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

by Persia Woolley

  We were both watching him closely, and he turned to face Arthur directly. “Of all the men she spoke of, you are the only one she accorded any respect. Indeed, there was even a sense of affection and attachment. Perhaps the very fact that you are not attainable makes you that much more special to her, for I would swear the Lady loves you not as a brother, but as a consort—and seeks other men to replace you because you are inaccessible to her.”

  I shuddered involuntarily, for incest is an ancient taboo, and repugnance at the very idea runs deep and strong.

  Arthur turned his face away, disgust and a kind of blind fury twisting his features.

  “That is basically all I have to report,” the Breton concluded. “She let me go without any fuss, and I came to warn you immediately. Though she couldn’t woo me away from you, she may well try another…or at the least stir up trouble among the Companions.”

  “Obviously,” Arthur said with a sigh, “I will have to keep up my guard. Can’t say that’s anything new, however.” He looked at Lance and grinned. “I am well blessed to have a lieutenant so true and trustworthy; may your loyalty be sung of for years to come!”

  The compliment fell into a well of silence. Lance flushed, staring at his horse’s withers and biting his lip while I squirmed inwardly. The love Lance and I shared had nothing to do with disloyalty to Arthur, yet for the first time I felt awkward and uncertain, as though the ground I was riding on were shifting fearfully under Shadow’s hooves.

  The conversation swung to other things—Geraint’s having named our stronghold Camelot, Enid and Geraint’s forthcoming marriage, and the news that Tristan had become lieutenant to a Prince of Brittany.

  “Howell’s a good man, and steady,” Arthur allowed. “Tris’s life should be more manageable now.”

  And so we rode blithely on to the Winchester fair, through a countryside where peasants in the stubbled fields and swineherds by the oak groves, smiths who’d set up forges next to stream crossings and hurdle makers carrying home loads of hazel rods, all turned to wave a greeting to their rulers. No doubt they thought our lives one long parade of splendor, without the cares or worries of the common man.

  Arthur waved back to them, cheerful and good-natured, exuding confidence in all the ways the world wanted to see, while Lance and I rode in silence, each wrapped in our own discomfort.

  ***

  And all the time Isolde’s words floated in my thoughts…no one promised it would be easy.

  Chapter XXXIV

  The Declaration

  Gwen, you know I love you…and I want you to come away with me.”

  Lance’s voice was husky and low, and I stared at him in astonishment. We were standing in the birch grove atop Winchester’s hill, the sounds of the market drifting up from the greensward below, carried by the barest of breezes. Here, hidden in the shade of the trees, Lance had turned and taken me in his arms.

  “I thought that leaving Court, that putting you and Arthur behind me, would make things better,” he went on. “But oh, my dearest, it doesn’t help at all. Not a day goes by but what I think of you, miss you, want you with me. I didn’t intend to come back—it was the urgency of Morgan’s action that drove me to it. And now that I have, now that I see you again…”

  He was staring into my eyes so that my knees went weak and my spine seemed to melt until the only things that held me upright were his hands and voice.

  “But I can’t face Arthur, loving you like this, knowing you love me as well. I cannot play him false, Gwen. He is my friend as well as my King, and one of the finest men on earth. Better to be open and honest about it and make the break clean so as not to drag us and him through half-truths and duplicity. We both saw what that did to Tristan and Isolde. But if we tell Arthur outright, explain what’s happened…We’ll go to Joyous Gard, or Brittany—or even Arabia, if necessary. Away where we can love openly and without guilt. The whole of life is there to share, if we but reach out for it.”

  The breeze freshened, lifting my hair and tugging at my shawl. Lance slid an arm around my shoulders, and we began to walk—slowly, aimlessly—through the trees. The idea of going to live with him was so new, I couldn’t take it in all at once.

  “What kind of future would we have?” I asked. “You know I cannot have children.”

  He nodded, slowly and thoughtfully. “Aye, I accept that. It is worth it to me to have you beside me.”

  I heard the words but saw in memory the many times I’d watched him stop to play with the youngsters, helping a young lad mount a horse for a lesson in the stableyard or pausing to console the tot who’d fallen and scraped a knee. Lance’s way with children was wonderful to behold, and to condemn him to a life without any of his own seemed dreadful.

  The sounds of merriment and celebration drifted up from the vale below, led by a piper’s quick, lilting tune. We had reached the edge of the grove, and I peered down at the fairgoers, as though by diverting my attention I could put off answering him.

  The green was full of tents and booths, stalls and blankets where the peddlers spread their wares. I could make out each band of merchants, each clan of farmers, each laughing, colorful group of celebrants who had come to frolic as well as trade. They were my people, my subjects, the ones who called me Queen.

  And in the midst of them was Arthur. Arthur Pendragon, a King of majesty, a man with a hidden heart. My own heart ached suddenly to see him there and find myself here.

  “That is,” Lance whispered, “if you are willing to leave him.”

  The very thought brought a physical pain and I turned to look at the Breton, to tell him no, it could never be.

  Yet it was with Lance that I had found love and tenderness and all the joyful sharing of the spirit that makes life sometimes wonderful. With Lance it was enough that I be just who I was, without struggling for crown or children or the strength and courage of all those Celtic Queens.

  The idea of a life based on my own desires rather than the needs of others danced dazzling before me, as sweet and poignant as the nightingale’s song. “I don’t know,” I stammered. “I…I’ve never considered such a thing. I must…must think about it.”

  Lance was stroking my cheek with the back of his hand, gently pushing back the wisps of hair that had escaped my shawl. I turned into the caress, kissing his palm, letting him cradle my head in his hand.

  “I will think about it,” I promised, and he nodded.

  “I know it’s abrupt—it wasn’t until he was praising my loyalty that I realized I cannot carry this secret any longer. Take your time, my love. You’ll have the whole winter to think it through…in the summer, when the hedge sparrows have returned to the gardens, I’ll come back for your answer. Then, if you want, if it would be easier, I’ll talk to him first. I’ll have to do that sometime, anyhow.”

  “No,” I cried, remembering how well we’d all worked together, how deeply hurt Arthur would be…maybe more by the loss of his lieutenant than his wife. “I’d rather tell him myself.”

  I stared up at my love, torn no matter which way I moved, and he smiled gently. “Until next time,” he whispered, lifting my fingers to his lips.

  And then we were running pell-mell down the path to the green, mixing with the crowds who had gathered around fire eater and shaman, prize bull and prancing pony. Lance bade a noisy farewell to Arthur and galloped off toward London while I turned back to my husband and my subjects.

  ***

  By autumn the construction of Camelot was virtually complete. Below the hill the workers’ tents at Cadbury were replaced by solid houses filled with people come to be part of the dream: merchants and craftsmen, vendors and artisans. Signs were hung, gardens were planned, fancy horses filled the stalls, and there was a new influx of youngsters coming to Court.

  Sometimes I worried about what would happen to my women if I left with Lance. But at other times I could not get away from them fast enough, particularly the redhead from Carbonek, who spent her time crying because the Bret
on had not come back to Court. One or another of the warriors had attempted to distract her; even the Orkney brothers each tried their luck at courting, but she brushed them aside, saying only Lancelot would do.

  Gawain appeared to be philosophical about it, casting his attention elsewhere, and Gaheris shrugged it off as well, but Agravain made snide remarks and brooded darkly on being rebuffed.

  Elaine herself ignored them, continuing to praise the virtues of her “one true love,” and I tried to avoid her whenever possible. The only other thing she spoke of was the disappearance of her cat, who had, I suspected, gone off to produce another litter of kittens.

  But one evening at dinner the girl let out such a scream that the entire Hall fell silent.

  “Tiger Fang…my Tiger Fang,” she gibbered, pointing at Agravain with a trembling hand and fainting dead away.

  The handsome warrior from Orkney never paused in his strut across the room, but his hand moved to the sporran he wore at his belt. Along with the other northern lairds he liked to carry his things in a fur purse, and the one he presently sported was made from the mottled skin of Elaine’s cat. The little creature’s skull had been removed, but the face was ghoulishly plumped out with stuffing and formed the flap of the purse.

  “How could you!” I cried, enraged that he should kill a harmless pet and flaunt it in this stupid, senseless way.

  He flicked me an insolent glance and kept on going, as cold and heartless as any Saxon I could imagine.

  “Arthur, can’t you do something?” I begged, deeply shaken by the man’s cruelty.

  “Nothing that would bring the lass’s pet back,” he answered. “I can’t banish him for it, vicious as it is.”

  I was on my feet and moving toward Elaine as she came round to consciousness. Bedivere reached her at the same time, and between us and Vinnie we got the sobbing child upstairs.

  As Arthur said, there was little one could do about the cat, but I vowed to keep a good distance from Agravain in the future.

  ***

  Frieda’s brother and sister-in-law had joined us at Camelot, adding their skills as barrel makers to our household. Now that we had a fine supply of wooden kegs, I intended to fill them with that famous Somerset cider, scrumpy. Nimue was helping me check the goat-hair mats we’d filter the apple juice through when I told her about the demise of Tiger Fang.

  “None of the Orkney boys are easy to get along with.” Nimue sighed. “Poor Pelleas is still recuperating from Gawain’s treachery.”

  “Have you seen the horseman?” I asked.

  “Ummmh,” she answered, holding up the end of a mat and scanning it for tears. Something in her tone caught my attention, and I paused to consider her more closely.

  The doire had a newly solid look; more than the dignity I’d seen at the cave or the gracefulness and majesty that happened when the Goddess spoke through her. It was as though she had ripened, somehow.

  “Are you pregnant?” I asked, absolutely without preamble.

  “No.” She laughed good-naturedly at my lack of tact. “But I think I am in love. That is, we are…maybe.”

  “Sounds like an awfully cautious, one-foot-out-the-door commitment,” I joked, and she grinned. “Do I know him? Has he been at Court? How did you meet?”

  A hundred other questions leapt to mind, for I couldn’t imagine the sort of man Nimue might choose after having loved the great Magician—she and Merlin had seemed to be the God and Goddess incarnate.

  “I grieved for Merlin for several years—seeing his face in the swirl of bark on a tree, hearing his voice in the murmur of wind through grasses. At night I’d grow dizzy watching for him in the stars, and sometimes he’d come to me in dreams. I even went to Bardsey Island, back to the cave where I had laid his body. I spent an entire night at the foot of his bier, but found I was no nearer to him there than in my sleep at home. It was then I realized Merlin no longer had any use for the physical plane. He could reach me spiritually any time he chose, and it was up to me to go on with my own living.”

  Nimue lifted a small yellow apple and began tossing it absently in her hand. “So I made a tour of Arthur’s realm, and eventually came to Pelleas’s holdings. I had heard how devastated he was over the matter of Ettard, but even so was surprised to find the poor fellow had lost all will to live. I stayed with him a while, and together we began to put our pasts behind us in favor of the present…and here we are.”

  “But isn’t he a Christian?” I queried.

  Niume nodded and lifting the golden fruit, sniffed it reflectively. “He doesn’t want to renounce it, nor would I ask it. Somehow, when we are together we are just who we are—partners with a world of difference in our individual ways of doing things, who each hold sacred the haven we have made. He gives me a balance, and a wholeness I never knew was possible.”

  “Like Lance,” I murmured, and the doire looked up sharply.

  “So it is true?”

  I nodded and put down the mat I was holding. “I suppose there are all sorts of rumors?”

  It was her turn to nod. “Morgan seems to have started them, after your summer at Joyous Gard. Is that why he’s left the Court?”

  “Yes. And he’s asked me to come away with him.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know…what should I do?”

  The doire stared into some unfathomable distance before speaking. “For the love of Britain, I would say stay here, for you are the Queen and the people need you. For the love of Arthur, I would say stay with him, for whether he knows it or not, he needs you. For the love of life…for that, I would say go with Lance. You will never have a better chance, a deeper love, a richer future. And for the love of you, my dearest friend, I would counsel that you are the only one who can make the decision. It cannot be to please anyone else, but must come truly from what you need to do.”

  There was a long pause during which she searched my face, after which she shrugged. “Not much help, is it?”

  “No,” I admitted miserably. “Sometimes I think it will all be decided on the day Lance comes for his answer…that I won’t know what I’m going to say until he’s standing in front of me and the words simply come out of my mouth.”

  ***

  But, in fact, the future was decided not in the summer, but in the month of tears, when Morgause came to the Hall at Camelot.

  Chapter XXXV

  Morgause

  She’s standing in the rain, Your Highness, soaked clean through,” the Gate Keeper said urgently. “Knowing the King’s feelings about his sisters, I dared not let her in, but since he’s not here…” Lucan’s voice trailed off uncertainly.

  “Take me to her,” I answered, rising immediately and signaling for Lamorak to come with me. I had no idea what I expected to find—half ogre, half woman, wronged by a brother’s anger for which I saw no justification. At least now I would have a chance to judge Morgause for myself.

  She stood in the middle of the cobbled court, making no effort to hide from the storm. Cloak and clothes, shoes and luggage ran with rivulets of water; her own hair and that of the boy she sheltered under one arm was plastered flat by the rain, and her skin had the clammy, cold look of one who is chilled to the bone. Yet she had not crept to the protection of the threshold when Lucan came to fetch me; Celtic pride forbade that she go where she was not wanted.

  “You must be my brother’s wife,” Morgause announced as I came through the doorway. “We in the north have heard much about his Cumbrian bride.”

  Her tone was pleasant, as though she were greatly pleased to meet me, and her voice sounded remarkably like Igraine’s. A playful smile lit her features while she looked Lamorak up and down. “But you are certainly not Arthur.”

  The big warrior flushed as I hastened to explain that the High King had left on a hunting expedition that morning and was not expected back for several days. “What has brought you here, and on such a night as this?” I asked. April is a chancy month for traveling, wi
th the weather being so changeable, and I was puzzled that she had not waited for milder conditions.

  “Why, I had to keep my word to Mordred,” she answered, her eyes shifting for a moment to the boy. “When the older children went off to join their uncle at his Court, both Gareth and Mordred felt terribly left out. I promised each of them that when they were old enough to become pages I would bring them to Arthur so they might serve him as well as Gawain and Gaheris and Agravain have. Mordred will turn eleven next week, on May Day—and one doesn’t break a promise to a child, not for weather or politics or any other reason,” she added firmly.

  I smiled at her reasoning, sure that if I had been a mother, I would have felt the same.

  The rain was pelting down, driven by a cruel wind, and remembering the stew in our pots and the warmth by our fire, I invited her inside. In spite of Arthur’s edict, I could not bring myself to leave the woman and child shivering in the cold.

  “But only for one night,” I cautioned. I didn’t know how to explain that my husband had left orders to drive her from his gates, but since she would be gone long before he returned, I decided not to worry about it. Under the circumstances it was the only humane thing to do.

  They followed me into the kitchen, steam rising from their clothes like druid’s mist. It wreathed them in mystery, reminding me that Gawain had once boasted his mother was every bit as powerful as Morgan le Fey. But when they’d changed into the dry garments Lynette fetched from my wardrobe, they looked like any other travelers stranded on a wretched night.

  Lamorak brought in their baggage, then waited around hoping to be useful. He beamed with pleasure as Morgause thanked him for his help, and the Orcadian Queen cast him a coquettish look while she toweled her hair.