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

by Persia Woolley

  Arthur sent Cador and his son Constantine to Oxford so as to block any Saxon advance along the Thames. Geraint and his men moved to the hill-forts along the Avon with orders to keep the southern Saxons from heading west but not to interfere if they were marching north. Meanwhile, Arthur set up his headquarters at Liddington.

  “I had every intention of forcing the issue in the Thames valley, and the barbarians marched right into it,” he said proudly.

  Watching my husband as he spun out the story of his victory, I saw things that were not apparent even as recently as last summer. His manner was more marked by determination than enthusiasm and his voice was firm and solid now that the dream was becoming real. Here indeed was a King to guide Britain’s destiny.

  Cador and Constantine stopped the Saxons at Oxford, chasing them back down the Thames to Abingdon, where they ran smack into waves of new forces marching west. It was at that point that Arthur rushed through the Goring Gap, catching the barbarians from behind.

  “The battles were terrible—bloody skirmishes with little groups, and milling, awful slaughters where the Saxons were massed without proper leadership, for once Cerdic and his sons died the Saxon command broke apart. That’s when I took his youngest son captive.

  “After we had beaten them, I turned back to Liddington, only to find Aelle, late in joining the march to the Gap, had captured my own headquarters—took no prisoners, but killed every man and boy outright. When I heard that, I sent for Geraint to help me lay siege, and on the third day I recaptured the hill-fort with a direct assault. I paid them back in kind, which made it a grim and bloody business, and one the Saxons will not forget for years to come.”

  I winced and closed my eyes as Arthur told off the names of the Companions who were dead or wounded, and when he came to Ulfin I couldn’t keep from sobbing.

  “Uther’s Chamberlain was a fine man,” Arthur allowed. “And his son Griflet is as brave and loyal as the father was. Any leader is fortunate to have such men in their Court.”

  I nodded slowly, trying to wipe the tears from my cheeks.

  “’Tis enough of such talk,” Arthur announced in a quick change of mood. “We’ve busy times ahead. The people are longing to see for themselves that their Queen is healthy and sound, and a splendid entrance into London seems the best way to satisfy them. So get out your fanciest dresses, lass, and put on every bit of gold we can dredge from the treasury. I intend to impress them all—Briton and Federate, Cumbri and Pict—with the power and majesty of Arthur Pendragon. And,” he added with a mischievous smile, “I want the world to see that you’re safe in my care again.”

  I let out a yip when he nuzzled at the nape of my neck, and then we were laughing and romping together, the awkwardness of our earlier mating dispelled by the return of our usual banter.

  At long last I was home.

  ***

  The question of the Saxon hostages caused all sorts of controversy. Arthur had taken one man from each steading, and we didn’t have the resources to keep and feed such a multitude indefinitely.

  “I say we kill them all off,” Gawain growled. “Or sell them into slavery as they sell Britons when they catch them.”

  “Absolutely.” Gaheris nodded, following the lead of his older brother.

  “String them up on crosses, like the Romans used to,” chimed in a young man I had yet to meet. His grisly suggestion was made with such relish, I paused to look at him more closely. He was handsome enough, but had eyes that stared brazenly at the world, coldly assessing it in relation to his own desires. Whoever he was, I didn’t think I was going to like him.

  “Agravain,” Arthur told me later. “The third of Lot’s sons. Leave it to Morgause to breed such a viper.”

  It was the first time I’d heard Arthur speak casually of his older sister, and it surprised me.

  “Gawain’s no viper,” I countered.

  “No…but no thanks to his mother.” We were putting the rondels I’d brought from the Mote onto the bridles for the Companions, and Arthur smiled suddenly. “Gawain may be hotheaded and impulsive, but I’d put my life in his hands any day. There’s that to be said for Celtic loyalty.”

  I wondered if Arthur knew Morgause had disowned her son but hesitated to talk about her directly. So I polished a bit of red enamel until it glistened and turned the subject to the captive Saxons instead. “What are you going to do with the hostages?”

  “Bedivere suggested I send Cynric to our foster-father in Wales. Sir Ector’s Court is far enough away, no one will try to rescue the boy—and I know myself Ector’s a good man for raising young’uns.” Arthur sighed. “As for the others, I gathered them up right after the summer crop was sown. If they don’t get back to the fields, we’ll have famine throughout the Saxon Shore.” He paused, the rondels forgotten. “Cei has studied the barbarians for years, and he says they honor their oath to their overlord above all else. The mistake I made was treating them as political groups rather than dealing with them individually. Now Cei suggests that I have each man swear loyalty to me before his shackles are struck off. Oh, I know,” he went on hastily, “it means hours, maybe even days, in the arena, making peace man by man. But I can’t afford to keep them all in prison and I do need to extract fealty from them. By the time the oath swearing’s over, hopefully everyone will have recognized the fairness and justness of the Pendragon. What do you think?”

  I put down my polishing cloth with a grin. “Sounds like Bedivere’s advice to me, years ago…whenever possible astound your friends and baffle your enemies.”

  “If Cei has anything to do with it, we’ll astound ’em all,” my husband added cheerfully. “He’s arranged for us to sail down the Thames, all the way to London. There’s as many British as Federate settlements along the way, which gives us a chance to impress everyone. It should be as good a show as the Picts put on at Loch Ness.”

  ***

  People have lived beside the Thames since time began, so travel and trade and visiting along the watercourse was commonplace. But this was the first time anyone could remember a progress for victorious royalty, and news of our plans swept through the valley like a fleeting Scottish rainbow.

  On the morning of our departure a summer mist lay low on the water. It reminded me of the fogs that druids cast in order to confound their enemies, and I wondered if the Gods had sent it as a sign that they were blessing our efforts after all, for it added no end of mystery to our presence.

  At the head of the fleet a captured longboat glided silently through the vapor, its carved prow rising into the sunlight like a water monster come to life. The Banner of the Red Dragon fluttered above Bedivere, who stood solemnly tolling a handbell as the captive Saxons plied their oars.

  Behind him sat a drummer, a piper, and a man with an ancient war-horn—one of those curved aurochs’ horns rimmed with silver whose notes stir the blood of men going into battle. The deep, belling sound floated over the water, mixing with the pulse of the hand drum and the clear, plaintive whistle of the pipe. It brought people running from farm and field, out of houses and through town gates, to watch, fascinated, as we approached.

  Next came the barges, looming through the mists like ghost ships, each filled with Saxon hostages. In the center farmer-warriors stood beside chain-mailed champions and local ealdermen, while at their feet lay the wounded, their bandages and splints giving them the look of broken toys clumsily repaired. All were in chains.

  It was an uncanny sight, like something from a dream, and neither the hostages nor the people on the riverbank called out, but each observed the other in silence.

  On either side of the river a long procession of Companions kept pace with the barges. Led by Gawain and Gaheris, Pelleas and Lancelot, Pellinore and Cador, each was decked out in the best of raiment, and the metal on their armor had been polished until it gleamed. Every bridle bore the red-and-brass rondels we’d given them.

  Surrounded by the jingle of bits and clop of hooves, the Companions paid no heed to
the people gathered along the path but kept a formal dignity as befits remarkable men. Between the majesty of the parading Champions and the waterborne proof of Arthur’s victory, the crowds were filled with awe by the time our craft came into view.

  Cei had commandeered a large Saxon vessel and built a high platform at the beam end. Here we sat, robed and crowned and surrounded by pillows and furs and all manner of richness. Gay colors and silk hangings festooned the canopy that provided shade, and a range of pennants fluttered above the water of our wake.

  Below us the leaders of the Federate rebels sat manacled to galley oars. They wore the regalia of their rank-brooches and bright bracelets of gold, belt buckles worked in cunning ways, and necklaces studded with garnets. Yet for all their wealth they sweated grimly as they rowed the Pendragon to his triumph—a lesson without words for every observer.

  So we made our way by meadow and farmland, past hanging forests and the relics of Roman towns, and through the broad, beautiful sweep of the Goring Gap. All along the way the people stared at us in astonishment. Many fell to their knees in homage, some crossed themselves, and others made the sign against evil—but all watched our passage with amazement.

  We nodded soberly to those who gave us a silent salute and occasionally raised our clasped hands so that everyone could see both King and Queen were there to serve them. I hoped it would help counteract Morgan’s gossip; the last thing we needed was for people to believe I had been in collusion with my abductor.

  ***

  “What’s this?” I asked as we came to a sizable island in the middle of the river.

  “Astolat,” Arthur replied. “You remember Bernard, don’t you?”

  “And Elaine.” I nodded, scanning the little crowd along the shore for sight of the widower and his voluptuous daughter. The father was quickly found, standing athwart one of several skiffs that were tied to a makeshift dock, but the girl was nowhere to be seen.

  A tall stone tower was barely visible above the trees. In the shadow of the topmost window stood a lonely figure, her long hair unbound and tangled around her head. She peered cautiously at the procession of Champions moving along the riverbank as though afraid of both seeing and being seen, and I wondered if the enforced solitude had completely unstrung her mind. My heart went out to her.

  Suddenly Elaine moved forward and stepping into the sunlight, leaned out over the window ledge.

  I waved to her, but her attention was riveted on the procession; though she held a weaving shuttle in one hand and a hank of yellow floss in the other, both loom and bodkin were forgotten as she stared raptly downstream.

  There was something uncanny in her strange, intense stare, and once more I wished her father could understand that imprisonment would not cure her “shyness.” With a sigh for human nature I put the subject aside and promptly forgot her. Later I would have ample cause to remember that moment.

  ***

  Our journey down the river was long and stately, and by the time the Roman bridge at London came into view I could have jumped up clapping for joy at getting off that boat.

  The people of London turned out to give us a welcome as gay as the water trip had been solemn. They crowded onto the bridge and lined the wharf below the walls, while out on the river scores of skiffs and coracles formed a procession as we headed for the quay.

  Lancelot and Bedivere stood on the pier, and after Arthur asked the ranking members of the Council for permission to enter the city, trumpeters filled the air with flourishes and the two lieutenants helped us ashore.

  Bedivere gave Arthur a broad grin of welcome, but the Breton greeted me with great solemnity. Instead of the courtly nod I expected, he studied me intently as he took my hand and helped me ashore.

  “Are you well—not overtaxed by such a long trip?” he asked.

  “A little tired,” I admitted, giving his hand a squeeze of appreciation as the wooden dock firmed up beneath my feet. “If only the royal trappings weren’t so cumbersome.” I tugged at the cape which had caught on the rough edge of a piling.

  Bending low in a gesture that might be construed as a deep bow, he untangled the corner of the offending garment.

  “Your freedom, M’lady,” he said lightly, and then we were laughing as he offered me his arm, and we hurried after Arthur.

  ***

  Cei and Enid were arranging a splendid feast with which to conclude the oath taking, so I was blessed with several days of relaxing and catching up with bits of news and gossip from all over the realm.

  In general men talk about what happened—who has been bravest or bloodiest and where the victory lay—while women discuss who did what and why, and how it will affect the rest of us. So I went to the women in order to gauge the mood of the Court.

  All the Britons, both northern and southern, were basking in the victory at Mt. Badon. Our journey down the Thames was hailed as a stroke of genius, and the midsummer gathering in the old Imperial City was seen as a fitting climax of pomp and power. Only the Roman girl Augusta made bold enough to mention Maelgwn, asking snidely about his standing in the Round Table. I brushed her question aside and was glad when no one else pursued the subject. Hopefully they realized that a confrontation could lead to civil war, and we needed the men of Gwynedd as allies. For myself, I was still frightened that it would lead to Arthur’s death.

  The Park around the Palace was in splendid shape this year, so I arranged a picnic for my ladies, hoping to catch whatever breeze came off the river to relieve the summer heat. A fat bumblebee was making its way through drifts of flowers, the hum of its wings lying soft on the still air as the talk moved round to visiting royalty.

  Our guests had begun to arrive from all over the realm. Everyone except Morgan le Fey and Maelgwn had promised to be in attendance. Even King Mark of Cornwall had overcome his fear of travel and arrived that very morning, bringing a large entourage for Isolde and the Champions Tristan and Dinadan as well.

  “The Cornish Queen and her husband’s nephew are never out of touch,” Ettard commented, her childish voice giving the innuendo an ingenuous twist. It caught me by surprise, for I hadn’t realized that royal romance had become common knowledge.

  Vinnie handed round a tray of biscuits and sliced cucumbers and scowled at the convent girl, who looked away with a giggle.

  “You’re a fine one to talk.” Augusta’s patrician voice cut sharply across the mirth like the bee darting for a new patch of blossoms. “Everyone knows you and Pelleas spend all your time together.”

  Ettard blushed but raised her head haughtily. “It is he who seeks me out,” she snapped.

  “And you’re no longer pushing him aside. What’s the matter, is he the best you can get, after all?”

  “Now just you shush,” Vinnie exclaimed. “Whoever heard of such tattling in front of a Queen?”

  The girls settled down after that, and the older women made a point of keeping the conversation on more steady subjects: the state of the crops, the arrival of Byzantine traders at the London docks, and the gradual growth of trade between the Saxon women and their counterparts in the city markets.

  “Sometimes I think if it was left to women, we’d have long since settled the difficulties between the tribes,” Enid mused, and I couldn’t help but agree with her.

  The men, however, went about it in their own way.

  The acceptance of the Saxons’ oaths took two full days. Not all were willing to pledge themselves as Arthur’s men, and those who refused were led to a block a short distance away, where their heads were chopped off unceremoniously.

  I winced whenever the sword fell, for while many had died in combat against us, execution was something else again. But the bloodier-minded Celts cheered happily each time a Saxon head rolled, and Arthur’s standing among them rose another notch.

  A small but grisly collection began to decorate the wall over the gate, as a warning to any who might plan to cross the Pendragon again.

  ***

  “This thing gets hea
vier every year,” Arthur muttered, taking off the crown at the end of the first day and looking about for some place to put the golden circle. Our chamber in the Palace was enormous and over the centuries had become the final resting place for wardrobes and linen chests, tables and stools and couches of all kinds. Arthur finally put the crown over the stile of a chair and sank wearily onto the seat.

  In the distance the crows quarreled and flapped among the heads, pulling the flesh from the recent dead and squawking in raucous victory over each bloody morsel.

  I came round to stand behind my husband, trying to massage the tension out of his shoulders and commiserating on the less noble aspects of being a ruler.

  “Part of the job,” he grumbled, rubbing the red mark the crown had left on his temple.

  “It’s not always going to be like this,” I murmured.

  “That’s up to them.” He spoke curtly, the hard edge of authority cutting off all other comment.

  I rested my cheek against the top of his head with a sigh. It was one thing to understand his avoidance of personal emotions, and even to put aside my own desire for support when I was scared or hurt or sad. But this callousness toward those whose lives had become forfeit to our sovereignty was something new. I wondered if empathy and compassion no longer existed for him—if too many wars and too much violence in the effort to bring peace kills the capacity to feel anything afterward.

  “Time for bed,” he yawned, leaning forward and away from my embrace. “At least tomorrow will see the last of it; Cei’s feast can’t come too soon for me.”

  ***

  I nodded silently, echoing the sentiments myself.

  Chapter XXV

  The Lily Maid