Queen of the Summer Stars

by Persia Woolley

  For a moment my unctuous relative was caught off balance.

  “But surely, as kin to your mother, my own line should be considered.”

  “It was.” I leaned ramrod straight against the back of the royal chair and looked my opponent squarely in the eye. “But both my father and I agreed that a Regency under Urien was more desirable.”

  “Well, perhaps I can change your mind, fair lady,” Maelgwn responded, the cold edge of anger glinting under his words.

  We were poised like a pair of swordsmen who have crossed blades down to the hilt, each weighing when and how to jump free of the stalemate. I refused to look away, and at last he blinked and stepped back out of the sunlight.

  Bedivere moved in beside me, ostensibly to explain who would lead my father’s stallion in the procession the next day. I rose from my chair and walked away with the lieutenant, dismissing Maelgwn without so much as a glance.

  “He could cause no end of trouble,” the lieutenant warned under his breath, and I nodded silently. It was clear I must put my own imprint on the future of Rheged as soon as possible.

  I spent that evening at the stables, reminiscing with Rhufon—who faded in and out of the present like a winter tree wrapping itself in mists—and getting acquainted with the man who had become the new Horse Master.

  Some of the new animals eyed me cautiously, but I found fond welcome from the horses I’d known all my life. My father’s stallion nickered and blew against my shoulder, butting me impatiently as though annoyed that I should smell so familiar but not be the one for whom he waited. He was a tall horse, even for a Shire, and more high-strung than most. I could not remember anyone other than my father having ridden him, save perhaps Rhufon. It wasn’t clear how much this was due to my father’s pride in the animal and how much stemmed from the unruly nature of the stallion himself. But we had a long talk, that horse and I, and I went to bed feeling more confident about the morrow.

  Before the funeral I tugged on a pair of breeches and simple tunic instead of a dress and, leaving my hair to hang long and free in filial mourning, rummaged through several chests until I found my father’s crown. Planting it firmly on my head, I turned and marched down to the stables.

  There had been a summer shower in the night, as though the heavens were shedding the tears that I could not, but the day itself bloomed bright and clear. As the entourage formed up, I brought my father’s stallion from the barn.

  When the solemn drumbeat started, it was I, Guinevere, who walked with the riderless animal behind his master’s body.

  A murmur of surprise ran through the Court, but the horse and I kept stately pace with the rumbling drum, looking neither to left nor right. I’ve often suspected that animals know full well what happens in their human masters’ lives, and this morning the fractious stallion moved with a slow, deliberate purpose as though grieving for the King who would not ride again.

  My father’s coffin had long been ready, and it was lowered softly into the grave beside his love’s. Mama had died unexpectedly and been buried hastily in a hollow log. Now the earth cradled them both, the one so young and vibrant, the other so bent with sorrow and pain. I hoped that Mama’s spirit still lingered on the Isle of the Blessed, to receive my father when he arrived.

  As we were coming back from the cemetery the wind rose up. The stallion tossed his head nervously and began to pull against the lead. I soothed him a bit with my voice, but his ears twitched constantly.

  Within minutes the billowing white clouds of morning had taken on the purple-gray of a Pennine storm, lying heavy on the green fells like a sullen bruise. When the first crack of thunder rolled over us, the stallion shied sideways, and I turned toward him so abruptly the crown started to slip on my hair.

  Grabbing it before it fell, I swung up into the saddle and pulled the trembling stallion’s head to one side. He swung in circles, dancing against the rein, and I held him with knee and thigh as I lifted the crown and saluted the people with it.

  A shocked gasp met my action, but after a moment’s uneasiness the crowd began to cheer. The horse calmed underneath me, his frightened, white-eyed look giving way to spirited pride. I held the mood of both the stallion and the people by sheer force of will and prayed that nothing else untoward would confront us.

  By the time we climbed the hill to Appleby’s Hall, the stallion was prancing with pent-up energy but no longer threatened to break away, and the throng was chanting my name. It may not have been the most traditional return from a royal burial, but I did not think my father would have minded; certainly I had made it clear that I intended to claim the daughter’s right to rule in her father’s stead.

  I handed the reins over to the groom, telling him to turn the horse out to pasture so he could run as long and hard as he wanted. The boy nodded briskly, and I watched the two of them move away, wishing I too could escape the confines of protocol and statesmanship.

  ***

  The idea of dealing with Maelgwn at the feast that night was purely repulsive, but Edwen the Bard came to my rescue, filling the Hall with tales about the bravery and dedication of the King we had just buried.

  In spite of his warped and twisted frame, my father was a king of majesty, as much committed to his people as Mama was. On the night after her death we had all left this Hall, sick and fever-racked, trudging through the rain to the Sacred Hill for the Need-fire lighting. Moaning in the dark, the ring of dancers begged for surcease of the plague, the rebirth of warmth and light, the promise of life renewed. When the tinder refused to catch, they cried for my father’s life in an effort to placate the Gods. It was then I had seen him dancing amid the crackling flames. Hunched and crippled and wrapped in smoke, he capered wildly in the heart of that inferno, seeming to fulfill the royal promise. Even now as an adult, though I understand he only thrust the burning brand into the dry heart of the pyre, the picture of him silhouetted in that blaze is seared on my heart.

  In the midst of his eulogy Edwen crumpled over his harp, convulsed with grief for the leader he had served so long. Bedivere rushed to his side and after helping him to the bench beside the pillar, sat down on the Harper’s stool and took up the instrument. That night the one-handed lieutenant created such a lay for my father as to make the whole of Britain proud.

  Yet still I could not cry. By the time the evening was over I was drowning in unshed tears and left the Hall in silence, brushing aside Maelgwn’s offer to see me to my chambers with a contemptuous glance.

  “I shall look forward to hosting you in return, M’lady,” my cousin said next morning, bowing ostentatiously as he prepared to depart for Gwynedd. “Perhaps next spring?”

  I stared hard at the man, weighing his words for hidden meaning—something in the invitation made me uneasy. Yet no matter how repulsive I found him as a person, we needed him as an ally. So in spite of my misgivings I murmured a vague, “Perhaps,” and bade him a formal farewell.

  ***

  Word came sporadically from the south—of Arthur gathering a growing army; warlords and nobles, archers and slingers and cavalry Champions, all joining forces. Of Geraint and Cador rushing to Silchester, meeting with Urien and Agricola as the High King arrives. Most of the might of Britain moves to protect the Goring Gap, rallying under the Banner of the Red Dragon.

  Terrifying reports of Saxons pour out of steading and village—Octha and Aelle lead their armies forth from Kent and Sussex, joining the Federates of the Weald to cast their lot with this new leader who claims he is one of their own. Villas are torched, Britons enslaved, as the ranks of would-be conquerors swell behind the white horsetail standards of Cerdic.

  Arthur draws his forces together, but even though it is still high summer, he provides no battle, no chance for glory and loot. Instead, he sets the men to digging storage pits at Silchester, preparing to winter over. In the south Winchester is lost to Cerdic—what was once a British enclave surro
unded by a mixture of British and Federates is now a Saxon center. On the hills the men of Kent and Sussex set up camp.

  Neither leader moves against the other, but each hunkers down, waiting to see who makes the first mistake.

  I heard the news and shivered. With the whole of winter to improve his position, Cerdic would no doubt make Winchester a base from which to launch an attack toward London. There seemed little chance that Arthur could stop the process; given the number of warrior-farmers the Saxons had called up, our forces were badly outnumbered. If the Gods resented our efforts at unifying Britain, Cerdic was the perfect tool with which to punish us.

  ***

  Stuck so far away in the north, unable to help or even hear what was happening from day to day, I turned all my attention to matters closer to hand. My own position in Rheged must be solidified and the question of Urien’s Regency settled. It kept me busy during the day. But every night I prayed long and hard to the Goddess, begging Her to protect Arthur and the Cause, lest the next royal funeral be for my husband.

  Chapter XX

  Rheged

  With Bedivere’s help I took my Court of women and a few of my father’s warriors from one end of the Lake District to the other, holding Councils, settling disputes, and reviewing the war-bands. Everywhere we went I introduced Uwain and encouraged the people to accept his father as Regent in my stead.

  Uwain proved to be an excellent emissary, and the warriors, most of whom had known me since I was a child, supported me readily enough. I was glad they had never followed the Roman pattern of looking askance at women in power.

  The commoners greeted me with a mixture of fondness and timidity, uncertain as to what was proper now that I was High Queen. I let the distance stand, maintaining the separate dignity of a ruler, although a part of me wanted to cry out, “For goodness’ sake, I’m still the Cumbrian girl that grew up among you.”

  So I assumed my new role, keeping all personal feelings firmly under control and promising myself that when the pressures of queenhood lessened, I’d have time to laugh and cry freely once more.

  Taliesin and Edwen were in my party as well, and I was pleased to discover the bard had taken an interest in the homely shepherd lad.

  “Wonderful pupil, that,” Edwen noted one evening when we met for dinner. The boy was sitting at the Harper’s stool, carefully tuning his instrument, but a rotting, fetid odor seemed to radiate from him. Edwen grimaced and sent him out to get cleaned up, then turned back with an apology. “He’s spent the day helping to make gut strings, M’lady—nasty, smelly job, and I suppose he didn’t realize how rank he’d become.”

  “And his music?”

  “Ah, he’s eager and quick to learn! About manners and Court life as well as the art of the harp. Someday he’ll be the finest bard in Britain—and one you can be proud of. Granted, there’s something strange about him…he’ll sit all morning, rapt, in silence, listening to things the rest of us cannot hear. Or puzzle for hours over tales of the old Gods, as though to unlock some ancient secret. I sometimes wonder if he’s a changeling, he’s that fey.”

  Edwen made the sign against evil lest the Gods think he was being blasphemous, and I nodded thoughtfully. If Taliesin was a fairy child, perhaps his strange name had come with him when he was left in a human cradle.

  The boy became less shy with me as our progress continued. He was interested in all the magical places of Rheged, and I found myself telling him about the Standing Stones above Keswick, or the Roman fort at Hardknott Pass. He was fascinated with my description of the Lady’s Sanctuary and even begged me to let him go to Eskdale and the Black Lake when we reached Ravenglass.

  After Morgan’s intervention during my pregnancy, I had no intention of allowing her to stir up further trouble, so I looked specifically at Taliesin when I ordered that no one, save Uwain, was to seek out the High Priestess on this trip.

  Naturally I would not stand between Uwain and his mother and was not surprised when he came to see me about visiting her.

  “Perhaps I can enlist her help in getting my father approved as Regent,” he offered, eyes alight with enthusiasm. “She’s so devoted to the Old Gods, I know she often seems preoccupied. But she’s always interested in matters of state—and she may have further news about what is happening in the south,” he added hopefully.

  But Uwain’s bright spirit was dimmed by the time he returned from the Sanctuary, and when I asked him about it, he shook his head and sighed awkwardly. “My mother is sometimes…difficult.” The young man looked away shyly. “I didn’t even get to the subject of Cerdic and the High King, Your Highness. I mean, I thought she would be pleased with my father’s becoming Regent of Rheged; it makes good sense, since her Sanctuary is here. But for some reason she flew into a rage at the idea. You must remember, M’lady, that she’s used to commanding the very air around us-—thunder and lightning and the comings and goings of the seasons, as well as mere mortals. So she can get very short-tempered if things aren’t going as she intends. Yesterday she stormed around her chamber, calling the Gods to witness that she had not been consulted about Urien’s Regency and therefore would not condone it…so I avoided all other mention of the Court.”

  It seemed an odd reaction from Morgan, and I was sorry she had no news of Arthur. But the picture of her impotent rage amused me; apparently the woman truly believed she had the right to give or withhold approval of every project that dealt with my husband.

  Uwain was clearly troubled by his mother’s behavior, and I thought how awkward it must be to have Morgan for a parent. Smiling gently, I thanked him for his effort.

  The lad was said to be excellent with animals, and on a hunch I took him down to the stables because Shadow’s mouth had shown signs of soreness that morning. He handled the high-strung animal very well, and when I left he was concocting a brew of black currant leaves with which to wash her lips and gums. It worked so well, I later put him in charge of looking after the health of all the horses as a way of showing my confidence in him.

  ***

  Even without Morgan’s help the people proved willing to accept Urien as their Regent, and by the time we reached Carlisle fully two-thirds of Rheged was behind me. All that remained was a brief trip along the northern coast of the Solway Firth.

  But the first night at Carlisle Griflet came racing into the Hall, pointing frantically southward and crying, “Fire! Fire on Signal Hill! The beacon is lit.”

  Jagged points of orange flame shimmered and died, only to flare up again in the darkness, and my heart began to race; clearly there had been some sort of confrontation. After decoding the pattern, Bedivere assured me that our forces had been victorious, but confirmation of the details would have to wait for word from the High King himself.

  I moved nervously through the next days, praying to the Goddess at night and on occasion even going to Mass with Vinnie—Igraine had suggested I remember the Church if I ever needed peace, so I tried it now. Somehow it didn’t help.

  The messenger arrived on the fifth day. His horse came to a halt, head down and sides heaving, but the man gave me a grin as he dismounted and turned the animal over to Griflet.

  “A magnificent battle, Your Highness. A fine British victory.”

  “And the King?” I asked, feeling my knees weaken.

  “King Arthur is unhurt, though there was terrible carnage. Begging your pardon, M’lady, I could tell you better if I had something to drink.”

  “Of course,” I responded, leading him to the kitchen and drawing a tankard of ale. Between swigs and belches, the fellow spun out his tale.

  “We sat in Silchester while the harvest ripened around us. His Highness forbade anyone to go near Winchester, so we assumed there would be no battle until spring. But when the Saxons in the camps around Winchester saw we weren’t going to attack, they began to remember the fields at home that needed harvesting. And gradually, on
e after another, they drifted away, heading back to their steadings in Kent and Sussex.”

  I burst out laughing for the first time in months. The realization that Arthur had taken the very thing that made the Saxons strong and used it to their detriment filled me with both admiration and joy. Our enemy might be able to call up a bigger army with their farmer-warriors, but our men wouldn’t up and pack off when haying time came round!

  The messenger clearly didn’t understand my reaction, and he watched me nervously as he continued.

  “Cerdic had been concentrating on his fortifications, relying on the outlying camps to provide him with food. Now with the buffer forces gone, he could see that he might be besieged after all, so he set his men to foraging for winter supplies. He even grew desperate enough to lead hunting expeditions himself. It was then that King Arthur led us out of Silchester, silently, in the dark of night. When the sun came up we were between Cerdic’s camp and his fortress. The battle that followed was awful—hundreds of men slaughtered in the first charge. Don’t let anyone ever tell you the Saxons are cowards, M’lady…more like terriers who will die with their teeth clamped on their opponent even while their brains are being bashed in.”

  I shuddered, and the fellow brightened quickly. “The Britons were splendid. Cador and Urien reliable as always, and Lamorak fired by the battle-lust almost as much as Gawain. But the undisputed hero was the High King himself. Riding at the fore, with that great white dog always at his side, he slew the Saxons to the left and right. And all the time wearing the sign of the Holy Mother on his shoulder.”

  The man crossed himself piously while I stared in astonishment—he seemed to have mistaken the symbols of the Goddess on Arthur’s war-cape for some sort of Christian sign. But I was so glad to hear that my husband was safe, I didn’t correct the error. Silently giving thanks to the Morrigan, I included the White Christ’s mother as well; one does not stint where Goddesses are concerned.