As her other children came the Goodwife had hummed that cradle song to them in the first hours of their lives (and always out of her husband’s hearing), and none of her children had died from the plagues and diseases that carried off so many of her neighbours’ children. Artor’s luck, her neighbours said enviously, but the Goodwife knew differently now, and she knew that this dear little seedling also needed that old lullaby to give it the encouragement to take a firm grip on life.
So the Goodwife hummed the song through, bending down to pat the seedling reassuringly on its upper leaves when she’d finished.
“Dear little thing. Your Mother loves you.”
Then she walked forward until she reached the next seedling, and the next, and the one after, and always she sung the ancient lullaby over their leaves, stroked them, and told them that their Mother loved them.
And on she went.
And when she woke the next morning she sat up, blinked, and gaped in amazement.
She did not enter the Ancient Barrows, not because she was afraid of the Icarii within, or of the blue flame, or even of the naked power that floated over the Barrows, but because she wanted to reach the Lady Faraday and she sensed that the Lady was only a few days ahead of her now.
But the Enchanters stood atop the Barrows, shocked as they looked at the sight that lay behind the peasant woman tramping through the plains, listening to the sound that reached their
ears. So that was the music that had been reverberating through their dreams for the past two nights!
The woman smiled up at them and waved, but continued resolutely on.
As she passed, the Enchanters spontaneously broke into a Song of ThanksGiving.
The Goodwife thought it sounded very pretty, but not as nice as what echoed behind her.
Faraday lay still and cheerless under her blankets in the cool morning. She could not bear to open her eyes, for she knew that again she would be surrounded by gently humming seedlings, impatient for her to transplant them. She was exhausted. When would she find time to rest?
Faraday sighed and rubbed her stomach. She felt nauseous again and knew that she should try to force down some food. But even the delicacies that the magical saddlebags could offer didn’t interest her. Perhaps later, when the sun was higher and the first seedlings planted out for the day, she would eat.
The wind pushed beneath her blankets, cold and insistent, and Faraday finally opened her eyes. She blinked then frowned, puzzled. Before her sat, as expected, rows of tiny seedlings, but beyond them . . . beyond them stood scuffed brown leather boots encasing a sturdy pair of ankles, and even sturdier legs that disappeared into a brown worsted country dress.
Faraday sat up and looked at the peasant woman’s face. Briefly she thought she was a stranger, then she recognised the woman. “Goodwife Renkin! What? How . . .” Her voice trailed off. Goodwife Renkin? Here?
“My Lady,” the Goodwife exclaimed, her face split by a great smile, her eyes shining, her hands clutching among her skirts. “Oh, my Lady! Please, let me stay with you, don’t send me away. I’d do anything to help, really I would!”
“Goodwife Renkin,” Faraday said again, uselessly, as the Goodwife leaned down to help her rise. As she stood, Faraday looked at the plain behind the Goodwife . . . and realised that the sound of the morning which filled the air was not just the noise of the donkeys grazing or of the tiny seedlings humming.
At the Goodwife’s back stood a forest. Great trees, a hundred paces high, reached towards the sun, their branches reaching out fifty paces or more so they embraced the limbs of their sisters. Beneath them the tough grasses of the Tarantaise and southern Arcness plains had given way to low fragrant shrubs and flowered walks dappled with the golden light that filtered through the forest canopy.
And they hummed – a tune Faraday later recognised as the lullaby the Goodwife taught them. It was a breathtaking sound for, although not particularly loud, it was rich and vibrant, full of shadows and cadences, each tree adding her own distinctive voice that nevertheless harmonised perfectly with those of her neighbours and with the sound of the forest. Faraday could feel it vibrating through her body.
What would it be like when they finally burst into song?
The Goodwife looked at Faraday’s face, then at the trees. “Don’t they make a pleasant sound, m’Lady? They sound like a sea of minstrels, yes they do.” One of her booted feet tapped in time with the trees.
Faraday wrenched her eyes away from the forest. “A sea of minstrels, Goodwife?” She took a deep breath of happiness. “Then why don’t we call this new forest Minstrelsea? It needs a name, and that will do as well as any other and better than most.” She paused. “Goodwife, what are you doing here?”
“I have come to help,” the Goodwife said quietly, her country burr totally gone, and Faraday, looking deep into the Goodwife’s eyes, beheld the eyes of the Mother.
O Brother-Leader Gilbert Artor appeared many more times to Gilbert as he hustled Moryson northwards from Nor, and each time Gilbert’s eyes grew a little darker with fanaticism, his mouth a little slacker with ecstasy, and his will hardened. He would do anything, anything, to ensure that Artor and the Seneschal regained their rightful place in Achar.
Moryson followed placidly behind Gilbert on a horse the man had grudgingly bought him.
Even though Moryson generally remained quiet and uncomplaining, his presence often irritated Gilbert. Occasionally, but only very occasionally, Moryson would let slip a tart comment that reminded Gilbert too vividly of the days when he had been only a second adviser to the Brother-Leader, and Moryson the trusted friend of forty years’ standing. Didn’t Moryson realise that Gilbert was in charge now? That Gilbert led the Seneschal? That Gilbert stood at Artor’s right hand?
But even more annoying were Moryson’s occasional absences. The first time Gilbert noticed that Moryson was missing he entered a fugue of anxiety. The man’s horse was there, but not the old man. Had Moryson fallen down a badger’s burrow and broken a frail leg? Had he been snatched by one of the flying filth that Gilbert expected to descend on them any moment? Had he lain down to die among the tall grass and neglected to mention it to Gilbert, several dozen paces ahead? For an hour or more Gilbert searched, calling Moryson’s name, his face running with sweat. What would Artor think if he lost the fool? At the moment, Moryson was his only follower, and Gilbert, much as he disliked the old man, could hardly afford to lose him.
But just when Gilbert thought that he had vanished altogether, he turned around to see Moryson hobbling across the plain towards him, his face a mask of contrition.
“It’s my bowels, Gilbert,” Moryson hastily explained. “I am an old man and sometimes my bowels can dribble fluids for hours. Ah, is that my horse behind you?”
Gilbert turned away, his face green, and didn’t ask again when Moryson disappeared – usually at night, but once or twice during the day as well. He was disgusted by the old man’s weakness. Artor grant me continued health throughout my life, he prayed, whenever Moryson stumbled back into camp, his face pale and damp.
For some time they moved north, and then north-east, as Artor directed. They found another Brother, a displaced Plough-Keeper, ten days after they started on their divine crusade. He was huddled among the grass, crouched as low as he could get, terrified by the approaching horsemen.
Gilbert squared his shoulders and spoke in as authoritative a manner as he could manage. “Get up, man. What is your name? Where are you from?”
The Plough-Keeper, a thin man of middle-age, peered out from underneath his arm, but did not uncurl himself from his protective ball. “My name is Finnis, good master, and I am but a poor sheep-herder travelling this plain to market.”
Gilbert’s lip curled. “Well, good Finnis, where are your sheep? And what is that fuzzy patch I see at the crown of your head – not a tonsure growing out, is it?”
Finnis hurriedly buried his head as far as he could under his arm and gave a muffled squeak.
Gilbert kicked his horse closer. “Get up, Finnis, and behold your Brother-Leader.”
Very slowly Finnis looked out from beneath his arm. “Brother-Leader?”
“Brother-Leader Gilbert, man. Now stand up\”
Finnis almost tripped in his haste to stand. “But. . . but. . . I thought…”
“Well, you thought wrong, you simpleton. The Seneschal has never endured darker days than these, but with the grace and strength of Artor we will walk through them. Surely you know my name…Gilbert? Once adviser to Brother-Leader Jay me?”