Lynet Carnbrea stood beside her siblings atop the watch-
tower in the first light of spring's chill dawn, listening
to the bishop proclaim the holy words, and trying not to
shiver.
"For the Lord thy God bringeth thee into a good land, a
land of brooks of water, of fountains and depths that
spring out of valleys and hills!" Bishop Austell's voice
rang out in the crystalline air of dawn, lovingly drawing
out the long and stately Latin. "A land of wheat, and
barley, and vines, and fig trees, and pomegranates, a land
of oil, olive and honey!"
It was crowded on the watchtower's heights, with Lynet,
her brother, Colan, their older sister, Laurel, Father
Lucius to hold the Holy Writ, and the bishop to de-claim
the verse. Laurel tucked a strand of pale hair back under
her hood and pressed close to Lynet so they might better
share their warmth. The salt winds whipped around their
heads, forcing their way under fur-lined hoods, woolen
cloaks, and even between laces and seams. At the horizon,
the sun's light stretched out red and gold above the
distant moor. She could just barely make out the glowing
remains of the bonfires that had burned all night. Men and
women still moved sluggishly around the pools of glowing
coals. They stretched, they embraced, some still danced,
having tread the fires down to ash already.
Day had come, spring had come. The waters were clear of
ice, and all the world would live again. In other places
this rite was not held until the first of May. But in the
land above the river Camel, their rite was for the thaw
when the river ran free of ice and the tinning could begin
again.
Every spring, Lynet had come up here with her family to
greet the dawn and hear the call to work the turning of
the year and the quickening of the season.
They were a widely varied group, the children of Steward
Kenan and Lady Morwenna. Laurel, the oldest of them, was
so pale she might have been a wraith of dawn. Her braid of
white-gold hair hung over the shoulder of her substantial
brown cloak and the warming morning light shone in her
pale green eyes. Colan, Lynet's long-limbed, sparsely
bearded brother was darker than Laurel, but not by much.
He stood with one foot on the parapet, looking over the
rocky country that spread around them. His hair was
tarnished brass, and where Laurel's eyes were as green as
the sunlit sea, his were like that same sea under a storm
cloud. Indeed, there were those who said that it was not
Steward Kenan who had fathered these children, but one of
the morverch, the people of the sea. No one, however, said
it where the steward could hear.
Of them all, only Lynet resembled their solid father. Like
him, her hair was a rich chestnut, her eyes summer hazel
and her skin golden in the winter and brown in the summer.
Steward Kenan did not stand with his children this
morning, and Lynet found her gaze drifting toward the
west, toward Tintagel where he had gone.
How do you fare, my father? she wondered. What do you
speak of with King Mark? Does he speak to you at all?
Bishop Austell drew in a final breath and cried, "A land
wherein thou shalt eat bread without scarceness, thou
shalt not lack anything in it, a land whose stones are
iron, and out of whose hills thou mayest dig brass. Amen!"
The prayer shook Lynet out of her thoughts, and she was
grateful. She had no wish at all to dwell on what might,
or might not, be happening at Tintagel. Beside her, Colan
raised his great hunting horn and blew long and hard,
sending the curling note out across the countryside. When
the last echo died away, the bishop smote the stones with
his crook and called out, "Rise up! Rise up! Rise up, all
you men! Rise up, all you women! The waters run clear, and
the Lord of All the Earth calls you forth!"
In this fashion, Bishop Austell led them all down the
tower's twisting stairs: Father Lucius and the great Bible
first, then Laurel, Colan and Lynet. Together, they
marched out into the sprawling cluster of dwellings that
formed the castell called Cambryn. "Rise up!" they
cried. "Rise up, you men! Rise up, you women! The Lord of
All the Earth calls you forth!"
Cambryn had grown out of the soil over many generations.
The paths between the stone and thatch houses with their
little courtyards spread out like old roots. They delved
into earth and stone to reach the cellars and storage
chambers that were also hiding places in times of war or
great storm. Then they pushed up to meet the great
timbered hall with its central tower, second story and
roof of pale slate.
Any other morning, if someone had marched through the
castell bellowing at the top of his lungs, the people
would have risen slowly from their beds, rubbed the sleep
from their eyes and cursed them mightily. Not this
morning. Cambryn's folk surged out of their houses,
beating sticks, pots, kettles, stones, whatever might add
to the joyful riot of noise. Some wore holly crowns on
their heads, or the first of the snowdrops tucked into
belts and hoods. Some hoisted leathern bottles of strong
drink. Children skipped between their elders, adding their
own piping voices to the racket. The bishop's cry was fast
drowned out by the song taken up by each and every new
voice.
"Rise up, all you women!
"All in your gowns of green!
"Rise up and greet the morning!
"Rise up for Heaven's Queen!"
Another procession snaked down from the heath. This one
carried the king and queen of the day hoisted high on two
chairs. It was Deane and Nance this year. Both strong and
fair, they had been clad in loose robes of red and green.
Garlands of holly and ribbons twined in their hair and
about their waists. Each carried a stave decked with tin
bells that they shook to add to the clamor. They clasped
hands over the heads of the crowd, their faces flushed
with dance and drink and celebration. There was some noise
that they'd been out the night before, not merely treading
the fires down to bring luck and health, but observing an
older practice which would stretch the bishop's patience
to its limit. The thought made Lynet's own spine stiffen,
but she prayed they'd come to their senses, and the altar,
if that were so.
"Rise up, all you young men!
"All in your tunics red!
"Rise up and greet the morning!
"Greet the Lord of All the Earth..."
The procession descended the steep river valley. They
stormed into the forest, their singing shaking the
branches that made a living roof overhead and causing the
birds to cry out in angry response to this racket. At last
they reached their destination. Up ahead, the river Camel
ran chattering down the rocky hillside, as clear and cold
as the morning around them. The weirs and sluices waited
open and empty. The great kettles of ale that had been
warming all night with wrinkled crab apples bobbing in the
amber brew stood on the bank. The ale's smell hung heavy
in the air, mingling with the scent of the warm bread that
had been brought down from the hall.
Lynet's stomach growled, but she hung back with the
others, waiting for Bishop Austell. The sturdy churchman
marched into the stream. As the frigid water lifted up his
robe's hems and swirled around his knees, he raised his
holly-twined crook once more.
"For thou shalt eat the labour of thine hands — happy
shalt thou be, and it shall be well with thee," he
cried. "Thy wife shall be as a fruitful vine by the sides
of thine house — thy children like olive plants round
about thy table! Behold! That thus shall the man be
blessed that feareth the Lord!"
Laurel stepped forward, took up a ladle full of the warm
ale from the nearest kettle and passed it to the bishop.
He poured a long libation into the river waters, and then
drank down the rest himself. When he had emptied the
dipper, he lifted up his head, ale still dripping down his
beard. Lynet then moved to stand beside her sister,
handing Bishop Austell a honied cake from the basket of
breads. He crumbled the cake into the river.
"In nomine Patris, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctu." Bishop
Austell drew the sign of the cross over all.
At this sign, the folk of Cambryn surged forward, lowering
their festival king and queen to receive their own
offerings. Laurel refilled the ladle so they might drink.
Lynet popped pieces of sweet, sticky cake into their
mouths. With each motion the crowd roared its approval.
Deane and Nance kissed again, clasped their hands and
shook their bells. The folk cheered once more and planted
the king's and queen's chairs on the riverside, so "their
majesties" could oversee the work and celebration, and
give blessing or pass judgment on what they saw. The rest
of the folk danced in and out of the river, barefoot,
never minding the cold. They swung their shrieking,
giggling children from bank to bank. Lynet and Laurel
remained by the massive kettles and baskets, offering food
and drink to all who demanded it. The people kissed and
laughed and partook eagerly of what was offered.
In the midst of this revelry, the men stripped off their
shirts, took up their picks, and began attacking the
ragged hillside, loosening great chunks of earth and stone
down into the sluices and the baskets. There were not as
many of them as there had been in years past. War and
raiders had carried off husbands and sons alike. So a
number of the goodwives and their daughters waded into the
stream beside their men, their hems tucked into their
waistbands so they could wield the baskets and the sieves.
Colan stepped briskly up for his ale and his cake. He gave
Lynet a broad wink before he stripped naked to the waist
and waded into the river with the rest of the men. He'd
toil beside them all day, adding his sweat to the
libations already offered for the river, the tin, and
God's blessing.
The great sieves rattled as hands shook them hard, sifting
out the dirt and the dust. Then, one woman dipped her hand
in and pulled out a rock with silver flecks that glinted
in the rising sun. The first of the ore had been found.
Another mighty cheer went up. The festival king and queen
kissed long and lustily. Lynet added her voice to the
cheering and raised a dripping ladle. Bishop Austell drank
deep once more, and Lynet sipped. The brew was warm and
welcome, but she had only had opportunity to eat a
mouthful of bread as of yet, and she did not need the
strong drink's dizziness added to the effects of a
sleepless night.
All at once, a man's voice rose up over all the clamor and
the laughter. The tone of command and warning was so clear
and so different from the merry riot about them that all
went silent in an instant.
On top of the fell stood a small host of men, ten in
number, Lynet counted. Two on horseback, the rest on foot.
She did not know any one of them. All of them were dirty
and windblown. Their hair stuck out in all directions
where it was not braided tight, and travel had heavily
stained their dull woolen cloaks. The men on horseback had
swords and knives at their belts, and those on foot
carried pole-arms that had been used at least as hard as
the men.