Uther Pendragon returned to Tintagel that afternoon, riding in state up the path from the mainland. He brought the body of the fallen Duke home, the black cape draped over the litter.
The Duchess of Cornwall was standing, still and proud, on the dais at the end of the Hall when Uther entered, and his fierce blue glare pinned her to the spot. His spurs struck sparks on the stone floor and the riding crop in his hand flicked rhythmically with each step. He was as haughty and distant as any conquering lord, yet amazingly, he bowed before her in recognition of her bereavement.
“It is with great sorrow and concern that I bring the body of your husband home,” the Pendragon began, anger and bitterness sharp in his voice.
The children moved closer to her skirts, terrified by the sight and sound of the man. Igraine looked into his face, seeing behind the severe features the bafflement of a wild thing fighting futilely against the web of fate.
“And now I shall leave you to your grief,” the Pendragon announced. “You may bury your lord wherever you see fit, and in whatever manner you choose. But when the two weeks of mourning are over, I shall return to make you my bride, as if I had, in fact, dealt the deathblow to the Duke last night.”
Shocked, Igraine watched Uther turn on his heel and leave, looking neither right nor left and never pausing to see if she would accept him. She felt the pent-up rage of the man driving him out and away from the company of others, and she was not surprised to learn later that he had ridden for hours over the moors, killing the horse under him and coming back to his camp on a beast he’d taken from an outlaw he’d met in the wilds. Compassion, whether for himself or others, was not part of Uther’s nature; pride and honor and fierceness were more the colors of his armor.
The wedding was held at the end of the fortnight, but it was an occasion marred with grief as much as joy. The girls nurtured an insatiable hatred for their stepfather and their loathing was so great, Igraine feared for their future. So it was with relief as well as heartache that she agreed they both be sent away as soon she and Uther were married.
Morgause was given in early betrothal to King Lot of Lothian and the Orkney Isles, one of the brash young men who squabbled among themselves in the northern kingdoms beyond the Wall. It was a fitting choice, for the girl was high-spirited by nature and might have dominated a more placid man.
Morgan le Fey was sent to a convent in the north to learn the arts of healing, more because the nuns would watch over her well than because of any religious conviction on Igraine’s part, for the new High Queen was still Pagan.
***
“It was not until I realized I had to give up even the child of that night’s union that I began to question the Old Gods,” the Queen Mother sighed. “To lose all your children, including the one unborn, is a high price for any love, my dear. But Uther refused to consider keeping the baby; at first he argued that people would think it was Gorlois’s, conceived as it was so close to the Duke’s death. Later it seemed as though he blamed the infant’s need to be begotten for entangling us all in that night of passion.” She sighed softly. “Perhaps, as Merlin claimed, we were each just pawns doing the Gods’ work. Before Arthur was born the Magician came to visit, asking permission to take the infant and raise him himself. I’ve never been comfortable with the Enchanter, but he kept his word and Arthur grew into a man any woman would be glad to call son.” She turned her level, direct gaze on me. “I don’t know that he cares to hear it, but if you’ve a chance, tell him I’m proud of him.”
For a minute more she stared into some unseen space, summoning what was left of her strength.
“It was only later, when the remorse and barrenness closed in, that I looked for forgiveness and understanding, and found them in the new Christ.” The Queen Mother began to grope for my hands. “It’s getting so dark,” she murmured, catching hold of my fingers and holding them tightly. “It was never easy, between Uther’s wild and stormy nature and the constant demands of being High Queen. At first I hated my new position, quailing inwardly before the crowds and wishing desperately we could retreat to some quiet spot of our own. But a Queen belongs to the people, and I was theirs as much as his. Over the years I grew bolder and not so shy just as he grew less harsh and abrasive. And we ruled well together, of that I’m sure, for he held the Saxon invaders in check and the people prospered.”
Igraine was panting now, frowning into the distance at shadows I could not see. Suddenly she tightened her grip.
“I loved him in spite of everything, and in his own way he loved me; like the wind of Tintagel, he brought me life while I brought him calm. But you must understand the price we paid for such a love, Gwen…the cost in children who were left motherless too early…in personal desires held forfeit to duty…in penances paid and raw edges abraded by our own consciences. And yet…”
The death rattle struggled in her throat, but she turned her face to me as a blind one does, a sweet smile suffusing her features.
“…I would do it all over again, tomorrow.”
***
They were her last words, and in the silence that followed, a single warbler’s song stole across the room.
Chapter III
Return to Silchester
We buried Igraine in a simple convent grave, the ring Uther had given Ulfin clasped in her fingers. A profusion of wildflowers filled the meadow beyond the convent wall and I spread a blanket of them over the coffin to break the fall of the clods. It seemed the least I could do for her.
Ettard stood beside me, pale and damp with grief. Her meager possessions were already packed and after the funeral was over we bade the nuns good-bye and prepared to return to Silchester.
I have always hated litters and intended to ride Featherfoot and let Ettard use Igraine’s litter by herself. But the pretty girl burst into tears at the idea of being left alone, so I relented and joined her in the swaying box. She grew calmer once we were on the Road, and lapsed into the silence of her sorrow.
Parting the curtains, I stared out over the sea of grass. Drowsy with the hum of bees and the sweet smell of wild thyme, the downs stretched lazily under pale, dreamy clouds. But I saw instead the dark towers of Tintagel and the steps to the postern gate carved into the face of the cliff itself. Like a bit of timeless history or the thing that myths are made of, the destinies Merlin had set in motion swirled in that darkness…
***
A night of sleet and pelting rain from above, of spray and storm-tossed surf that spumes up from below. Patient as Cronos in midwinter, the Magician waits for the child to be brought. Warm, bundled against the cold, the infant is handed over, the talisman around his neck the only gift the grieving mother can give him. That, and a name…Arthur. Arthur from the Roman family of Artoris; Arthur from the Celtic word for bear; Arthur, from the heavens where Merlin has seen the prophecy.
***
Within the heart of Wales, small and unimportant, the court of Sir Ector rings with the shouts of boys at play. Racing at breakneck speed along the rides of the woods, swimming in Bala Lake, listening to the tales their seedy tutor tells of bigger worlds and courts of power—the three are brothers in all save blood. Arthur and Bedivere the fosterlings, Cei the Baron’s own true born. “Tell us about Merlin, who has hidden the King’s son on a magic isle,” they beg, never guessing it is the Mage of Britain himself who teaches them.
***
Uther harries the Saxons, and is harried in return. Ambrosius drives them back to the Saxon Shore, his brother strives to keep them there. Igraine and her husband are well thought of, and no one asks about the child, for Uther has a wild, unruly nature and a sore conscience where Gorlois is concerned. Even as a girl, growing up in Rheged, I’d heard of the Pendragon’s temper.
***
In the north Morgause begins producing sons for King Lot. Gawain, born barely a year after Arthur, Gaheris, and Agravain—firebrands all, as stubborn and headstrong as their parents.
And Morgan, when she is old enough to take
the veil, suddenly leaves the convent to marry the King of Northumbria. A Celtic ruler, Urien devotes more time to hunting and cattle raids than to his new wife, and she soon returns to the Old Gods, becoming a druidess in the Sanctuary. When Vivian dies, Morgan is herself named Lady of the Lake. I had seen her once, hidden in the woods at the edge of the Black Lake, performing strange and frightful rites.
***
As I had seen King Lot—brawny, boisterous, visiting Rheged in an effort to solicit our support against the young man Merlin had brought forth after Uther died. “Puppet of the Magician—said to be Celtic on his mother’s side, but Roman in training, through and through,” the King of Orkney thunders, trying to rally our support against the new Pendragon. Yet for all Lot’s impressiveness as warrior and leader, the men of Rheged have no wish to join his cause—it is Urien he seeks to elect High King, and our Northumbrian neighbor had too often raided cattle across our border.
***
So the ancient land of Albion convulses in civil war. The Cumbri, those northern Celts clinging to the Old Ways, roar and howl and fight against the southern Britons who cling with equal stubbornness to the memory of the Empire. And when the Great Battle is over twelve northern kings lie dead, including Lot. Urien surrenders, and later, at the Sanctuary, the Lady of the Lake bestows the sacred Sword of State on Arthur, making him the new High King. I had met him then, as he made his way to the Sanctuary—a young man who seemed more from the land than the nobility…an odd candidate for what Merlin called the greatest King in all of Britain’s history.
And I, what had I to do with the dreams of an aging sorcerer? Not much, I suspected.
It was Arthur, not Merlin, who picked me to be his Queen. Of all the northern kingdoms, Rheged alone had stood at Arthur’s side, and now that he needed to solidify his victory, what better way than to marry a northern princess?
So I had gone to my fate, raging at the moira which sent me south, into the shadow of the ruined Empire.
But Arthur turned out to be far less Roman than I had feared, and easy to love as well, and with the Queen Mother’s guidance I’ve taken my place as his partner with very little trouble. I had much to thank her for, and loved her as dearly as I loved my own mother.
For a moment a vision of Mama rose before me…the beautiful, laughing young queen who had given her life for her people as surely as if she had climbed into the Need-fire on Beltane and been offered up as a human sacrifice. Not that the May Day rites include such sacrifices nowadays, but every Celt remembers what lies at the heart of the royal promise—that any true monarch stands between the people and their Gods, willing to bridge the distance with life itself if the two become estranged.
Mama’s sacrifice had not been that dramatic, but she had died nonetheless, back when I was barely ten years old.
In her own way, Arthur’s mother had also given over her life to the people, for although she had become High Queen because of a personal love for the King, her majesty and greatness of spirit put the needs of her subjects first from then on.
That is, of course, what queens are expected to do, and I counted myself lucky to have two such fine examples before me. It didn’t ease the pain of losing Igraine, however, so Ettard and I spent a mournful, silent day in the litter.
***
On the second morning Igraine’s companion began to talk a little between snuffles of grief.
“She was like a mother to me.” The girl’s voice was light and childish. “Took me in the first day I came to the convent, and me an orphan with neither future nor hope.”
I nodded silently, wondering if it was the loss of her own children that had given Igraine a particular talent for comforting motherless youngsters.
With a little encouragement Ettard began to tell me about her early life. Her story was not an uncommon one. Raised on a steading near a river, she was twelve when a high-prowed ship came gliding up the watercourse. The men of her family were away fighting in the Great Battle, so the Saxon pirates made quick work of overpowering the women’s defenses.
“I tried to hide in a hayrick while the raiders swarmed over the farm, but no matter how deep I burrowed, I could still hear the screams of my mother and sisters…raped and ravaged and finally spitted like sheep for roasting over a fire.”
Her voice was flat, as though the memory no longer touched her heart, but the very idea made my stomach turn.
“I might have been killed, too,” she went on, “but it was a young man who saw my sleeve poking out from the hay, and he didn’t give me to the leader, but kept me for himself in return for my not screaming.”
Ettard blushed suddenly, having confided more than she had intended.
“You poor thing,” I consoled her, putting an arm around her shoulder and letting her snuggle in against me.
“I stayed on after the sea wolves left,” she whimpered, “hiding in the burnt-out husk of the barn by day and foraging for berries and roots at night. The Saxons didn’t come back, but as I’d nowhere to go, I would have starved to death. Or frozen in winter. Then, in late autumn, a wandering holy man found me and took me to the convent. I didn’t go there to take vows, M’lady,” she added hastily, “only to find refuge. My mum raised us all to honor the Old Gods, and the nuns took me in without even asking if I’d been baptized. I don’t know what would have happened if they hadn’t, for I have no family left in all this world.”
She paused and I thought how lost a person is without kin to claim their own. There are few ways for a man to survive alone, with the woods being full of beasts and outlaws and so many of the cities deserted—for a woman it’s doubly difficult.
“From now on we’ll be your family,” I assured her.
Ettard stared up at me, her eyes shining with gratitude. Although I was only a few years her senior, she clearly seemed to view me as her guardian.
As we neared Silchester she plied me with questions about the people she’d met last year, when Arthur and I had wed. Yes, Vinnie, who had come south as my chaperon, was still with us, as was my foster-sister, Brigit. No, Nimue and Merlin were gone, traveling to Lesser Britain on a kind of honeymoon. But both Bedivere and Cei, the foster-brothers from Arthur’s early life, were with him in Wales, quelling the last of the Irish insurgence.
“And Morgan le Fey?”
I stiffened. Arthur’s half-sister and I were not on the best of terms, for I had accidentally come upon her in the midst of a lovers’ tryst and she had flown into a rage, claiming I was no better than the “goody-goody Christians” and would no doubt spread the story of her affair throughout the Court. No amount of reasoning could calm her, even though I too was raised in the tradition of Celtic queens bedding whomever they wished, provided it did no harm to their people. Instead, she and her lover had packed off to her Sanctuary, leaving me to try and explain their absence without revealing what had happened.
Now I glanced at Ettard and said as casually as possible, “I think the Lady of the Lake is too busy teaching the young princes at the Academy to come south.” If Igraine’s companion knew Morgan was angry at me, she didn’t pursue the subject.
“What about Morgause?” The girl was studying my face intently and nodded when I shook my head. “I thought not. She would have come to see her mother if she had been this close. I always wondered why she wasn’t at your wedding…”
The implied question hung between us, and I tried to shrug it aside, unwilling that anyone else should know how deeply Arthur hated his other half-sister. “The Orkneys are a long way away,” I hedged.
“But Gawain is with the High King still?” Ettard’s voice turned eager.
“He’ll no doubt be the hero of the summer campaign.” I grinned. The Prince of Orkney was coming into his own as a warrior, full of bravery and a bright battle-lust that was the envy of all the other men. Before long the bards would be making songs of glory in his honor.
“What about Silchester? Is it very fancy—more fancy than Sarum?”
“Oh much mo
re,” I assured her. “It used to be a wealthy merchant town, so the sewers actually work and the bigger houses still have running water and heated floors.”
When we arrived at the Mansion I turned the convent girl over to Vinnie, who greeted her fondly. They had gotten on well enough last summer, so I was confident she was in good hands.
With the harvest coming in and the men due home before long, I had more than enough to keep me busy from dawn to candletime. There was fruit to gather and roots to dig, hay to be secured and cheeses to put by. Working side by side with peasant and servant, I watched the larder grow each day and sighed contentedly before dropping into exhausted sleep each night.
As the summer waned Brigit helped me set up an infirmary in the little Christian church—any war-leader’s wife knows that the proud boasts of springtime are paid for in the shattered bodies that come home in autumn. And every evening I prayed fervently that my husband would not be among the casualties this year.
I had the children take turns on the walls, watching for Arthur’s return, but it was Griflet who brought the news. He found me repairing, for the hundredth time, the fence around the cabbages, and I whirled in alarm as his horse clattered into the courtyard. The animal was lathered and the boy covered with grime and sweat, but the smile on his face spread from ear to ear as he dismounted.
“The High King wants you to know he’ll be home by tomorrow’s sunset, and after all these months of foraging, could do with a home-cooked meal.”
Queen of the Summer Stars: Book Two of the Guinevere Trilogy Page 4
