Page 86 of The Dragon Ring
Mabina opened her scantily toothed mouth to protest, but Arthur held up his hand to silence her. “And it is the duty of a husband to provide dowries for his daughters and see them well married. From the flocks Einion has taken to his new farmstead, I allocate four breeding ewes to each daughter, to be handed over on their wedding days.”
It was Einion’s turn to look aggrieved– twelve sheep would seriously diminish his flock. He opened his mouth, but Arthur silenced him with a look.
Reluctantly the two plaintiffs bowed before their king and one of Arthur’s warriors escorted them from the Great Hall. No one else seemed to be awaiting audience with the king.
We got to our feet. Outside the Hall the weather was fine, and I was itching to be astride my horse and away from the fortress’s confines.
In our chamber, Arthur tossed his crown onto our bed while I changed swiftly into braccae and a tunic that had been Arthur’s as a boy, pulling on the new calf-length boots he’d had Elfydd, the cobbler, make for me. My walking boots stood forgotten underneath the bed, cast off remnants of the twenty-first century. Feeling like a pair of truant schoolboys, we walked down the slope to the stables where a servant had our horses ready.
Seeing there were only two horses, I turned to Arthur with a question on my lips.
He forestalled me. “Just us today. Merlin’s engaged with teaching the boys. Theo and Cei are organizing the warrior training. And it’s too nice a day to miss out on a ride.”
My heart gave a nervous bound. “Shouldn’t you be helping with the warrior training?” There’d been days when we’d not ridden out at all because he’d been too busy training his new recruits himself.
He flashed a wicked grin. “I’m king. Delegation is one of the perks. And I feel like a ride with you today, not setting myself up for all those would-be warriors to knock lumps out of me with a wooden practice sword.”
He gave me a leg up into the saddle, and I settled into my place, hardly able to believe that at last I was free of Merlin and might be able to persuade Arthur to take me to the Tor.
We jogged side by side down the cobbled road to the smaller north-eastern gates. Two guards swung them open for us.
With a wave to the two men, we passed through the north-eastern gatehouse and started down the hill. Small clouds scudded across a pale blue sky, and a red kite rode the wind above our heads. Below us, the plain stretched away into the distance, patchworked with small fields and farmsteads nestled between tracts of forest and rough grazing. It was clear enough to see the distant hump that was the Tor.
I pointed. “Could we ride that way? I’d like to see Ynys Witrin.” With an effort, I kept my voice relaxed and natural.
I held my breath. Would Merlin have warned Arthur not to take me anywhere near it?
He smiled, seemingly unaware of the implications of what he was agreeing to. “If you want. The track goes through the forest, and it’ll be a long and muddy ride at this time of year, but we can go that way.”
There. It was done. I was on my way back to Glastonbury at last. My heart, which I’d expected to soar, sank down into my new boots. The familiar knot tied my stomach up like a piece of crochet.
As the crow flies, it was a good ten miles from South Cadbury to Glastonbury, farther by the winding back roads of modern Britain, but still not much longer than half an hour in a car, tops. Arthur and I, on horseback, took nearer two hours than one.
We didn’t take the route I’d ridden with Corwyn and the lay brothers from the abbey all those weeks ago. Instead, we branched westwards, skirting the edge of the marshes until we came out of the trees into a wide clearing beside open water. We were on the edge of a lake, the far bank just a hazy line of trees. At the water’s edge a plank causeway led out to an artificial island– a village built on stilts above the lake. A frill of small, flat boats decorated the island, tethered by their noses and shifting on the current. Scattered between the forest edge and the shore lay a jumble of animal pens and barns. The men working there paused to look up at us in curiosity.
Arthur swung himself down out of the saddle. “Our horses can go no farther. We’ll have to leave them here and cross by boat from the village.”
Some of the workmen hurried forward. “Milord Arthur, welcome to our village.”
I slid to the ground, and a big, bald man took my horse’s reins. “Milady Guinevere.” He bowed almost to his knees.
“Thank you.” The words came naturally to my lips despite six weeks of servants running round after me. I still couldn’t quite get used to the deference they accorded me.
A few women came out of the sheds and stood whispering amongst themselves. I smiled at them in as friendly a way as possible, but they were shy, and backed away. I was a queen, after all.
A small, wiry man hurried up, pulling off his leather cap and bobbing up and down in his effort to be respectful. “Milord, milady, welcome to our ’umble village. What can we do for ye? We’ve food and cider if ye’re ’ungry. We ’ave fodder for yer ’orses.” He waved at the other men, who obediently led our horses toward an open-fronted barn.
Arthur nodded. “Thank you, Nial. Fodder for our horses would be much appreciated. But not for us. The Queen and I would like to go to the Holy Island. She has a fancy to see it for herself.”
“Of course, of course. Come this way, milord, milady. ’Tis an honor to see ye here. I’ll be ’appy to take ye meself.” He ushered us to the start of the timber causeway. It was about twenty yards long and less than two wide, with no handrail. Weather had warped the timbers, so it didn’t look like the most fun thing to walk on. I hesitated.
Arthur took my arm. “Come along.”
Well, if I wanted to get to Glastonbury, it looked like I would have to brave that wobbly walkway. Presumably, the inhabitants did so every day, maybe even the old and infirm and the small children.
Hanging onto Arthur, I negotiated my way across the dark waters.
The village was constructed on a wide platform that in the center rested on a huge pile of rocks and earth and at the edges on a lot of rickety-looking stilts. The buildings clustered cheek by jowl, narrow walkways running between them, the clutter of the villagers’ lives piled everywhere– crayfish pots, nets, tall jars, coils of rope, piles of firewood. A wider path ran straight through to the center, where a small public area was set around a single upright pillar carved like a totem pole. Women sat here in a circle mending fishing nets, while small children played about their feet.
