Queen of the Summer Stars

by Persia Woolley

  “Gawain said he’d be here, no matter what,” I reminded Arthur as he stared out across the rain-drenched landscape.

  “Surely he isn’t thinking about staying with the Gern?” The tent was too small for pacing, so my husband chewed on the ends of his mustache and scowled.

  “I don’t know…maybe,” I answered, wondering how much Gawain had confided to Arthur.

  “If he hasn’t arrived by tomorrow morning, we’ll have to go on without him.” Arthur turned away from the tent flap. “Can’t think what’s gotten into him; be good for him to find a wife and settle down.”

  It seemed to me that he’d done just that, but being Gawain she wasn’t any ordinary woman, and neither one of them wanted to settle down.

  The next day was full of the crystal clarity that so often follows a storm, and the granite slabs and dancing streams fairly sparkled in the air. There was no sign of the Orkney Prince, however, so we packed up in a leisurely fashion and headed south.

  The majesty of Glen Coe was more beautiful than forbidding in this light, and even Rannoch Moor, that strange bog that covers the high vale under barren peaks, was awash with color. It looked like a carpet of feathers, though I knew it was no doubt treacherous—one misstep could mean the loss of man or horse.

  “There he is!” Arthur cried, suddenly pointing across the Moor.

  The distant form of a horseman was just visible a long way off. He slouched in the saddle, letting his mount pick its way among the tufted tussocks of the bog. Between the danger of the land and the distance involved, it would take him all day to catch up with us, so we pitched the tents and raised the banner high as a signal that we were waiting for him.

  Gawain made it into camp at sunset, just as the mists were rising over the vale. We rushed out to greet him in the dying light, and I gasped at the sight as he dismounted.

  Morgause’s son looked more like a madman than a famous warrior—unkempt and soaking wet from rain and mist, his cheeks were stubbled and his eyes hollow and red-rimmed. But worst of all were the scratches across his face, as bad as those borne by the drunken Scot who’d accosted Ragnell at Stirling.

  “Well come, nephew,” Arthur said gently, his tone softer than I had ever heard before. “Are you hungry?”

  Gawain nodded. “Been tiptoeing through that bog since sunup.” His answer was civil enough, but he avoided meeting my eyes.

  “Come on down to the fire,” Arthur suggested, slinging his arm around Gawain’s shoulder and giving him a pat. “Cei’s got together a pot of soup that’ll warm you good and proper.”

  The Orkney Prince nodded a silent assent, and Arthur turned him away as a sheepdog herds an errant lamb. Together they went stumping off into the grayness in search of the male camaraderie that would hearten Gawain more than anything else. With a sigh I went back to the tent and got ready for bed.

  Gawain never spoke Ragnell’s name again, and whatever he may have told Arthur about those scratches was not passed on to me. By the time we had made our way out of the Highlands the scratches on Gawain’s face had begun to heal. But the scars on his heart were harder to see, for he masked his wound with a flinty resolution.

  ***

  I just hoped he had not turned his face from love forever.

  Chapter XVIII

  Of Mortal Men

  The northern half of Loch Lomond is every bit as steep and narrow as the Highland glens, and as we rode along it I began to wonder if we’d ever reach the Lowlands. Then suddenly the landscape opened up and the loch spread out in a shimmer of summer blue before us. It was like stepping through a door into another world, and I cried out with pleasure at the sight.

  Tree-capped islands lay scattered across the dappled water, and when we made camp that night a wee slip of a moon was hanging pale in the silver sky, just as it had over Windermere on the last night before I left home to marry Arthur. That was four years past, and the very idea of seeing Kaethi and Rhufon and Gladys again filled me with excitement. But most of all I looked forward to visiting with my father.

  It had been hard for him to ask me to accept a political liaison in place of a love marriage, and I’d not gone to it gracefully. Yet even though Arthur and I did not share the romance that had been the mark of my parents’ union, we had a good partnership and a reliable, if unspoken, love. Many another queen has prayed for less.

  Now I would have a chance to tell my father how well this marriage had turned out.

  ***

  “’Tis himself I’m looking for.”

  The good-natured demand rolled through camp before the breakfast fire was even started. The voice was familiar, but the lilt was decidedly Caledonian, so I buried my head in the pillow, content to let the sentry take care of it.

  “Lance, I’m over here!” Arthur sat up abruptly and started to swing his feet to the floor as the flap of our tent flew open and the Breton appeared.

  He was whippet lean and brown as a berry, but his hair was cut in the page-boy fashion of the Picts and a full black beard covered the lower portion of his face.

  “By Jove,” Arthur swore admiringly, “never could get mine to grow like that.”

  “Only way to protect against the midges.” Lance grinned, dropping the accent and striding to the foot of our camp bed.

  “What news?” Arthur was getting right to the point. I expected him to pull on his breeches and take Lance out of the tent, but they became so engrossed in trading information, neither noticed it was an awkward place to hold a conference. There was nothing for it but that I pull the covers up around my chin and sit up as well.

  I watched the two of them: Arthur so ruddy and outgoing, Lance so dark and private. They’d grown into the best of friends and a fine working team, complementing each other much as the two different natures of Loch Lomond combine to form a magnificent whole.

  “The last of Hueil’s men are holed up on the islands in the lake,” Lance announced. “Can’t do much about them in the summer, what with ducks and fish so easy to hand. But come the winter snows, I’ll starve them out. That is,” he added, “if you want me to stay here. I gather there’s some sort of activity in the south, so perhaps I should come with you…”

  “What sort of activity?” Arthur tensed beside me.

  “I’m not sure,” the Breton responded, his blue eyes darkening as he frowned. “Morgan le Fey came up to Dumbarton and made a trip out to see me in early June. She didn’t actually say there was trouble brewing, but asked if I’d heard of a man named Cerdic. I assumed he was a Celt, with a name like that, but it seems he’s the leader of a Saxon party that came ashore near Portchester. She didn’t have any details, but this might be serious.” Lance glanced over at me with a smile. “You know how she can imply things without saying them straight out. Actually, she was less worried about an invasion than about Merlin—claims he’s met with foul play at the hands of the doire.”

  I nodded slowly, wondering if that’s where the Pictish crone had gotten the idea. If so, Morgan must be spreading the rumor everywhere.

  “I made friends with one of Ragnell’s men last winter.” Lance turned back to Arthur. “They heard Merlin’s promise that you would be the King of all Britons, and Ragnell has vouched for your integrity. She says you are the leader who was foretold as coming to earth on a comet—it’s an old prophecy of theirs.”

  I remembered Igraine, terrified by the firedrake on the night Arthur was conceived, and marveled at the patterns of Fate.

  “At any rate, word has gone out that you can be trusted,” Lance was explaining. “So I asked them to find out what they could about Cerdic. It seems he’s not only landed in the south, he goes by the title of ‘King of the Britons.’”

  Arthur let out a low whistle. “What sort of reception has he gotten among the Federates?”

  Lance shook his head. “That’s unclear. I only got this last information yesterday
, and was debating whether I should leave Hueil for another time and ride north to find you when I saw your campfire last night.”

  “Could be just another Saxon deciding to swagger a bit as he settles in.” Arthur reached absently for his breeches.

  “Could be,” Lance agreed. “Though that doesn’t explain his Celtic name, or why he’s laying claim to all of Britain…they usually only style themselves King among their own folk.”

  Arthur pondered the news in silence, then busied himself with getting dressed. “Well, let’s have a look at Hueil’s summer havens,” he suggested cheerfully.

  So the two of them went off to the lakeshore while I snuggled back under the covers. Here we’d finally gotten out of the Highlands into more familiar country, and already the Saxon problem was plaguing us.

  ***

  There was one more Court to visit before we reached Rheged, and we rode down to Fergus’s stronghold with good weather and high spirits unfurled like the Banner above us. Whatever threat this Cerdic posed, Arthur was determined to finish carrying word of the Cause to the north.

  The Gods must have used the whole of Scotland for a playground, for at Dumbarton they left a rounded chunk of mountain right in the midst of a tidal marsh. The citadel on top of it is virtually impregnable—one can see in every direction for miles around, and thousands of water birds rise, screeching and flapping in alarm, the moment anyone approaches. They swirled and cried and banked around us, churning the air with their wings until we were surrounded by a froth of feathers. No one could creep up on Fergus undetected.

  I had not seen the exiled Irish King since I had accompanied my father on a state visit as a girl. The dialect came back readily enough, but I was surprised at how much else had changed. Fergus and his people were carving an entire kingdom out of marsh and islands and steadings cleared in the forest; what was once the wilderness of Pict and bear was rapidly becoming the kingdom of Dal Riada.

  “A bit grander than the steading where I first entertained you,” our host said expansively as he gestured about his Hall. It was full of color and banter and the warmth of friendship. The embers in the fire pit glowed in the center of the room, while cooks and pages and serving children turned the spits or stirred the contents of caldrons that hung from long chains attached to the beams. The dogs moved from table to table, sniffing out scraps and rushing to snap up the bones their masters tossed aside. There was laughter and raucous tales, and later we’d have harping and storytelling and all the bragging of warriors; it is always this way among the Celts, whether they be Irish or British or Breton.

  After the trestles were cleared Tristan took out his Irish harp and a murmur of appreciation ran through Fergus’s men.

  “Watch this,” Arthur whispered before speaking to our host in a voice loud enough to carry over the whole Hall.

  “M’lord, I ask leave to introduce a fine new musician from among the tribes to the north. He and the Cornish harper will fill your ears with wonder, and weave in song the kind of alliance we are establishing with the Round Table.”

  There was a rustle of curiosity as a young Pict brought forth his flute and nodding shyly to both me and Fergus, took his place beside Tristan. For the rest of the evening the two of them treated us to folksongs and melodies rather than history and sagas. The lilting tunes and charming words, devoid of battle-lust and lore, touched the hearts of all who heard them. Perhaps Taliesin was right to claim that music is a gift from the Gods.

  “Oh, M’lady, but he’s beautiful!” Fergus’s plump daughter murmured as she stared across the fire-glow at Lancelot.

  I glanced over at the Breton, feeling my heart rise at the sight of him. In actuality Lancelot of the Lake was anything but handsome; his brow was too broad, his chin too narrow, his mouth too full, even his hands too elegant for the usual warrior. Yet he never failed to capture female attention even though he didn’t court it. No matter how often I tried to analyze why women reacted to him as they did, I always gave up. He was simply Lance, and by now I was so accustomed to his presence I rarely remembered that he used to remind me of Kevin.

  That realization made me pause. I had always thought of change as something sudden, something brought on by definite actions such as battles won or lives ended. Now it seemed there was another kind that worked so gradually we weren’t even aware of it—a whole new world of ideas and friendships that slowly supplanted the old, like new shoots growing out of a fallen log.

  If that was so, one might think we are all in a state of flux, always on the edge of “becoming” something else. I shook my head, for I liked the world as I knew it and did not want to accept the notion that everything changes.

  ***

  When the meeting at Dumbarton was over Lance headed back to Loch Lomond with the promise he’d join us at Caerleon once Hueil’s forces surrendered. In the meantime we turned toward Rheged and my home.

  A spatter of summer showers accompanied us, and as we crested the last ridge and looked out over the city of Carlisle a rainbow arched beyond the big stone bridge that carries the Road across the river Eden.

  My spirit rose like a lark at the sight. As a youngster I had disliked Carlisle considerably, finding its Roman center, solid fort, and formal houses far too disciplined to suit my soul. Now I stared at them fondly, remembering the hours Kevin and I had spent at the stables in Stanwix; the sight of my father leading home the victorious warriors who had fought at the side of the young Pendragon; and later, my first encounter with Arthur himself.

  The Square by the fountain was packed with summer merchants, bright and noisy and full of gossip. They turned to stare in awe as our party approached, then parted with a ripple of recognition and greetings.

  “It’s Guinevere and the King,” someone cried as people came running out of stores and kitchens to stare as we rode past. I smiled and waved and wished them all a good day, proud to be returning to them in such splendor.

  The gatekeeper at the big house by the river scanned my beaming face with consternation. “You haven’t heard, M’lady?” he asked, even before I dismounted.

  “Heard what?”

  “His Highness…your father…”

  “What about him?” I pulled Shadow’s head around so the man could approach and not yell out his news across the threshold.

  “King Leodegrance lies dying at Appleby. Or at least that was the news yesterday.”

  My fingers froze on the reins and Shadow tossed her head wildly. The gatekeeper reached out and grabbed her bridle as I turned to Arthur in disbelief.

  “How far away is Appleby?” my husband asked.

  “A long day’s ride,” the man answered.

  Arthur looked back at me. “It’s coming on to nightfall, Gwen. We’d best stay over and leave first thing in the morning; I’ll send a messenger to say we’re coming.”

  I nodded, unable to speak. No doubt it was a reasonable decision, though all I could think of was the need to reach my father’s side.

  “Here, let’s get you inside.” Arthur reached up to help me from the saddle.

  “There’s so much we’ve never said,” I whispered. “He can’t die…not yet, not before I tell him…”

  Arthur put his arms around me, silent but reassuring, and I began to sob as we moved into the house.

  That night was filled with horrible dreams—ominous and frightful, they carried my father silently beyond the shore while I struggled—vainly, hopelessly—against the ebbing tide until an insistent pounding on the door woke me and Arthur called out softly “Who is it?”

  “Pelleas. I caught a young beggar who slipped past the sentry—claims he has to see you immediately. He gave me a brooch that will identify him.”

  I wrapped the covers closer about my shoulders, terrified that this was a messenger come to say my father was already dead. But the brooch Pelleas handed Arthur didn’t look like any I’d seen befor
e—red and gold and dragon-shaped, it gleamed in the lantern shine.

  “I’ll see him,” Arthur responded, hastily fishing about for his clothes as the skinny horseman turned back to the hallway. “It’s Merlin’s brooch; the one Ambrosius gave him. Can’t imagine why he didn’t just come in. After all this time you’d think he’d dispense with theatrics.”

  I struggled into my robe as a flood of hope surged through me. Maybe the Magician could save my father.

  The lad Pelleas brought in was dirty and ragged, with a twisted body and hunched back. Both Arthur and I stared at him in silence; it was an extraordinary effort even for a master shape-changer. The boy gave no sign of recognition as he made his way across the room and knelt before the High King.

  “What’s all this nonsense?” Arthur sputtered, urging the Magician up off his knees. “Come now, old friend, enough is enough.”

  “Oh, no, M’lord, I’m not who you think. But I have urgent news, for your ears alone.” The hunchback sent a quick glance toward Pelleas who was guarding the door, knife at the ready in case this was some sort of treachery against the King.

  Arthur was staring fixedly at the messenger. “If you aren’t Merlin, what are you doing with his brooch?” he demanded.

  Without a word the newcomer turned and looked to me.

  “Nimue!” I cried.

  The priestess nodded slowly and straightened into her more usual form.

  “Merlin said it would guarantee me the right to see you,” she explained, turning back to Arthur and taking the pin from his hand. “I came to warn you about an invasion at Portchester—-by a group who have come to conquer, not simply raid and run.”

  “How do you know this?” Arthur watched her suspiciously.

  “I’ve seen them; counted the ships; talked with the wenches who service the warriors.”

  “Where is Merlin? Why didn’t he come himself?” Arthur’s voice had an accusing edge, as though he believed the rumors that Nimue had betrayed the Mage.