling them? Have you gone mad?”
“It’s precisely because of past treachery I don’t want you there,” he said evenly. Reaching for the top of his boot, he slid the handle of a dagger up to where I could see it. “This time if they start something, we’ll be prepared. But you should be with their women—they’ll be expecting you, as hostess.”
I sagged against the doorjamb, cranky and weary and hating the idea of another night among the barbarians.
“Last stop, my dear,” he added cheerfully, taking up the crown the Christians had given him. “After this it’s heading for Caerleon and the Round Table gathering.” He planted the crown rakishly over one eyebrow and grinned at me. “I’m thinking it’s time we get back to our own.”
Arthur has the kind of confident charm that makes people eager to follow him, and not even I was proof against it. So I smiled tiredly, reaching up to straighten the golden band and wishing him luck with our guests.
“Don’t wait up,” he admonished. “You know how late the Saxons like to drink.”
And then he was heading for the Feast and I made my way to the kitchen, tired and cross and thoroughly miserable.
***
“The foreign queen looks sad,” a Saxon servant said, not realizing that I understood. I bridled at the word
foreign
and bit my lip to keep from giving her a piece of my mind. Both servants and slaves in this newcomer’s culture had rights by law, and though this woman wore the thrall collar of a slave, I fully suspected they would call me to account if I boxed her ears. So I folded my hands and stared down at Mama’s ring, wondering if she’d ever had to exercise this kind of patience.
“From her figure, I’d say she’s never had a child.” The woman appraised me from top to bottom. “Someone should take her to the wicca out in Westminster’s swamp.”
“And just what does this wicca do?” I demanded angrily.
“Makes charms, and potions; calls up spirits and quickens the empty womb,” came the staunch reply. If the Saxon was surprised to hear me speak her language, she didn’t show it. “I could take you there…for a price, that is,” she added, narrowing her eyes.
“How much?”
She scanned me more carefully this time, her gaze finally settling on Mama’s enamel ring. I tried to tuck that hand into my pocket, but the Saxon reached out a stubby finger.
“The ring…the many-colored ring. That’s all; surely a petty price to pay for a child of your own.”
I hesitated, wondering if she would understand that this was a special gift, a token of love from a parent now long dead.
“It will pay for the meeting with the wicca as well…we’ll not ask more,” the servant went on, greed making her willing to bargain.
I tried to weigh the two, the tie from the past against the hope for the future, but there was no way to equate them.
“I’ll take you out there now, before the sun sets…the day of a full moon is the best time,” the woman coaxed. “And within the next month you’ll conceive. Imagine, trading a little cold ring for a warm cradle and cheerful hearth.”
Still I paused, and she came closer, hissing in my ear. “But we must make it now, so as to be back before the men are ready for bedding. And then, when you lie with your lord tonight, you’ll know you’ll be giving him a child of his own.”
It was a skillful argument, and in the end I agreed to the trade. Frieda was called over to witness the contract, then went to fetch my cloak.
We slipped out the western gate of the City and found a path along the riverbank. On the higher ground the trees were old and gnarled, but as we neared the swamp they gave way to stands of willow and tufts of reed.