Under Camelot's Banner

Luna

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...