Queen of the Summer Stars: Book Two of the Guinevere Trilogy

by Persia Woolley

  Sheep are smelly beasts, and I’ve hated the odor of raw wool since I was young. Now I stood in a cloud of it, holding the ointment jars handy for the men. It seems even the smallest wound under a heavy fleece gets infested with maggots that literally eat the sheep alive, so a mixture of broom buds and lanolin had to be daubed on every sore.

  As the shearing progressed the sight of those fat, white worms wriggling blindly in the pink flesh turned my stomach, and I barely had time to put down the salve pots and run to the stream before I was sick.

  “Best you help me in the kitchen,” the shepherd’s wife suggested as I stammered out my apologies. “There’s plenty to be done there.”

  But the next morning I found the new fleeces had been laid out in the kitchen overnight, and the noxious smell hung like a fog over them, making my gorge rise again. I bolted through the door just in time.

  The shepherdess set me and my women gathering bilberries well away from the sheep that day, and I felt much better in the fresh air—though I began to pray Arthur would return soon.

  On the third morning I avoided both the fleeces and the kitchen entirely, yet once more I found myself bent double beside the stream, retching violently. When the fit was past the shepherd’s wife put a cool cloth to my forehead and bade me sit beside her on a stump.

  “When did you last bleed, girl?” Her tone was gentle, but she was watching me closely.

  “Uhhh…” I looked out over the little pool where the sheep were washed, trying to remember. “With the new moon.”

  “New moon last week, or last month?”

  “Not last week…are we that far into the new cycle?” The words were all the way out of my mouth before the implication hit home.

  “The moon I saw last night was midway to being full again,” The shepherdess’s eyes crinkled with laughter. “I’d say you’ve been so preoccupied with other things, you haven’t noticed that you’re pregnant. I’ll wager that once you’re away from the fleeces, your mornings will be more comfortable, and you’ll have a perfectly normal pregnancy.”

  The words streamed over me like a warm bath, bringing a joyous flood of laughter and tears. I threw my arms around the old crone, letting her rock me in a motherly embrace; in those few minutes she was Igraine and Mama and Brigit all in one, and my thanks to the Goddess welled up in a great surge of pride and triumph and gratitude.

  At last I was going to become a mother.

  ***

  Arthur and the Companions returned two days later, tired, dirty, and immensely pleased with themselves.

  The shepherdess insisted that just as sheep needed washing, so did men, and after the biggest caldron in camp was filled and a fire built under it, the Companions waited patiently for their turn behind the blanket screen to make themselves fit again.

  Arthur was full of excitement about the foray and began relating his news while the bathwater heated.

  “Tracked the villains over to the coast, to a great rock that juts out above the sea,” he announced, shedding his tunic and scratching vigorously. “Then swept down the shore. The villages were quiet enough, but we burned out three camps where raiders had dug in. I don’t think there’ll be much problem for a while.” He nodded appreciatively toward his men. “Best warriors one could want. Gawain has taught Pelleas well; he’s a real demon with the sword now. And Lamorak is coming along splendidly. We brought the whole area under control without any losses to ourselves, and left with oaths of loyalty from the settlers, too.”

  I looked at my husband—even sweaty and grimy he radiated a mixture of childish glee and adult satisfaction. Merlin had taught him well how to use diplomacy and logic, but what he loves best is the shaping of his dream with his bare hands. This last week had provided just that, and he was as thrilled about it as I was about being pregnant. Though I wanted to tell him my own news, this was clearly neither the time nor the place.

  “Had to leave Lance behind, however.” Arthur was pulling off his boots, and I looked up, startled. “We ended up at the mouth of the Coquet River, where it lets into the North Sea. Pretty little valley and a miniature estuary as well. Something about it quite captivated the Breton, so I gave it to him as his own; be a good idea to have a Round Table presence up here anyway.”

  The idea of Lance leaving the Court came as a total surprise. Most of the unmarried Companions lived with us unless, like Geraint or Agricola, they had kingdoms of their own. Even Gawain, though he would likely be chosen king of both Edinburgh and the Orkney Isles when his mother died, showed no desire to take up residence anywhere but with us. Not only would it be a strange break in custom to have the Breton living elsewhere, we would miss him considerably. Perhaps, I told myself, he would only go there occasionally.

  “Lance wanted to tidy things up…and get acquainted with the locals. I noticed the blacksmith has a comely daughter.” Arthur chuckled, and I wondered how much that had to do with the Champion’s interest in the place. Maybe his moira was leading him toward romance after all.

  Once they had washed, the men ate heartily and tumbled into bed. Arthur was too tired to give me more than a sleepy good night, so I lay beside him and hugged the secret of the pregnancy to myself. It would keep until we had a quiet moment alone when we could explore our pleasure together.

  But privacy is hard to come by on the Road, and by the time we reached the Pentland Hills I still had not confided my news. The morning sickness evaporated as soon as we left the sheepfold, but my courses hadn’t returned and I was growing confident that the shepherdess had been right.

  The very knowledge of it filled me with splendor—rich and ripening as the harvest around us, I savored my secret with inner delight. Coming out of the forest near Edinburgh, we flushed a doe and her fawn who paused to stare at our entourage before bounding away—gazing into her large, liquid eyes I saluted her, mother to mother, before she led her youngster to safety. Staring up at the evening star, I let my senses move out across the land—drifting on the soft breeze, delighting in the cluckings of a duck calling her brood together in the twilight, taking the smell of new-mown hay as perfume for my soul. Never before had I been so content, so much part of the spiral dance.

  Whenever I came across the little moleskin booties in my luggage, my fingers strayed lovingly across the fur while I wondered about the child who would wear them.

  ***

  Tristan and Lance met on the Road and caught up with us just as we were settling in for the night outside of Edinburgh.

  “Why on earth are you perched up here when there’s a perfectly good fort over there?” Tris demanded, gesturing toward the settlement across the ravine. He was as puzzled as the rest of us by Arthur’s insistence on staying on this plateau instead of making use of the hospitality below.

  I suspected Arthur’s refusal to enter Edinburgh stemmed from his aversion to his sister Morgause—even though she was safely away in the Orkneys, my husband would not go near her citadel.

  “No need to enter the town,” Arthur growled as he pronged a chunk of salmon from the spit. “I can review the troops up here just as well.” It was the answer he’d given everyone, and now he changed the subject. “How was your visit with Morgan?”

  Tristan stared at his feet, hands hanging limp at his sides. Despondency was plain on his face. “I went to see about having a spell lifted…but the Lady says that since I’ve become a Christian, she cannot help me.” He heaved a great sigh before turning to me. “She sent you a lady-in-waiting, however. The woman wanted to freshen up before being presented, so I left her with Enid.”

  My back stiffened and I struggled to keep suspicion out of my voice. “Why would Morgan do that?”

  “Don’t know.” Tristan shrugged, too immersed in his own misery to care. As he moved toward the cooking fire, Lance stepped forward to greet us.

  “All quiet at Warkworth,” the Breton reported, a smile lighting his features. He was as jubilant as Tristan was morose. “No more sign of raiders, but I organized a guard for
the place, just in case.”

  “And the pretty girl?” I asked.

  “Girl?” His blank response could hardly have been feigned. “I don’t recall any girl—but it’s a marvelous spot for a retreat.”

  Enthusiasm welled up in him, and after he’d gotten some food he returned to the subject, pulling up a camp stool and describing Warkworth between bites of food.

  “It’s a wonderful place, Gwen. There’s a deserted steading on a knoll in the bend of the river. The gardens are well laid out, the orchards are sound—if overgrown—and the Hall was already being repaired when I left. It will be beautiful next spring; a joyful garden. Everyone needs a haven of some kind, a little spot of beauty well away from blood and chaos,” he added softly.

  I nodded, remembering Arthur’s promise that we would someday have such a place of our own. Perhaps once he knew we had a family coming…

  A stern voice shattered my daydream. “The High Priestess sends her regards.”

  Morgan’s woman stepped forward. She was thin and lanky as a piece of jerky, and I disliked her on sight.

  “Velen, Your Highness. I’ve been a midwife for thirty years, and have brought my medicines with me. Now that you’re pregnant, the Lady wishes me to look out for you.”

  “Pregnant?” The word leapt out of Arthur’s mouth like a frog, and Lance turned to stare at me with equal surprise.

  I glared at the woman, furious that she’d spoiled my chance to tell Arthur alone.

  “Is it true?” Lance inquired, and when I nodded his face lit up with a wonderful smile. “Oh, Gwen, I’m so glad for you.”

  The sparkle in his eyes was full of pleasure and joy, very like an echo of my own feelings at the shepherdess’s words, and I started to grin from ear to ear.

  But Arthur just stared at me. “Are you sure?” he asked cautiously.

  “Well, uh…yes,” I stammered, wishing desperately that we weren’t surrounded by the Companions. “It’s been a little over two months now, and still no sign of bleeding.”

  I had expected Arthur to be pleased and happy about the news, and his hesitancy startled me. Peering at him more closely, I wondered if he was one of those men who are so frightened at the prospect of childbirth, they miss the joy of pregnancy. I wanted to laugh and take him in my arms, reassuring him I would be fine, and then hear how proud and glad he was, once the shock wore off. But in the circumstances all I could do was beam at him.

  “When will it be born?” he inquired, still stunned.

  “March.” Velen spoke with such authority, one would think it was her child, not mine. “And M’lady must be very quiet and cautious between now and then.”

  “Nonsense,” I retorted, waving her away. “I’ve never felt better in all my life. Healthy as the proverbial horse, and outside of a craving for oysters, nothing much else has changed.”

  By now Arthur had his wits about him, and he cast me one of those sidewise looks. “I should have guessed,” he chuckled. “There’s been an endless stream of yellow-skirted fishwives climbing this hill, filling the air with their hawker’s song and their pockets with trinkets—all to supply the royal needs!”

  Lancelot was looking back and forth between Arthur and me, and he threw back his head with a fine, free laugh.

  “A bairn for the two of you—’tis the best news I’ve heard yet!” he exclaimed. “And a wonderful way to end the summer.”

  Gawain and Pelleas had drifted into the group, drawn by the sound of mirth. Gawain clapped Arthur soundly on the back and teased him about being a staunch fellow in bed as well as battle.

  “Be that as it may,” Morgan’s lady cut in, “Her Highness must not indulge in whims like oysters—might harm the child. And no more traipsing about the countryside, either. What she needs is a warm room and a place to settle into.”

  “That’s easily enough arranged,” Arthur announced. “We’ll be wintering over at Stirling and can snug down there through the spring.”

  “You know I’d be pleased to host you here.” Gawain gestured expansively toward his city, but Arthur stopped him with a firm shake of his head.

  “Stirling it is,” the King averred.

  The Prince of Orkney and Lothian sagged like a scarecrow with the stuffing pulled out, obviously hurt at such a curt dismissal of his invitation.

  Tristan had been sitting, silent, on the sidelines, taking no notice of our celebration. Arthur turned to him. “I hope you’re free to come north with us—I’ll be meeting with Scots and Picts and could use a good translator.”

  A log in the campfire crumbled suddenly, and in the leaping light I saw Gawain lift his head, his eyes bright with resentment.

  “I’ll come, if you want me,” Tristan answered, not much cheered.

  “Of course we want you,” Arthur assured him. “With my Queen pregnant and my best men around me, it promises to be a fine winter…fine indeed.”

  His tone was so full, and his smile so broad, all my doubts about his reaction to the pregnancy disappeared, and a heady, buoyant happiness folded around me. Neither Gawain’s sulkiness nor Tristan’s sorrow could dampen my spirits.

  Glancing around the circle, my eyes met Lance’s and we smiled in unison, each glad for the other. His pleasure in finding Warkworth was every bit as deep as my glory in being pregnant, and together we reveled in sharing the joy.

  ***

  It seemed that any number of dreams were, at last, coming true.

  Chapter XVI

  Stirling

  Will you look at the luxury of it!” Enid gasped, delighted to be staying in a real Hall after weeks in military camps and half ruins.

  Large and well built, it reminded me of my childhood home at Appleby—a Great Hall big enough to accommodate major Councils, with second-floor lofts for sleeping and spinning, and both kitchen and servants’ quarters tucked into their own wing. Even the columns that supported loft and roof were similar—carved with vines and leaves and full of peeping, spritely faces peering out to see what mortals did.

  I grinned, glad to know both pregnancy and birth would be accomplished in such a cheering, homey place.

  But while we reveled in the domestic amenities, Arthur was pleased by its geographic location. The great rock at Stirling juts out of swamp and waterside just at the point where the Highlands come down from the north to be met by the Ochil Hills on one side and the Campsie Fells on the other. Like a stopper in the neck of a funnel, the fort overlooks the long, flat valleys that separate the rugged ranges to the north, while to the east the river Forth spreads out into its firth. From here Arthur could make forays throughout central Scotland, secure in the knowledge that no one could advance on Stirling without being seen well in advance by the sentries on the walls.

  Once we were settled I suggested to Arthur that we send Velen back to the Sanctuary, but he not only refused that notion, he insisted that I thank Morgan for providing me with a midwife. So the woman stayed, nagging and fussing about everything I did, and the only place I could escape her was on the ramparts. Fortunately the magnificent view and sense of space always lifted my spirits.

  Staring north along the valley floors at the farms and pastures that quilt the edges of the slow, looping river…peering up at the mountain scarps where ancient forests embroider dark memories on the autumn wind…watching the mist rise from the rust and golden landscape while the far-off honking of geese signals the return of winter on the estuary…at such times I would marvel at the mystery of Being and wrap it around the little life that was growing within my womb.

  I was on the parapet the day the nomads came marching down from the north. Singing and clapping and half dancing as they walked along, they numbered less than a dozen—small, dark people decked out in piebald furs and heavy jewelry who followed rather than led a handful of reindeer. There was a fair commotion when they were challenged by the guard at the gate, but he let them through, and Enid came to fetch me, announcing the newcomers expected an audience. Arthur and Lance were off meeting
with the Caledonian chieftains in the mountains to the west, so it fell to me to handle whatever came up.

  Someone routed Tristan out of bed to act as interpreter, and when I reached the Hall Tris was grumbling like a bear who’s been wakened too early in the spring. “I have no idea what she wants. Whatever tongue she speaks, it isn’t Pictish,” he mumbled.

  A girl standing at the head of the delegation mimicked the Cornish warrior’s yawn, and the rest of her party giggled. They were as weathered as if they’d never lived under a roof, and the men glanced about the Hall uneasily. But the saucy young woman faced me across this impasse of languages with a fine bravado.

  “She’s a Gern-y-fhain…hereditary leader of the Prydn,” Gawain called out, making his way across the Hall without looking at Tristan.

  He began an animated conversation with the girl; both spoke as much with their hands as their voices, and at one point the redhead from the Orkneys all but collapsed in laughter, which sent the Prydn into gales of merriment of their own.

  “Her name is Ragnell,” Gawain reported, “and she brings her people and animals south for the winter pasturage. She also wants you to know she comes from a long line of famous Gerns.”

  I smiled inwardly, amused that even in the north the tradition of powerful queens was passed from generation to generation. Looking at the outlandish creature, I wondered if I seemed as ludicrous to her as she did to me.

  Ragnell caught my gaze and gave me a regal nod of recognition. I returned the gesture with equal solemnity, and then suddenly we both burst out laughing.

  “She says the tall-folk have put up fences across her pasture, M’lady,” Gawain explained. “All people need pasturage, so she’s willing to share with you, within reason. But fencing off what the Mother made for everyone is selfish and…and not acceptable,” he added with chagrin.

  “What would she have me do, tear down the fences and let our horses run loose?”