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

by Persia Woolley

  Laughing, I left the seat and came around to stand before my love, lifting my heart as well as my arms to his embrace. But he grasped my wrists firmly and put them back down at my sides.

  “I will not play the Tristan to your Isolde,” he said softly. “The lovers from Cornwall may have their love potion, but we must live with our own consciences.”

  I stared at him uncertainly, knowing I’d just been rebuffed but not sure why. He led me to a rock where we could sit and look out over the pool as he tried to explain.

  “Call it honor, pride, responsibility—whatever term you’re most comfortable with. Tris and Isolde have sacrificed every ethic they’ve ever had in order to live out their love, until they’ve been corrupted from inside. I’ll not let that happen betwixt us, ever.”

  We sat in silence for a bit while I thought about what he’d said.

  “And when we return to Court both of us will be able to look Arthur in the eye,” he added slowly. “Gwen, I would give the world to have it otherwise…but not my honor.”

  “Spoken like a true Celt.” I sighed, half relieved, half furious that now the assurance of love had been won, there was nothing we could do about it.

  ***

  “Sir Agravain of Orkney,” Frieda announced, her guttural voice filling the kitchen.

  I turned from the berry cobbler I was making, thinking how preposterous it was to introduce Gawain’s brother so formally in this setting. But one look at the handsome Orcadian showed me why Frieda had presented him so; he was scowling at the people in the kitchen with total contempt.

  “There must be someplace we can speak in private,” he demanded as I wiped the flour off my hands and came forward to greet him.

  The youngest of the three close-born sons of Morgause, he was also the most abrasive. Gawain flashed fire and ice while Gaheris sulked amid gray rain clouds, but Agravain was as barbed and stinging as sleet.

  We settled at a table in the room next to the garden. The late morning sun was gilding the hips on the rose vine, and I made a mental note to harvest them next week.

  “King Mark of Cornwall has announced that he will declare war on Logres unless Arthur can effect a reconciliation between him and Isolde. There isn’t much room for negotiation, and the High King wants you to convince the Irish whore to go home.”

  Agravain’s tone and choice of words were unnecessarily harsh, and I was hard put not to show my aversion. Hopefully I could send him quickly back to Arthur. “Does His Highness want an immediate reply?” I asked.

  “He’s my uncle, too, M’lady…not just Gawain’s,” Agravain noted obliquely, then shrugged. “I guess I can stay around for a few days…if the Queen’s Champion doesn’t mind, that is.”

  The innuendo wasn’t lost on me, but I stared at him with as bland an expression as I could muster. It was one thing to deal with Gawain’s explosive nature and quite another to rile Agravain, who, I suspected, had a broad cruel streak.

  “Sir Lancelot will no doubt find a place for you,” I suggested smoothly. “And I’ll take up the matter with the Queen of Cornwall as soon as possible.”

  ***

  I found Isolde seated by the window, sewing. Her face turned ashen and her eyes filled with tears when she heard Mark’s threat, and she stared at me in misery, her fingers unconsciously smoothing the seam of the shirt she had been working on for Tristan.

  “I knew we would bring trouble to you,” she whispered. “I knew we should not have come…but Gwen, there is nowhere else we could go. And now…”

  “Are you willing to consider going back to Mark?” I put the question as gently as possible, but it jolted her nonetheless.

  “Willing…?” She drew the word out slowly and was silent for a long minute, the shirt lying forgotten in her lap. At last she turned and looked over the oak grove toward the little river and the heather-clad hills that shield Joyous Gard from the rest of the world. “I don’t want to go back,” she mused, “but that doesn’t mean I won’t, if necessary.”

  “What would make it necessary?” I was trying desperately to remember the political realities and not get tangled in emotions, though my heart went out to her now as it never had before.

  Isolde’s answer was far more practical than I anticipated.

  “If Tris wants it. If his life is in danger if I don’t. If we have nowhere safe to go from here. If we’d have to go back to living in huts and hovels with swineherds and such…”

  Her voice trailed off, and she shot me a quick look from under those lovely winged brows. “It’s hard to forget you were born and raised a Queen when your stomach is empty and you’re stiff and cold from sleeping on a dirt floor.”

  “Have you discussed the possibility of returning to his father’s people?” I queried, trying to find a solution.

  “They don’t want him.” She grimaced. “He has no standing there. And besides, the climate is terrible.”

  The girl should have been a horse trader, given the rapidity with which she assessed and dismissed the options.

  She straightened on her cushion and, carefully folding the shirt, spoke her piece with a strong, regal voice.

  “I will return to Cornwall on two conditions: that King Arthur must order it, and that he agrees to accept Tristan as his own Champion…Tris must never be left without a country, a king…someone to guide him.”

  “And Dinadan,” I added almost automatically.

  “Yes, and Dinadan. He doesn’t care much for me, or I for him, but he’s good at looking out for Tris.”

  She sighed deeply, as though giving in to something inevitable, then looked up at me with a sudden urgency. “It must be done as soon as possible. I dare not think about it, worry over it, prolong the pain of it, or I won’t be able to give him up. Help me, Gwen—help me to break out of it now, before we do more harm, dole out more pain.”

  There was such anguish in her voice, I reached out to her instinctively, putting my arms around her and promising we would leave for the High King’s Court as soon as she was ready.

  “This afternoon,” she whispered. “I’ll be ready in an hour.”

  “But Tris and Lance are out hunting; they’ll probably not be back until dark,” I reminded her, and got a wan little smile in return.

  “Gwen, if I try to tell him—if I have to face a farewell—I’ll never leave at all. Surely you can understand that.”

  So we agreed to pack immediately, and I left her chambers with infinite sadness. My respect for the child-bride had grown immensely. Weighing the options, protecting her lover, accepting her moira…all this within the space of half an hour by a girl barely past the age I was when I had married.

  The fact that I knew so clearly what she was giving up made it doubly poignant.

  ***

  It took some doing, but we were riding away with Agravain by midafternoon and were well beyond the rugged Simonside Hills before the men came home for supper. Isolde said never a word, either that day or the next, but her eyes grew swollen and blotched from crying, and my heart broke for her all over again.

  Chapter XXXII

  The Priest

  We reached South Cadbury on one of those smoke-smudged days when the stubble of the fields was being burned. A misty gray veil hung over the land and the setting sun was a copper disk.

  The tiny village at the base of the fortress’s hill was crowded with the tents of craftsmen from all over Logres who’d come to work on Arthur’s stronghold—carpenters and smiths, stone workers and plumbers, carvers and painters, all eager to take part in creating the King’s new home.

  The hill itself rises from the lowlands as suddenly as the Tor at Glastonbury, though Cadbury is more rugged and lacks the lake and marsh that lap the feet of the Tor. During the days of the Empire, when all hill-forts lay deserted, bramble and scrub had grown thick over the banks and ditches. Arthur had removed all trace of tree and vine lest they provide a handhold for attacking Saxons, and now the rock foundations of the fortress towered over the plai
n in four steep tiers.

  I caught my breath as I stared up at it. A wooden parapet had been built atop the rockwork wall, and lookout towers pointed in each direction of the compass. Large double gates, bound with iron and boasting huge hinges, opened on a steep cobbled road that led upward to the broad plateau inside the ramparts.

  It was here, on the highest ridge, that Arthur had constructed an amazing Hall. Double-storied, with a peaked roof like that of the Great Hall at Appleby, its walls of newly planked wood shimmered palely in the afternoon light.

  Pennants fluttered on the lookout towers, and the Banner of the Red Dragon floated over the roofbeam of the Hall, proclaiming the High King’s presence. Craftsmen called back and forth to each other or paused to survey their work before hurrying off for more materials. Altogether it had the life and sparkle of a miniature city spun into reality by the arts of the fey.

  I sat tall and proud in the saddle as we drew near. Thanks to Lance I was returning to my husband without a trace of guilt, yet there would be a difference. Never again need I hunger for words Arthur couldn’t say. Never again need I think of myself only as that competent but childless Queen. No matter what else the summer at Joyous Gard had brought, I knew I was loved, and even seen as lovely, by a man I admired and loved in return. That knowledge wrapped around me like a charm.

  When we reached the gates Agravain called out to the sentry in the tower, announcing that he had the Queens of Britain and Cornwall with him. There was something childishly boastful in his voice, as though he were unused to filling a position of importance. I wondered what his childhood had been like; too young to keep up with Gawain and Gaheris, too old to enjoy playing with Gareth and Mordred, perhaps he had never found a niche of his own in Morgause’s family.

  Once inside the walls we were surrounded by a fever of activity. Workers and soldiers were laying out drainage ditches while over at what I took to be the stables a cadre of men were hoisting the roofbeam into place. And all of it to be part of our new home.

  I stared about me, thrilled and impressed.

  “Almost ready for its Queen,” said a familiar voice, and there was Arthur standing in front of my mare. Featherfoot nickered and brought her nose down to be patted as he grinned up at me. He was wearing the leather apron of a laborer and was hot and sweaty from working with the builders, but the pride of accomplishment and welcome in his voice was unmistakable.

  Staring down at him, I felt the summer past slip suddenly away. I fairly leapt off my horse and then Arthur was lifting me in one of those high, wild embraces he does so well.

  A cluster of workmen cheered and clapped approvingly, and when we’d shared a long, full kiss I threw back my head and, looking up at him, announced firmly, “Now that is more like a welcome home.”

  For a moment I thought he was going to drop me, he laughed so hard.

  ***

  Once Isolde was settled, Arthur and I sat down to exchange news.

  “Tristan didn’t know she was going to leave,” I explained. “I wrote Lance a note asking him to detain Tris at Warkworth until Isolde reaches Cornwall—with all the rest of the women to move as well, it will take them some time just to get started. What have you heard from Mark?”

  Arthur frowned. “Nothing so far, but he should be satisfied now that his wife is returning. How did you get her to agree so readily?”

  “I think,” I answered carefully, “she’s simply had enough of grand romance…She and Tris paid a very dear price for their love.” I paused, not wanting to discuss the subject. “Now tell me, what’s been happening at Court?”

  “Everyone here’s been working on the buildings. Between Bedivere’s engineering and Cei’s ability to find materials, we’ve made wonderful progress. Elsewhere, the Saxons are quiet. Sir Ector reports that Cynric is settling in well—says he’s a bright lad who seems to have accepted the loss of his father’s cause. Only time will tell if he’s willing to accept me as his overlord, so we’ll wait and see. Haven’t heard anything about Pelleas—or Gawain, for that matter. Mostly,” Arthur concluded, coming to stand in front of me, “I’ve spent the summer missing you.”

  It was such a surprising admission, I threw my arms around him in a hug, and then we were kissing and stroking and groping for the bed, everyone and everything else forgotten.

  I woke next morning to the cheerful whistling of a carpenter hammering away in the next room and, squinting in the sunshine, was surprised to find Arthur still abed.

  “I think waking up with you is what I missed most,” he said casually, grinning down at me. It was the kind of comment he never used to make and I wondered if I should go away more often. Whatever accounted for my husband’s change of habit, I was delighted.

  By comparison, the mood of the Cornish Queen verged on despair. I found Isolde lying on her bed, staring silently at the ceiling. “Yes, yes—I know I must make plans,” she acknowledged. “And I won’t be going back on my word…It’s home to Mark I go, and that’s all there is to that. But not yet, Gwen…I’m not ready yet.”

  I was loath to press her further—who knew what memories and sorrows she was grappling with. I just hoped a few days’ rest would revive her spirits.

  Later, when Arthur took me to see the new kennels, memories of my own rose to haunt me. Coming through the doorway, I ran right into Maelgwn’s hound from the Otherworld. He raised his head and stared directly at me, as he had in the hunting lodge, eyes glowing red, throat full of growls.

  “What’s he doing here?” I cried, clutching my husband’s arm in panic and turning away from the brute.

  “He’s well chained, Gwen—can’t possibly hurt you. Giving over Dormarth was part of Maelgwn’s reparation. I’ve always wanted to breed up a strain of black dogs, you know…”

  I began to shake uncontrollably, a cold sweat covering my skin. Quite apart from the fact that it seemed a small payment for the grief my cousin had caused, I simply could not face the idea of living with that constant reminder under my roof.

  “Please, Arthur—I haven’t asked for many things over the years,” I begged, still shaking. “Please get rid of him. I don’t care how, just make him go away.”

  Arthur stared at me, confusion and surprise in both his voice and face. “I had no idea it would upset you so…” From the way his voice trailed off I knew he hoped I’d change my mind, but the very presence of the creature made my stomach turn, and I held firm.

  Fortunately Gwyn of Neath, who had indeed built a small Hall of his own on Glastonbury’s Tor, arrived that evening to welcome me home, and Arthur gave the devil-hound to him. The gnarled little man was immensely pleased and promised to breed the dogs for Arthur but not bring them here, so everyone was satisfied.

  ***

  Isolde’s problem was not so easily remedied, however—she continued to lie on her bed without tears or words, as though uncaring about either life or death. While I conferred with the builders about small additions and amendments to the kitchen—including a dovecote like the one at York—I tried to think how to encourage the Cornish Queen to continue her journey. Castle Dore was only a few days away, and I didn’t want Mark to come haul her home when she’d already made the trip this far. Besides, there was no telling how long Lance could keep Tris in the north.

  I was debating the matter as I carried out a rack of fresh bread to cool. For a moment I paused to stare down the cobbled roadway, still marveling at the citadel the workers were constructing.

  A swarm of people had gathered around a traveler who was making his way up the hill, and as they came nearer I cried out in surprise.

  “Lance, what are you doing here?” I couldn’t imagine why he was on foot, and there was no sign of Tristan.

  He glanced up at the sound of my voice and I called out again so he could see where I was. As the little crowd opened to let him through, I realized he was wearing the habit and cross of a Christian priest. My heart began to pound, and I shook my head in disbelief. Mouth open, eyes all but popping o
ut of my head, I stood there like a ninny, gaping at the man who limped toward me.

  “Your Highness.” His blue eyes twinkled as he made a formal bow. “Allow me.”

  He took hold of the rack just as I was turning to put it down, and for a moment we engaged in a little tug-of-war.

  “Oh, Kevin, is it really you?” I exclaimed, finally finding my voice as Beaumains rushed to relieve us of the loaves.

  “Aye, ’tis me in the flesh, my dear, and more than glad to have found you!”

  The people watched in astonishment as we hugged and cried and laughed like moonstruck children until I explained that Kevin was the closest thing I had to a brother, who had been lost and long thought dead.

  “But I never believed it,” I rejoiced once we were seated in a quiet spot under the loft that runs around all four sides of the Hall. “You know I made Rhufon send Ailbe after you, don’t you?”

  “Ah, so that’s how the wolfhound came to join me.” Kevin smiled. “I did wonder about that.”

  “He was moping so badly, we thought he’d die,” I explained, remembering that no one could get the great dog to eat once his master was gone. “But everyone said you’d be eaten by wolves or bears, or worse yet, captured by outlaws and sold as a slave. I was counting on Ailbe to keep you alive.”

  Kevin inclined his head, his tone light but his words serious. “Then I owe you my life, for I did come close to starving, and the weather was bitter that year…Without Ailbe for help in hunting and warmth in sleeping, I might well have died.”

  There was a pause while I struggled not to blurt out the question that had haunted me for so long: Had you loved me, Kevin? Did you run away because you couldn’t stand to see the emissaries of kings come courting? Or was it only my own childish dream that kept me waiting for you, clinging to the belief that one day you’d return right up to the point when I married Arthur? Now that he’d come back, even belatedly, I needed to know the truth of it.