I looked at the dense, grayish stuff and when I took a tentative bite my nose caught the pungent tang even before my tongue did. It had none of the lightness of wheat bread, but I tried it with a slab of cheese and found it pleasant. Between soap and their law and this new sour bread, the barbarians were bringing all sorts of interesting things to Britain.
Our conversation moved round to news of the west which, according to Urien, had also had a prosperous year.
“The Irish are coming in droves,” he announced, turning to me. “Your father says they are mainly following Fergus into Strathclyde, though there’s various families in Rheged as well. The one by Morecambe Bay has developed a thriving business in dogs like yours.”
He nodded toward Caesar and Cabal, and I grinned to myself. Those would be Brigit’s kin, trading away puppies as fast as their wolfhounds could produce them.
“At least the Irish have ceased raiding.” Urien chucked a bone to his terriers by the hearth-fire. “Maelgwn is holding the north of Wales secure, and there’s little influx except in holy men further south. Saddest news out of Wales is poor old Pellam. That wound of his still won’t heal, and his kingdom is languishing because of it. Horrible business when a monarch is cut down by his own sword.”
The King of Northumbria made the sign against evil, and we all followed suit. The story of the Fisher King strikes dread in the hearts of all British leaders, for a king who is not whole and healthy brings plague and pestilence upon his land. And when the cause of his disablement is his own weapon, there is little chance that he will recover. For years now Pellam had clung to life, neither sound enough to recover nor brave enough to make the royal sacrifice. The whole ghastly thing echoed of punishment by the Gods, and I wondered why the Lady of the Lake had not gone to his aid.
“Pellam’s Christian,” Urien observed, “and will have nothing to do with the Old Ways. It’s a wonder he survives at all.”
The conversation soon drifted round to reminiscences, and Urien’s bard began retelling stories of Arthur’s early exploits in the area, when he had helped Urien drive the barbarians back to the coast. Cador of Cornwall had gained much glory in that campaign, and I turned to watch him and his son, Constantine. The younger warrior was a strapping fellow somewhat older than Arthur and as ruddy and rawboned as his father. But Cador had grown gray and grizzled now—I suspected he looked much as his father, Gorlois, would have when Igraine married him. Between the song of the bard and the look of the man, the bravery of past generations wove into a comforting present.
***
Since so many people had come to the city for the fair, Urien used the occasion to have the leading Federates meet with the group we had captured. They in turn promised Arthur they would stand surety for the newcomers’ loyalty.
A fine ceremony was held at the center of the Market, where all could witness the High King’s leniency. Arthur gave each captive freedom, along with a bag of barley so they would not be an unfair burden on their sponsors, and everyone seemed pleased with the arrangement.
That afternoon I prowled through the old Imperial City, exploring what had once been the northern capital of Britain. The huts and shops that have grown up higgledy-piggledy within the fortress are as colorful and exciting as those at Chester. A multitude of alleys and shortcuts wound between them; “snickleways” threading past stalls and arcades, giving onto hidden courts where flowers run riot in the lee of a wall or bakers put fresh scones and pot-pies on their windowsills to cool.
I paused by a stall at the end of one such meander, my attention caught by a pair of tiny fur slippers. The soft moleskin promised to keep a toddler’s feet warm, and I picked one up, marveling at their smallness.
“Fit for a royal bairn,” the woman said, carefully drawing a length of linen thread through her block of beeswax. When I looked up, surprised, she grinned. “The whole country knows where you and His Highness are these days, M’lady…and we’re right glad to be hosting you, at that.”
She carefully threaded the smallest bone bodkin I’d ever seen, then picked up another piece of work and began the painstaking process of stitching the furs together, chatting comfortably. “Between your visit and the fair, it’s a good time for all of us. Every Champion in your party must have come to trade for goods in the Market. In fact,” she added nonchalantly, “I’d be happy to give you the little pair of booties as a thank-you.”
It was a casual offer, made without innuendo or intent to hurt. From her tone one would guess she’d birthed half a dozen infants such as the one who slept in the cradle nearby and no doubt thought it the most natural thing in the world. A blind, black jealousy swept over me, and I looked away hastily.
Unfairly or not, I resented the bounty of her womb when mine lay fallow and I had to fight not to lash out at her in pain and anger.
The baby fretted drowsily, and the woman set the cradle to rocking with her foot, her hands still busy with the pelts. “Once you and the High King settle down, you’ll be raising young’uns of your own. I’d be honored if you’d accept these as a token of our respect.”
She spoke with the commonsense conviction of any farmwife, as though the idea of my not becoming a mother had never occurred to her. Suddenly my own in-turning misery seemed twisted and warped. I looked at her and smiled, grateful for the vote of confidence. When she handed me the booties I was sure it was a sign of good luck.
***
On the last day of our visit Urien feasted us on the terrace of his Imperial Palace. A pleasant breeze was softening the heat, and I sat back, rested and comfortable, watching a flock of birds that rose, circled, and returned again and again to a spot behind the kitchen. When I finally asked about them it was Uwain, Urien’s son, who answered with a laugh.
“Pigeons, from the cote. We feed them all year long, and if there are unexpected guests, Cook just nips out and grabs an extra bird for the pot.”
It seemed a splendid idea, and I stowed it away for future use as Uwain moved off to talk with the rest of the guests. Watching him go, it occurred to me that he would soon become a warrior. As he joined a group of Companions there was laughter and joking, and I smiled when Gawain slung his arm around his younger cousin and gave him a good-natured hug.
At the end of the meal Tristan came over to speak with Arthur, asking permission to leave our party and go to Morgan’s Sanctuary.
“There’s something I need to consult her about,” the lanky Cornishman explained. “And Uwain has said he’ll guide me, as he planned to visit his mother anyway.”
Arthur readily gave his permission, and it was only later that I began to wonder why a Christian knight would seek help from the High Priestess. I asked Arthur if he had any idea, but the contradiction had not occurred to him.
***
So when we left York and headed up Dere Street to the Wall, it was without the Harper. But the more I thought about it, the more peculiar the whole matter seemed, and by the time we reached Corbridge I was distinctly uncomfortable—whatever Tris needed, I suspected the Lady would not give it to him.
The Stuff of Dreams
At Corbridge we stayed at the inn of the woman who had made my down comforter. She was bashful about hosting the High King’s party, so I tried to put her at ease after dinner by telling her how much Arthur and I enjoyed the quilt. The woman bobbed her head in pleasure, then asked hopefully if Palomides was with us.
“He had to stay at Silchester to train the new recruits,” I explained, only then remembering that she had helped him when he was a child.
“Strange little tyke he was.” She paused in the midst of sweeping the crumbs from the tabletop. “His master claimed he was an Arab, born into slavery. All I knew was the boy was too young to look out for himself when his owner died. So I was relieved that my sister was glad to take him, what with her being without children…’tis a lucky thing when a barren woman finds a child in need of mothering, don’t you think?”
“You haven’t seen him since then?” I queried, shying from the subject of infertility. “He’s grown into one of the finest horsemen in Britain. In fact, it was Palomides who brought us the use of the stirrup.”
“Well, fancy that.” The good woman was pleased he had won renown, although it was clear she had no idea what a stirrup was. Perhaps she’d never see the canvas and leather loops we now sew on all our saddles.
“I often wondered what would happen to the boy,” our hostess went on, carefully adjusting the rush-light in its stand. “Different he was, and not just in skin color. I always felt he was destined for something else—travel, maybe, or the life of a monk.”
I’d never thought about the Arab’s future, other than to suppose he’d marry. Certainly he had a charming way with the ladies, and it seemed unlikely he’d become a hermit. But he was often quiet and thoughtful when others were laughing boisterously, and perhaps that denoted deeper dreams than the rest of us knew. He was, in that way, much like Lancelot.
“You have ample reason to be proud of him,” I told her, and was rewarded with a shy smile.
***
We crossed the Wall and made our way into the round, windswept hills known as the Cheviots. As we were passing an old Roman camp, the Road was blocked by a flock of sheep being driven back to the fold by a family who now lived within the crumbled walls. The shepherds approached us with a mixture of hope and fear, explaining that a band of barbarians had been raiding their flocks all spring.
“We’re peaceable men, Your Highness—used to fighting wolves and weather, not raiders. Perhaps you and your warriors…”
Arthur nodded quickly and after a hasty conference with Lance and Gawain, allowed that the Companions would root out the bandits while I and my women stayed with the shepherd’s family.
“This time I’ll not have you in the midst of things,” my husband announced firmly, as though expecting me to protest.
I was more than happy to comply—since the experience at the Humber I had neither the curiosity nor the desire to take part in battle again. I even wished Arthur didn’t have to, but a king who doesn’t lead his men in combat doesn’t stay king for long, so I gave him an extra hug and asked the Gods to protect him.
The shepherdess was a small, wizened woman whose bright eyes devoured everything they spied. Leading us into the room the helpers used as a communal sleeping quarters, she apologized for the lack of refinement. “With the weather so mild they won’t mind sleeping out, Your Highness, but I haven’t time to make it more fancy. We start shearing tomorrow, and outside of lambing, it’s the busiest time of the year. But you’ll find the room cozy enough and safe, even if it is plain.”
I thanked the woman and not wanting to be an imposition, asked her to let me help in some way. So the next morning, after a breakfast of thick, creamy oatmeal, she suggested I take a pair of salve pots down to the men.
I’d never seen shearing—in Rheged we gather our wool from bush and bramble where the Soway sheep have rubbed it off, for they are far wilder than the animals of the Cheviots. I watched, fascinated, as the men washed the animals first, then used a pair of metal shears to divest each animal of its entire fleece, much as a mother peels off the clothes of a youngster.
Sheep are smelly beasts, and I’ve hated the odor of raw wool since I was young. Now I stood in a cloud of it, holding the ointment jars handy for the men. It seems even the smallest wound under a heavy fleece gets infested with maggots that literally eat the sheep alive, so a mixture of broom buds and lanolin had to be daubed on every sore.
As the shearing progressed the sight of those fat, white worms wriggling blindly in the pink flesh turned my stomach, and I barely had time to put down the salve pots and run to the stream before I was sick.
“Best you help me in the kitchen,” the shepherd’s wife suggested as I stammered out my apologies. “There’s plenty to be done there.”
But the next morning I found the new fleeces had been laid out in the kitchen overnight, and the noxious smell hung like a fog over them, making my gorge rise again. I bolted through the door just in time.
The shepherdess set me and my women gathering bilberries well away from the sheep that day, and I felt much better in the fresh air—though I began to pray Arthur would return soon.
On the third morning I avoided both the fleeces and the kitchen entirely, yet once more I found myself bent double beside the stream, retching violently. When the fit was past the shepherd’s wife put a cool cloth to my forehead and bade me sit beside her on a stump.
“When did you last bleed, girl?” Her tone was gentle, but she was watching me closely.
“Uhhh…” I looked out over the little pool where the sheep were washed, trying to remember. “With the new moon.”
“New moon last week, or last month?”
“Not last week…are we that far into the new cycle?” The words were all the way out of my mouth before the implication hit home.
“The moon I saw last night was midway to being full again,” The shepherdess’s eyes crinkled with laughter. “I’d say you’ve been so preoccupied with other things, you haven’t noticed that you’re pregnant. I’ll wager that once you’re away from the fleeces, your mornings will be more comfortable, and you’ll have a perfectly normal pregnancy.”