‘And what will happen when it comes time for our child to marry?’
Cador waved the objection away. ‘King Evan may have changed his decree. Or may have died. A thousand things could happen.’
His wife must have been exhausted by all the worry, or distracted by the finger-kissing, for she could find no other point to dispute and told him, ‘It is a good plan. Let it be so.’
Indeed, pregnancy must have addled her brain. Disguise a girl as a boy? The sham would be discovered in moments. I tried to say nothing. I tried to hold back. But I couldn’t keep from bursting out with laughter. ‘You’re having me on!’ The laughter changed to hiccups and my stranger wrinkled their nose at me. ‘They thought they could raise a girl as a boy? Swap a dress for leggings and no one would know?’ Another wave of laughter seized me, and when I surfaced from it, I found my stranger placid, staring into the glowing coals of the fire.
‘Yes.’
I raised my mug to my lips and took a small swallow. ‘But a girl could never play like a boy – could never learn what they learn, do what they do. She’d be crying, hurt, and bewildered within moments. Everyone knows that …’ I bit off my remark, suddenly recalling that this is their story, and that meant …
Griselle arrived a few weeks later, mud-spattered by a late autumn rain storm, weary from days on the road. Her eyes still bulged like a pollock’s but her lips were red and full, her step lively. She gave Cador a graceful curtsy, holding her skirt in one hand, for she had a muddy basket in the other. ‘You look the same as when I last saw you in Winchester,’ Cador said, offering her an arm to lead her from the entry hall.
She took his arm and laughed, loud and long. ‘I appreciate your courteous lie, cousin.’
‘Would you like that basket taken to your chamber?’ Cador asked.
‘Oh, no, thank you,’ she said.
He showed her to a small cabinet off the main hall, a cheery room hung with tapestries of twining vines and roses. A fire danced in the hearth and Roswyn waited in a chair, too heavy with child to stand. Griselle took her hand and made a low curtsy. ‘M’lady. Thank you for welcoming me to Tintagel.’
‘You are most welcome.’
Cador offered Griselle the chair nearest the fire.
‘My lord,’ she said. ‘You’re too kind. A stool would be fine.’
‘Nonsense. Sit.’ Cador poured them each a cup of wine.
She set down the basket she had been clutching and took a swig of the wine. ‘Ah. They water the wine quite too much in convents. Many’s the time I prayed for the miracle of the wedding of Cana to happen at the convent table.’ Her laughter echoed around the room, so merry and appealing that it brought a smile to Roswyn’s lips.
‘Indeed,’ Cador said at last. ‘I had heard you were at a convent. I hope the arrangement was … suitable?’
‘I stayed at a convent once,’ Roswyn said. ‘Not too far from here. St Alma’s. It had a beautiful herb garden, and when I was learning remedies, I made a visit. If you’d like to go there, it’s not but a half-day’s ride …’
‘M’lady, I hope never to visit a convent again.’ Griselle raised her mug, took a swallow, then bowed her head to Cador. ‘Though if m’lord requires … it’s only that …’ She sighed. ‘Our prioress was rather strict, even though many of us hadn’t taken our vows. Prayers and prayers and prayers. My knees are quite worn out. I missed … music and dancing and stories and riding my palfrey in the woods and all the simple things of life …’ The basket at her feet rocked back and forth, hissing. ‘Oh!’ She lifted the basket to her lap. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’ She released the catch of the basket and a cat, bedraggled and mud-spattered, leapt out, spitting. ‘I so missed having a cat as well. I always had one as a girl. And this one was by the road, not far from the castle.’
‘Not at all,’ said Cador. ‘Castles and cats are a fine combination. The cooks will be especially pleased.’ He reached out a hand to the creature – a gesture of true bravery – and the cat steadfastly ignored him, settling instead by the fire, licking its haunches. Roswyn cleared her throat sharply and gave Cador a pointed stare (Griselle, smitten by the cat, was risking her fingers and ignoring her hosts).
‘You are most welcome,’ Cador began. ‘You and your cat. And I assure you there will be dancing and songs and stories. We have a very good bard here, Sticks by name. We do, though, have one request to make of you.’
‘Have you ever delivered a baby?’ said Roswyn, one hand across her massive belly.
Griselle was aghast. ‘Never, m’lady! Some convents are known for that, but not St Agatha’s.’ She looked at Cador. ‘Surely m’lord has midwives who can …’
‘You see, fair cousin,’ Cador began, ‘this is the favour we need of you. To deliver the child. And whatever its Nature, declare to all that it is a boy-child.’
‘Well and good if it is a boy. But what if it’s a girl?’ She leaned close, as if to catch Cador’s words more quickly, her eyes becoming wider, shinier still.
He gave his wife a glance. ‘Ah. Yes. Should the Nature be that of a girl, we would ask that you would take the child to some pleasant retreat, where you shall have every comfort and freedom, and raise the child as if it were a boy.’ He smiled, pleased with how clear and proper this all did sound.
Griselle stared at him for a moment. Then she began to laugh and laugh; eventually she caught her breath and wiped tears from her eyes. ‘You are a funny lord,’ she said. ‘Make a girl a boy. And would you like me to raise this cat to become a dog?’ From the hearth, the cat gave her a baleful look.
‘That is impossible,’ Cador scoffed.
‘It’s all that we ask of you,’ Roswyn said sweetly. ‘And you don’t have to accept. There are lovely convents nearby. And besides, it is just until we have a true male heir.’
Griselle straightened in the chair and picked up her mug of wine, taking a steadying swallow. ‘I’ll do it. You’ll never know a finer boy.’
In due time, Roswyn was ready to deliver. Cador sat in his hall with his retainers; they ate, drank, and then Sticks the bard began to play, plucking out notes on his harp. ‘Now you all know the story of how Uther Pendragon came to these very halls …’ The knights called their approval – we do! We do! – and though a few cried that he should tell that story again, Sticks ignored them and said, ‘Tonight, I will tell the story of Arthur’s birth, in hopes that our Lady Roswyn will produce an heir as fine and as noble.’ Murmurs of approval as the notes of the harp rang and fell; the melody sounded to Cador like the patter of rain on flagstones, a gentle spring rain, lulling him as Sticks sang of Igraine’s beauty and the love between her and Uther. ‘Now Merlin had made Uther promise,’ Sticks said; words that made Cador sit straight up – Merlin! Promise! – ‘that he would turn the baby over to his care. Now, it might seem cruel, but Merlin knows what is best, and he could see into the mists of the future and knew that the child would only be safe if he were carried away and raised in ignorance of who he truly was.’ Cador rubbed his eyes and waved for a servant to pour more wine as the bard continued. ‘And Arthur was born and his father carried him down from this very hall, down the side of the cliff and there, on the shore of the sea, handed him to Merlin.’