Child of the Northern Spring (Guinevere Trilogy) Page 6

“Goodness, child, you smell like a stable. What ever have you been doing?” It was a casual remark, and she went back to her search before I answered.

  “Helping Rhufon,” I said with a shrug, wondering what we were going to have that required spices. Herbs were plentiful in every garden and dale, but the pungent bits of nuts and bark in the spice cupboard were much less common. Nonny said it was barbaric to cook with twigs off a tree that didn’t grow on one’s own soil, but Kaethi said it would be poor fare indeed if we were limited only to onions and garlic to flavor our food. In either event, the spices were reserved for special occasions, and I was curious why Mama wanted them now. “What are you making?”

  “Starting the cakes for Midwinter’s Feast,” she answered absently, frowning at the rear shelf. “You spend much time with Rhufon these days?”

  “I guess,” I temporized, eyeing the baked apples Gladys had set out to cool. “He says I’m getting as good at spotting a weak place in a harness as he is.”

  Mama lifted out the box she’d been looking for and turned to stare at me directly.

  “I thought you were with Vida in the weaving room.”

  Too late I saw my tongue had gotten me into trouble again; now all I could do was look away and keep my mouth firmly closed.

  I hated spinning. It put me in mind of the times when enemy raids sent the men off to fight, and the women and children would be hustled into the hidden reaches of the Lakes until the danger was over. Those were times of dread, when the women went about their chores in silence and no one was willing to play or laugh or go romping down to the lakeside. It seemed to me those days were made of the heavy gray wool we children learned to spin with; coarse and greasy, it scratched my hands and rankled my nerves until I came to hate it. Even the odor of raw fleece reminded me of fear and imprisonment in gloomy houses.

  “Well, Gwen, I think I’d better talk to Rhufon,” Mama said with a sigh, “because starting tomorrow I want you in the loft with Vida.”

  My dismay must have shown on my face, for she put her arm around my shoulder and gave me a hug. “I know…I know how much you want to be down at the stables, but there are things you must learn about running a household, and they start with the distaff and fleece. Without spinning there would be no clothes, no bags, no hangings for the walls, no banners or fishnets or string for the kitchen. And you’ll never be able to manage a weaving room’s schedule in the future unless you learn what’s involved now.”

  I glared up at her, angry and trapped and miserable, and she burst out laughing. “Oh, child, it isn’t as bad as all that. It doesn’t mean you can’t be with Rhufon and the horses sometimes, you know. Only that you need to start applying yourself to the things all young women have to learn. And tomorrow you’re to report to Vida first thing, so that she can get you started. Now you go out and wash; I don’t want you coming into the Great Hall smelling like a dung heap.”

  That’s all very fine for you to say, I thought rebelliously as I splashed about at the water trough. You’re grown up and free to come and go as you please, while I’m the one who’ll be cooped up inside with all that smelly wool and the chatter of women every day!

  But the next morning found me reporting dutifully to the weaving quarters, where Vida looked with dismay at the lumpy, uneven sample I spun for her.

  “Well, there’s nothing wrong with it that practice won’t cure,” she said, pointing to Gladys’ daughter, who was proudly producing an endless, even thread with just the barest motion of her fingers. “She’s only been at it since last spring, and her work was no better to begin with than yours is now.”

  I stared at the girl and thought uncharitably that she was probably also afraid of horses, but held my tongue and tried to control the fibers of the fleece as well.

  So I settled into the women’s world of carding and spinning, weaving and sewing. Unlike the paddocks or the sweep of the hill where Llyn and I generally played, the weaving loft was close and stuffy and I found the women’s talk of babes and broths to be incredibly dull compared to Rhufon’s conversation.

  They nattered over the quick onset of winter, with its blowing snow and icy winds; even the hardiest sheep had to be brought in to the inbyes lest they be lost for weeks under a peaceful, freezing blanket of white. But it seemed to me I could just as easily have learned that from the traveler who arrived one night and reported that Lake Derwentwater was already frozen over, and both cold and hunger were making the wild animals brazen: he had been stalked by a pack of wolves during the whole day past, even though he’d stayed on the Road.

  Gradually the year darkened. As the days grew shorter the light in the spinning room dwindled, and the tallow lamps burned all day long. Their heat and pungent smoke added to the already stuffy atmosphere, making the days wretchedly long and dreary. I dragged off to my task each morning as if under sentence by the Council and began to look forward to the Midwinter holiday much as an exile yearns for her homeland.

  As the winter festival approached, the hunting parties increased and Mama gave my father packets of food to be left by the spring that the Ancient Ones used. These were the little people, dark and small, who lived within the heart of the wildwoods, away from Roads and steadings. Nonny said they were related to the sidhe and therefore fey. Kaethi said that might be, but they were also the first people to have lived here, back when the whole of Britain was known as Albion. Some even said they were the children of the Old Gods, and every prudent landholder left food in the forest for them when the winters turned bad.

  With the holiday’s arrival the court came alive as people gathered from all over the countryside. Some wanted to help call back the sun in the traditional way, and some looked forward to the best eating they might have for several months to come. But most came for the laughter and hunting and competitions that were held in the courtyard or down by the river.

  I woke on the feast day to the special stillness that follows a new snowfall, and peering through a crack in the shutter, caught my breath at the sheer beauty of it. Scrambling into my warmest clothes, I ran off to find Llyn, and before long we were standing at the top of the hill looking out over a familiar world turned strangely wondrous, for it rarely snowed this much in Appleby.

  The day was bright and brittle so that everything sparkled and I put up the hood of my sealskin wrap, which now had a lining of soft green silk. The rest of the children were taking advantage of the holiday as well, and they soon joined us in sled races down the hill road. There was much laughing and leaping about in the chilly air, what with snowball fights and pushing one another into drifts, and we all worked together to build a figure for the Gods. It was a fine Winter Dragon crowned with holly, and even the druid smiled at it when he came past on his way to the court. This was the first time he’d been back since Mama had refused to let me go to the Lady, and I wondered just what his smile meant.

  Before the feast that night, Nonny was dressing the little Prince while Mama fixed my hair. I fidgeted restlessly as she drew the comb through my tangled locks until she gave my shoulder a shake.

  “For goodness’ sake, child, your hair looks like a rat’s nest. Now just hold still while I try to do something with it. I’ve never seen such a girl for getting messed up.”

  “I have,” said Nonny, glancing over at her. “For getting into mischief, you used to set a pretty fair example, you know.”

  Mama laughed and shrugged her shoulders. “I suppose you’re right, Nonny. But I never was comfortable sitting by the fire like a simpering kitten. There were always so many more interesting things to do down by the boats, or at the fishermen’s huts. And of course, with the horses…”

  I turned suddenly, knowing I’d caught her out, and that in fairness she would have to listen to me. So I made my case for escaping from the weaving room, including the fact that even Vida said I was getting better at spinning, and couldn’t I now please go back to helping Rhufon in the stable?

  Mama grinned and went on braiding my hair, listing th
e many things I’d have to learn before I’d be able to run a household of my own, and raising horses was not among them. When she had finished with the hairdress, she turned me around to face her and studied the result of her work.

  “You look well enough to bring honor to your father tonight, child, and he should be right proud.” For a minute she smiled down on me, playful and serious at the same time. “Cathbad’s brought some news I think will interest you, so be sure to pay attention at the Council after dinner.”

  Downstairs, the feast was laid out with the little hard spice cakes soaking in mead and hunks of game turning constantly on the spits over the hearth. It was a grand meal and afterward, before the dancing began, my father called the Council to order.

  Cathbad had returned from the Lady with an offer to stay and tutor the children at Appleby, and Mama announced that any parents who wished could send their youngsters to the court to be taught in all those things which the druids offered at the Sanctuary. A ripple of comment ran through the assemblage, and more than one head nodded in approval. Whatever reservations Mama may have had, the idea seemed to be a popular one, and naturally it delighted me, for it meant I could spend part of each day away from the spinning room with a clear conscience.

  Once the Council was over, the dance to call back the sun began with much ringing of bells and clappers. All of us were garbed in our most colorful dresses or tunics and bedecked with torques and other bright finery. Mama wore her new silk dress and all the gold pieces from her jewel chest, and when she began the dance, moving gaily in and out around the circle and inviting each person to follow after her, I was sure she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

  So we danced and sang well into the night, grown-ups and children and elders all circling about the hearth. It was a grand celebration, loud and colorful, and even the faces carved in the pillars that held up the lofts grinned happily behind their painted leaves. No matter how far away the Sun God had wandered, I was sure He’d hear His people and return.

  Next morning Cathbad came to join me at the table where Llyn and I were eating our porridge. I eyed him cautiously, hoping his company would be more interesting than that in the weaving room.

  “There are many things to learn about the world; about the habits and uses of plants, and life in the streambeds, and the stars in their cycles,” he announced as several of the stableboys sidled toward the table uncertainly. “But I think we’ll put off studying the things outside until the thaws come, and concentrate now on religions and ideas and history, since they can be learned about anywhere.”

  His would-be pupils nodded silently and I noticed Gladys’ daughter had edged into the group, sitting quietly across from the druid and staring at him in the same vacant way she stared at the fleece when she was spinning. It was clear she was either a monument of patience or not very bright, but as yet I wasn’t sure which.

  “Does anyone have any questions?” the druid asked, scanning his growing flock with a benevolent eye.

  “Mama told me not to ask too many questions,” I blurted out.

  Our tutor laughed, his young face creasing with amusement.

  “There was once a very special man in Ancient Greece who thought questions were the best way to learn about anything, Missy. He was considered very wise, but the leaders were afraid of him and told him he mustn’t go about the market questioning things all the time. Few people now recall the name of those who caused his death, but Socrates’ fame has lasted a thousand years, and we still honor him as a fine teacher.”

  “What did he ask about?” Llyn’s voice was clear and quick, and I suspected she hoped it was the Gods. As Cathbad explained, we slipped into our first lesson without even realizing it, and the rest of the morning went by in talk and tales and curious queries. By the time I headed off for the weaving room in the afternoon, I was sure the new arrangement was going to be very satisfactory.

  The druid turned out to be an admirable teacher, though I was disappointed that our education didn’t cover the magical things I suspected the Lady would have taught. In general, he delighted us with the stories of other peoples and countries, particularly the ancient gods and heroes of Greece.

  We spent a lot of time talking about the Trojan War, and the strange, twisted fate of the family of heroes who lived out their lives of loyalty and treachery in that distant, sunny time. I was particularly fascinated by Helen.

  “The legendary Helen,” he remarked, one hand stroking the gold beard of his chin. “Her very name conjures up the destruction of men’s souls. Have you ever noticed,” he added thoughtfully, “how there are two kinds of beauty…that on the inside which cannot deceive, and that on the outside which often misleads?”

  He went on to point out how something ugly is not necessarily bad, though we recoil from spiders and toads because we think them distasteful in shape and motion, and how beauty in itself is not an indication of good, for many poisonous things have a fair appearance.

  It was typical of the time we spent with him, for while Cathbad seemed to be talking about one thing, we generally ended up thinking about another. And often I climbed the stairs to the weaving loft mulling over matters far different from the domestic concerns of the women I joined.

  Perhaps that is the reason I was unaware of the disaster they were already scenting.

  Chapter VI

  Death

  As winter wore on, more children came to join us in the Great Hall each day; with the snows so high and the temperature so low, there was little to be done outdoors, and often nowhere warm to stay except near the hearth. Tales of tragedy and hard luck filled the talk around the fire at night, and everyone agreed that it was one of the worst winters in memory. The feast of Imbolc was held at the beginning of February, but only those who lived nearby could join us and the merriment was fitful and measured out against the cold.

  Food and fuel grew scarce in the households of the freemen and they began to appeal to their king for help, though usually it was Mama they spoke to.

  “Your Highness,” Gladys said one day, her consternation showing in the use of the full formal title, “you just gave that woman half the salt meat we’d set aside for the King’s dinner.”

  She gestured toward the bent and bundled figure of the thatcher’s wife, who plodded toward the Gates with a small load of sticks and precious meat clutched in her arms.

  “I know, Gladys, I know,” Mama replied. “But they have such a large family, and are so low on fuel, they’ll barely squeak by as it is. At least we are comfortable in the Great Hall, even if we’re eating porridge. And we can make do with soup instead of stew tonight.”

  Gladys shook her head and muttered as she went about her chores, and later that night I heard Mama talking with Nonny.

  “We can’t let them go hungry, Nonny, you know that. It may mean our not being so elegant for a while, but that’s a small price to pay to keep one’s people from starving.”

  Pretty soon there were so many requests it became easier to have the people share our food and warmth under one roof than to give it out piecemeal. So many folks crowded in to sleep around our fire, by the time mid-March arrived we were full to bursting and looking forward to a break in the weather as the days grew longer.

  “I don’t know where else to put them, Leo,” Mama sighed one evening as she and my father prepared for bed. “We’ve got whole families staying in the Great Hall, and with the people who’ve come in this week, we’ve filled every corner and closet. What do you think about billeting some of them in the barn?”

  I peeped out from between the curtains of my niche. Mama was seated at her dressing table taking the pins from her hair and my father came to stand behind her.

  “Not the barn itself,” he answered, removing the enameled barrette and letting the long copper tresses tumble down through his hands. “The stock and what’s left of the fodder are too precious to risk having people and fire close by. More likely we should have the stable hands double up in their quar
ters, and let the next few families use a part of the bunk area.”

  “You think this cold’s going to last much longer?” She leaned back against him and looked up at his face, tired and concerned and hoping for encouragement.

  “It’s hard to say, love. But I think we have to be as prepared as possible in case the good weather dallies too long in getting here.”

  Mama nodded, and when he bent down to kiss the top of her head I sank back into my covers, reassured that our future was in such competent hands.

  The very next day the temperature rose and the rains began, pelting down from heavy clouds and filling the brooks with thick muddy water. The snow turned to slush, gray and ugly under the thawing torrents, and there was much rejoicing that the season was about to change.

  But the deluge continued for weeks on end, sometimes only a drizzle, sometimes pouring whole floods out of the sodden sky. One woke to the dim gray light of another sunless day and watched the afternoon slide into evening without a sign of twilight. Without the sun, spring would never come.

  Water ran everywhere, sheeting down from above or dripping endlessly from soggy thatch, puddling between the paving stones of the courtyard or standing, stagnant and stinking, in the lower meadows.

  Farmers who had seen their stock devoured by the winter cold now found their fields awash with muck and mire. Seed for the spring planting went to stave off hunger, and sheep died of starvation, their poor stinking feet too rotten to bear their weight while they searched for food.

  Each day the line of supplicants at the gate increased, swelling like the river itself. They came with wives and children and grandparents, turning to their king for help when they could no longer help themselves.

  Tents and awnings were strung up within the courtyard as makeshift shelters from the rain when there was no more space within the buildings, and a kind of grimness crept into house and barn alike.

  “As if short rations and doubling up weren’t bad enough,” grumbled the narrow-faced man who worked with Elidan the smith, “now there’s brats everywhere you turn.”