Queen of the Summer Stars

by Persia Woolley

Since the weather was mild, we visited the nearby client Kings along the southern coast of Wales. This was the land of Igraine’s birth, a place of soft green hills and winding valleys, rimmed with sandy beaches and dotted with cities not yet deserted and dying.

  The people were a wonderfully exotic lot, retaining colorful scraps of past luxury whether they lived in old villas or rough-hewn steadings. As yet untouched by the Saxon plague, their harbors were still visited by Mediterranean ships. The aristocrats sent their children to the Continent to be educated, and some even rode about in contraptions called carriages.

  Agricola had such a conveyance and had let me ride in it on the trip south to marry Arthur. Now that we were staying so near Demetia, he put it entirely at my disposal. Far lighter than a farm wagon, when the team was at full gallop we whisked over the paved Road like a cloud across the morning sky. All my childhood dreams of being a warrior rose up around me, and I’d imagine I was Boadicea in her wicker war-chariot, leading British troops into battle. If it wasn’t for the fact that Arthur would have teased me unmercifully about it, I would have asked if we couldn’t get one to keep with us always.

  ***

  “You’re right handy with a pair, M’lady,” the warlord Poulentis exclaimed the day Arthur let me handle the horses on the way out to the hill-fort at Dinas Powys. Our host stood in the midst of an unpaved court, his swordbelt worked in the Byzantine manner and a necklace of Egyptian glass beads circling his neck, though his homespun trews were ragged and patched.

  “Can’t say as how I’ve a taste for such frippery,” he added, grinning good-naturedly at the vehicle. “Or fancy houses with plaster and murals. Drystone walls were good enough for my ancestors—they’re good enough for me.”

  Poulentis led the way into his small, rugged Hall and gestured toward the hearth at the far end of the oval where haunches of pork crisped and sizzled on the spit. “I’m more in need of a sty for my new pigs than a carriage for my vanity.”

  I laughed with pleasure, taking in the familiar sight of guests seated around the open fire. Sparrows and mice rustled in the thick thatch of the roof, and for a moment it felt as though I were home again in Rheged.

  “You do know Illtud, don’t you?” our host asked as an impressive gray-haired gentleman rose to his feet at our approach. He had a majestic air not common in those who wear the simple robes of a Christian monk and I tried to remember where I’d seen him before.

  “He’s Igraine’s cousin,” Poulentis whispered as the newcomer greeted Arthur with a kinsman’s embrace. “Used to rule this whole area.”

  It came back then, the memory of the man who had been a powerful Prince and fine warrior but chose to renounce it all in favor of the Church.

  “M’lady.” Illtud smiled easily at me as we sat down. “I hear that you and my young cousin are doing fine things in Logres. The peasants prosper, the shores are safe, and Britain no longer bleeds with internal feuds.” He helped himself to a chunk of bread and turned to Arthur. “That trip along the Saxon Shore seems to have solidified your presence among the Federates. What’s your biggest concern at the moment?”

  “Communication,” Arthur responded, obviously as impressed as I was by Illtud’s knowledge of our affairs. “I’m developing a royal messenger network, but it takes time.”

  The monk chewed thoughtfully. “Have you thought about using beacons? The Romans built a lot of signal towers in the north, of course, but you have the natural geography to help you here.”

  Arthur put down his drinking horn and turned his full attention on the holy man. Illtud cleared a space on the table and moved the wine flagon to the center, then lined up the enamel salt bowl and a wooden trencher as he talked.

  “From the rampart here at Dinas Powys you can see Brent Knoll in Somerset. Beyond that is Glastonbury Tor, and from there one can see both north and south with equal ease. Of course,” the monk added, “you might have some problem with that old scoundrel Gwyn—I hear he’s appropriating the Tor for himself, and may not be cooperative about a beacon.”

  Arthur grinned. “Gwyn and I have an understanding-—and a mutual venture in horsebreeding.”

  “Ah, so you’ve already encountered your fey neighbor?” Illtud’s laugh was very gentle for a man so big. “Well, if you decide you’d like to have a western stable here, my estate at Llantwit is at your disposal. You could bring your foals for training, and rest the seasoned horses after campaigning. Be good for my students, also—they need a little grounding in practical matters. We’ve more than enough wandering hermits burning with zeal for the Christ; what we need now are priests who can help the people on an everyday level, with education and medicine and better ways of farming. It comes a little hard to some of the boys,” he added wryly. “Youngsters like Samson and Paul Aurelian get awfully carried away with the Spirit; even Gildas turns more toward books than working with the laity.”

  I started at the last name, for I’d known Caw’s son in my childhood—had, in fact, rejected his proposal of marriage. I didn’t realize he had joined a monastery here in south Wales, however.

  “Now then, what are you going to do with this Round Table of yours?” Illtud asked.

  Arthur stared at him blankly. “Do with it, Cousin?”

  “Yes, do with it. To have developed a fighting force such as your cavalry; to have bound them to you in the Fellowship which is now becoming famous; to have gotten them to lay aside family feuds in order to follow you…all these things are commendable. Well-nigh impossible, I would have said, knowing how touchy the Celts can be. Surely you aren’t going to stop there?”

  I wondered what Arthur was going to answer, but just then Poulentis turned to me, noting that the fine ceramic finger bowl the servant proffered was a new acquisition. I studied it carefully, intrigued by the decoration of leopards that chased each other along its clay curves.

  “The spotted cat of Anglesey?” I joked, remembering the story of Palug’s sons who took pity on a speckled kitten that had washed up on their shore, only to have it grow up into a ferocious beast that prowled their woods.

  “That creature gets bigger and fiercer as time goes by.” Poulentis laughed good-naturedly.

  “So you don’t believe it’s the descendant of a leopard escaped from one of the Roman circuses? Maybe it came from Maelgwn’s menagerie?”

  “Menagerie indeed.” The warlord’s face went hard with disgust. “King Maelgwn is a braggart who will embroider any detail to make his Court seem more exotic. Recently he’s been boasting that new brute of a dog he’s so proud of came from the Otherworld. Named it Dormarth—Death’s Door. Next thing you know he’ll be claiming to keep dragons and griffins as everyday pets!”

  Poulentis’s assessment of my cousin was heartening. It was a relief to know that others found him as vainglorious and arrogant as I did. My dealings with Maelgwn had been very unpleasant; before I married Arthur he’d tried to force himself on me, and when I’d blackened his eye in the struggle, he claimed he’d been hit by a whore.

  The memory sent a shiver across my shoulders—part loathing, part fear because Maelgwn had sworn to get revenge for my rebuff. I’d never mentioned the incident to Arthur lest it provoke strife that we could ill afford, for we needed the King of Gwynedd as a northern ally. But the very thought of the man was unsettling, so I turned the conversation to the pigs Poulentis was raising. Pleased to talk about his own pet project, our host began describing the animals he’d just gotten from Pembrokeshire and the subject of my cousin was forgotten.

  ***

  It was when we neared Carmarthen that people began asking about Merlin—he’d been raised nearby, and now that he and Nimue had been gone for more than two years, there was both curiosity and speculation about the Magician’s whereabouts.

  “I happen to know,” the miller confided, “that the Wizard has returned to that cave he calls home, but is keeping his presence a secret.�
��

  “Really?” I tried to turn my amusement into amazement; Merlin would hardly come back to Britain without informing Arthur.

  “Absolutely.” The man nodded with certainty. “From time to time his page rides down from the hills and passes by my mill on the way to town for supplies.”

  “Whatever would a Magician need with supplies?” I queried, remembering that Merlin never missed an opportunity to reinforce the idea that both he and his powers were supernatural. It was, he’d explained to Arthur, one way to keep the High King’s enemies off balance.

  “More like the supplies are for the page,” the miller answered shrewdly. “An enchanter doesn’t need other than a fern seed for invisibility and a dream to weave into substance.”

  I grinned at the man’s pride in being so clever and let the matter drop. But two days later, while Arthur and Agricola took the carriage out to survey a section of Demetia’s Roads, Griflet and I rode up the path toward the Sorcerer’s cave.

  It was nearing midwinter, but the day was full of that soft sunshine that sometimes warms the marrow of an aged year. The dogs ranged through the woods beside the trail and Featherfoot seemed as glad of a chance to go adventuring as I was—it put me in mind of the years in Rheged.

  Once past the stream by the mill Griflet looked around nervously. “Do you think the Wizard will be home, M’lady?” The Kennel Master’s brow was furrowed with apprehension, and he crossed himself quickly when a doe bounded unexpectedly across our path. “They say Merlin’s cave is made of crystal that leaps with color in the flicker of a torch, and strange music drifts up from its depths—that’s where he sees things not meant for human sight. Do you think, M’lady, that he’ll expect us to enter it?”

  I grinned at Ulfin’s son and suggested that he should stay outside with the horses. In truth I had no desire to go into the Sorcerer’s world either, for Merlin and I had never been friends, but I was very fond of Nimue and wanted to determine that they really were back before telling Arthur about the rumor.

  It was the dogs who found the turnoff from the path, rounding a hawthorn hedge and leading us to the edge of a meadow. A single pony watched from the lean-to built into the lee of the hill and nickered as we approached. I called the dogs to heel lest they frighten the animal while Griflet took a long look around.

  Bounded on all sides by the forest, the broad breast of the hill was open to both sky and wind. A ledge of gray rock protruded from beneath the long, low opening of the cave’s entrance and the green of ferns indicated a spring close by. The rockwork was free of debris and a pilgrim’s cup rested in the niche above the pooled water.

  Something shadowy moved within the cave and Griflet watched it intently as I dismounted and bent to fill the cup. I made a show of pouring out an oblation for the Gods so that whoever guarded the cave could see we came in peace.

  “Gwenhwyvaer…”

  The sound was clear and unmistakable, and the hair on my arms began to lift. Twice before I had heard the Goddess speak, and now She was calling me specifically by my ancient name.

  “White Shadow of the North, well come to Merlin’s home.”

  I turned slowly, staring up at the figure that moved into the light of day. She had the form of Nimue, albeit now dressed in the breeches and tunic of a page rather than the white robe of a priestess, but her eyes were huge and black with the presence of the Goddess.

  Griflet dismounted and we sank to our knees as the Mother of us all came forward. Earth and sky trembled at Her approach, and I closed my eyes tightly before She laid Her hands on our heads in blessing.

  “Why are you crying, child?” The voice was deep and vibrant, echoing with the Otherworld.

  “Barren…” I whispered. “I…I can’t have children.”

  “Of course you can—and will—in the fullness of time.”

  It must have seemed a small thing to the Goddess, for She spoke lightly, as though reassuring a child. The dread that had crept into my thoughts in recent months tattered and dissolved under the spell of Her assurance. Waves of relief flooded through me, and I lifted my face toward Her, still careful to keep my eyes shut. One does not stare into the naked visage of any deity.

  Slowly Her hands moved from my temples, across my eyelids, and down my cheeks. When She withdrew Her touch and I finally opened my eyes, it was Nimue who looked down at me. She was every bit as young and beautiful as I remembered, and I was delighted she had returned.

  “It is good to see you in such fine health, M’lady,” the priestess said, her voice shrinking back to its normal size.

  Griflet rose to his feet and busied himself with the dogs and horses. I noticed that in spite of the fact that he was Christian, he had accepted her blessing without a fuss and smiled shyly at Nimue when she greeted him.

  The priestess was silent as we made our way across the meadow, but when we reached the ledge of the cave she gestured to a stump that had been placed among the boulders. “No need to go in. The sun has warmed the rocks and the view is lovely today.”

  She seated herself tailor-fashion on the ledge while I perched on the wooden seat, silently relieved that any encounters with Merlin would take place in the open.

  “When did you two get back? And why haven’t you come to Court? We heard you went to see Clovis—are the Franks really as barbaric as they say?”

  My questions tumbled out in a flood, but the priestess stared out over the vale for a long time before she answered.

  “Merlin’s not with me, Gwen. I’ve come back alone…to get things ready…so he can join me later.” Her voice was uncertain until she suddenly turned to me with a smile. “All of Europe talks about the warriors of Arthur’s Round Table. Every Champion wants to join the Fellowship and follow the owner of Excalibur into great battles. Is it true he’s routed every enemy he’s gone against?”

  “That’s just rumor; mostly he’s been able to make truces,” I countered, remembering that long ago the Wizard had promised Arthur’s fame as King and peacemaker would outlive his reputation as a warrior. “Whatever has kept Merlin in Brittany?”

  Nimue’s face stiffened and she turned away, her voice sinking to a whisper.

  “I have given my oath not to speak of that.”

  I looked at my friend more closely, searching the face of the girl who had dared to love the timeless Magician. When she first came to Court she’d been a doire, the holy keeper of a sacred well. And though I later learned she had studied with Morgan—who had grown uneasy with her powers and driven her away—there had always been an innocence about her that I trusted.

  Now she was changed. Although she spoke with the same gentleness as before, there was something brittle and unyielding in her manner, like the shell of a crab, and it hid, or protected, the innocence I remembered. Even her voice was different—cold and constrained—and I had no choice but to honor her promise not to discuss Merlin’s absence.

  So we talked of other things—of Igraine’s death, and King Mark’s marriage, Morgan’s effort to blame me for the young man’s murder and Lance’s saving my life in the Trial by Combat. The priestess listened gravely to that story and asked if I’d spoken with Morgan since. When I told her no, she nodded thoughtfully to herself but made no comment.

  For her part, Nimue told me of the places she and the Enchanter had visited together, of the university at Bordeaux where Merlin was much in demand as a teacher of natural science, and of Marseilles where traders from all over the world tie up at the docks and goods from China are bartered for Baltic amber or Spanish oranges.

  Her voice warmed as we talked, and by the time I rose to leave she had promised to send word as soon as the Enchanter arrived, in return for my swearing not to reveal her presence in Britain to anyone, even Arthur.

  “The people would begin to hound me with entreaties for themselves or questions about the Magician, and I’m not ready for that yet,” sh
e said softly.

  So I gave her my word, still wondering what had changed her so.

  We walked down to where Griflet waited with the horses, and I gave her a farewell hug. The doire trembled as though on the verge of tears but abruptly began to perform the Blessing for the Road.

  “Remember to have patience,” she admonished as I mounted Featherfoot. “This is the springtime of your reign, and you and Arthur have splendid work to do in the kingdom yet. There’ll be time for raising children later.”

  I smiled at that, touched and reassured. Merlin, the Great Mage of Britain, had respected her gifts enough to make her the Goddess of his old age, so if Nimue said we would have children, I was content.

  When Griflet and I reached the screen of hawthorns I looked back to wave a farewell. The doire stood on her cave ledge, alone and proud, like the first woman of all time. But instead of watching us she was looking up at the sky, searching for something beyond human ken.

  ***

  It was only later, when winter was waning, that the threads of our encounters began to weave into the moira of the future.

  Arthur and Lance and I were strolling along the beach at Newport while the dogs snuffled through the seaweed and the gulls wheeled overhead.

  “The people and the warriors will follow any suggestion I make,” Arthur mused. “If I tell them we need a code of law, they’ll accept it. It’s the leaders I can’t convince. There’s got to be an answer—Merlin would have one, I’m sure, if I could only ask him.”

  My husband paused to pick up a shell, hefted it for a moment in his hand, then let it drop. I wanted to tell him that Merlin was on his way, that the doire had come back and was preparing the cave, but a promise to Nimue was a promise to the Goddess, and I dared not break it. Instead, I turned Arthur’s own thought into a question.

  “If you could talk to Merlin, what would he suggest?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Probably something similar to the Round Table…membership as an honor reserved for only a few…those who agreed to follow a certain code…”