Queen of the Summer Stars

by Persia Woolley

  ***

  Lance returned to Court during the lovely month of May.

  “Good afternoon, M’lady.”

  He had entered the kitchen unannounced, and I whirled around to find him smiling down on me. It was the moment I’d been trying to put off, and it caught me totally unprepared.

  I stared at him, speechless, the spoon in my hand forgotten as it dripped eggs and milk onto the floor. Flustered, I put it back in the bowl and handed the whole thing to Cook with the admonition, “It’s a custard for Mordred’s tea.”

  Taking off my apron, I motioned for Lance to follow me out the door. My heart was pounding in my ears, and all I could think of was the need to find someplace private where we could talk.

  But it was Lance who chose the setting.

  A huge, solitary oak stands between the courtyard and the stables, the lone remnant of what had once been a thick grove of trees. He guided me toward it without a word—its lack of privacy should have told me he already knew.

  One of Tiger Fang’s offspring, a large orange-and-white tabby, was sunning herself at the base of the tree. She watched us curiously as we approached.

  “I’ve been talking with Arthur,” the Breton said, his manner pleasant but constrained. We had stopped beside a stump and he gestured for me to sit down. “He told me about Mordred…all about Mordred.”

  I looked up at him sharply; was this, then, to be the public and courtly conclusion of a dance that should have been for life?

  “There’s no need to explain, Gwen,” he went on, staring down at his hands as though by not looking at each other we could maintain the formal distance of the moment. “Nor did I say anything to Arthur that either of us might regret.”

  My ears heard his words but my mind refused to accept them. Instead, my eyes devoured him.

  His face was brown from months of work outside, no doubt at Joyous Gard. Memories of our summer mingled with the sudden realization that he had been fixing it up in preparation for my joining him. It was then my heart rebelled.

  All the wild, sweet magic of the love we shared shimmered in the air between us, like a joy that has no idea how fragile it is. The fact that it might have continued, might have flowered into something even more splendid, yet now could not, brought a savage ache to my heart, and my eyes began to brim.

  I reached out to him, struggling to find my voice, wanting to tell him how much I loved him, how deeply I cared, and how unable I was to do anything about it.

  Tears were glistening in his eyes, too, but he took my hand in his own and the smile he gave me was full of tenderness.

  “It seems you’ve finally found your family.”

  The words were simple, said gently and with more acceptance than an hour of explanation could have elicited. I stared up at him, weak with relief and gratitude that he understood.

  He was looking deeply into my eyes, as though to touch my soul, and my heart began to soar with the pain and beauty of knowing that nothing was really changed between us.

  In the tree above, a nightingale burst into song.

  Lancelot dropped my hand abruptly and straightened up.

  “I left Beaumains at the Garden,” he said, his voice going husky. “So perhaps I’ll just keep traveling for a bit.”

  “Oh…”

  My elation stumbled on the reality of the situation, for nothing had changed at Court, either. Only the chance to fling ourselves into a life together had been altered—the love remained.

  “You aren’t going to stay?” I whispered, knowing it was a foolish question.

  He shook his head. “Maybe next year I can come back to Camelot. But not this summer…”

  “How long before you leave?”

  “As long as it takes to tell you that you’ll always be the lady of my heart, and if you ever need me, I’ll come. Wherever you are, and for whatever reason, I’ll come as soon as you send word.” He reached out and tilted my chin up so that I was looking at him again. “Promise you’ll remember that?”

  I nodded mutely, fearful that if I opened my mouth, my heart would lay the whole of our careful composure in shreds. It was enough to know the love was still there, even if the future was not.

  The cat had padded over to us and now began to rub against our ankles, weaving back and forth between us. Lance bent down and picking her up, put her in my lap. Unlike her mother, this one was calm and friendly, and she settled under my hands, purring contentedly.

  “Don’t get up,” he said. “I’d like to remember you here, just like this.”

  So he backed away from me while I petted the cat and fought to keep my tears in check. When he was well into the courtyard, he turned abruptly and strode away as wave after wave of anguish washed over me.

  I stayed on the stump, blindly stroking the animal, until I heard the sound of hoofbeats going down the cobbled drive and Lance called farewell to the sentry. Scrambling to my feet, I raced up the steps of the rampart and threw myself against the parapet, shading my eyes and peering into the sunlight.

  The plain below was golden green, rich with new grasses and the sweet smell of spring. Buttercups bloomed in the meadows, and larks flew up singing as Lancelot rode past.

  He sat his horse with the ease of years in a saddle, letting his mount set the pace but never looking back. Only when the trackway disappeared into the forest did I lose sight of him and the life we might have had together.

  A torrent of tears flooded down my face, and I stayed crying against the wind until there wasn’t a single drop left to shed. After the breeze had dried them, I turned slowly back to Camelot.

  The sounds of the Court began to drift up to me: the smith at his forge, the girls in the kitchen, the stable hands talking to the horses in the barn. Down in the practice field the men were giving lessons to the squires and I walked slowly along the parapet, drawn toward the cries of warning and encouragement.

  Bedivere was demonstrating a particular thrust—one-handed or no, he was still one of Britain’s finest warriors. The boys went through the motion over and over, until they could accomplish the move in one fluid sweep. But it was a small dark head at the sidelines that caught my eye. The helmet in his lap lay forgotten, and the polishing rag, too, as Mordred drank in everything Bedivere was telling his pupils.

  I grinned to myself—recognizing Mordred in a crowd was coming as easily to me as if I were his natural mother, just as his eagerness to learn swordplay was as natural to him as to his father. The slow, sure knowledge that I had done the right thing welled up beside my heartbreak.

  ***

  Mordred had a natural aptitude for riding, and by the time the bees were gathering nectar in the lime trees he was ready to go on extended outings. It was fascinating to see what the boy responded to. He loved to watch the golden eagles gliding high and free above the earth, for they reminded him of the Orkneys, and when I took him to Stonehenge for the druids’ midsummer gathering, it brought out just as much superstitious awe in him as the Standing Stones at Castlerigg had in Gawain years before. The lift and swell of the downs made him smile, especially when we galloped through the long grass with the wind in our faces—but the dark, untamed woods filled the boy with dread.

  “We don’t have forests at home,” he said one day, scowling into the trees that encircled us. “The Orkneys are all open and free and windswept.”

  “Are they bare?” I asked, trying to imagine such a place.

  “Not really; there are lots of fields, and a few groves of trees twisted by the winds from across the sea. But nothing as dark and scary as this. I sometimes dream Mama’s lost somewhere in here,” he whispered, glancing nervously from side to side. A shudder crawled across his shoulders. Then, with a visible effort, he lifted his head and spoke more clearly. “I don’t think the High King likes me. Perhaps I should return home.”

  “Right now the King is very
busy,” I interjected. “Maybe come fall we can coax him into doing more things with us. Oh, look”—I pointed upward, thanking Providence for the timing—“there’s an eagle circling…Let’s see if we can spot its aerie.”

  Mordred’s spirits perked up at that, and by the time we reached Camelot his fears were no longer evident. I couldn’t do anything about his mother, of course, but his fear of the High King might be allayed. Later that night I brought the subject up to Arthur.

  “I know you don’t want to get involved, but if you’d just give him a chance, you’d find him likable enough. And eager to please,” I concluded.

  We were in that quiet state after loving, and I ran my fingers through the hair on my husband’s chest, noticing the occasional white ones that were beginning to sprout there.

  Arthur sighed and propping himself on his elbow, looked down at me. “You really are determined to bring him into our lives, aren’t you?” he queried.

  “It was you who brought him into being—doesn’t that count for something?” I asked gently. “Besides, there is so much of you in him. I’m not suggesting that you recognize him to the rest of the world or anything like that; just give him the chance you would give any other youngster coming to Court to serve you.”

  “Does he know…?” Arthur made no effort to finish the sentence.

  “I’m not sure. What I am sure of is that your coldness worries him.” I put my hand on Arthur’s cheek. “He spends all afternoon at the practice field trying to learn the heft and hand of a sword, studying the way the warriors move, trotting after Bedivere in the hope of being useful. It would make such a difference if you encouraged him a little.”

  My husband shifted his gaze from my face to some far, lonely place of his own, then nodded slowly. “I hear you, Gwen…and I’ll try,” he promised.

  I didn’t expect it to happen right away but smiled quietly, satisfied that he understood how much the boy needed him.

  ***

  After that we settled into a kind of informal routine. In the morning I had charge of the lad—teaching him about horses and history and diplomacy. In the afternoon he joined the younger boys down at the practice field, where the High King occasionally came to observe the lessons. Arthur neither said nor did anything special, but he no longer avoided the child, and that was a start.

  The girl from Carbonek, on hearing that Lance would not be returning to Court this year, packed off home, still prattling that one day he would recognize her as his fated love. By then I was more than glad to be rid of both her and her pushy governess.

  As the summer ripened Frieda gave birth to a pair of twins, healthy and sturdy as their mother. We teased the Kennel Master about having a litter of his own, and he was so excited, for a minute I thought he was going to name the babies Caesar and Cabal.

  Gwyn of Neath came to visit frequently, bringing his brother Yder with him. Together with Arthur they went over the breeding charts, checking the new foals and sending off the yearlings to Llantwit, where Illtud began the process of breaking and training them.

  Below our ramparts the village of South Cadbury continued to grow as peddlers and merchants made it a regular stop on their travels. I tried not to ask, not even to think about Lance, but every visitor to town or fortress brought a new story of his adventures. His reputation for honor and bravery was sung of everywhere he went, and the people soon counted him their favorite hero.

  “Sir Lancelot bested a bandit who was holding a merchant caravan for ransom,” one fellow reported.

  “Came to the rescue of a girl whose uncle was trying to claim her lands, now that her father had died,” said another.

  “Spent some time with a hermit in the Brecon Hills,” announced a monk. “Very devout man, that Breton.”

  I nodded silently, remembering our trip to the hermitage when Elaine had chided him for being so spiritual.

  In the autumn, when the haying was over and the days were growing cool, Gawain returned from the north. He reported directly to Arthur, then came to find me in the garden where I sat making a corn dolly wreath of the last shock from our fields. Laying aside the ancient symbol of fertility, I rose to give him a kinsman’s embrace before stepping back and looking him up and down.

  The Prince of Orkney was lean to the point of stringiness, but he’d developed an unusual air of calmness. His movements weren’t so sudden, and even his voice had gentled.

  “Our family is deeply appreciative of your taking Mordred in hand, M’lady. I hope he has not been a bother.”

  Startled by the realization that everyone else in the world thought Mordred belonged to Gawain’s family, not to mine, I sat down abruptly and busied myself with braiding the wheat stalks.

  Gawain took a seat on the bench across from me and putting his fingertips together, stared thoughtfully at them. “Does the lad know what happened to Mother?”

  I shook my head slowly. “If so, he never speaks of it. And Bedivere has made sure no one, from noble to stable hand, has breathed so much as her name, on pain of banishment.”

  “Aye, best we keep it that way—I’ll find something to tell him to quiet his questions until he’s older.” The redhead sighed. “It’s been a long summer—a very long summer. Sometimes, one has to stop and take stock. Maybe the old days of reacting to the moment without any thought are just as well past. It’s fine for the young men—they’re always eager to die in glory so as to live forever in song. But when you’ve seen almost three decades out—when your reflexes start to slow, and you know you’re a fraction of a moment off, even if no one else realizes it—then you have to draw on experience, not just bravado.”

  I watched him in silence, amazed that the most hotheaded of the Round Table Champions was turning philosophical. He stroked his beard absently and frowned as he chose his words.

  “I’ve been thinking maybe life itself is like that—maybe honor, like experience for the warrior, comes in to give you the edge where instinct once guided you. It was instinct for Agravain to draw his sword, instinct for me to take Ettard—and just look at what happened! You know,” he added earnestly, “I made a point of going to see Pelleas on my way back here; wanted to apologize. He heard me out, at least, and didn’t run me off on sight. But that’s a companion I’ve lost for life because I didn’t honor the trust of friendship.”

  I smiled and reaching out, put my hand on the Champion’s arm. The old impish grin creased his face.

  “Not that I’ll ever be as renowned for ‘honor’ as Lancelot is—everywhere you go someone is singing that man’s praises.” Gawain snorted, half in derision, half in envy. “Well, give the Breton his due—he’s as close to an equal in arms as I’ll ever see! Meanwhile, it’s time to start thinking before I go leaping into a fray—or a bed.”

  He was concentrating on his hands again, his voice dropping even lower. “I thought a lot about women…about Mother, and Ragnell, and some of the other women I’ve known. There’s been many hurtful things done without thinking, but I’d like to change all that…or at least try to in the future.”

  There was a flicker of blue as he glanced up at me and then away. He made me think of a roughneck child trying to remember to say “please” and “thank you,” and I wondered what was causing this unexpected shyness.

  “I’ve taken a vow to come to the aid of anyone in need—but particularly women—as a matter of honor.”

  “Oh, Gawain, I think that’s splendid!” I cried, deeply touched by his seriousness. “And I have no doubt you’ll soon be known as the most courteous and trustworthy of knights, as well as the bravest,” I told him.

  Arthur’s nephew blushed, then squared his shoulders and looked me full in the face. “I hope so, M’lady. I do hope so. Well now,” he concluded, getting to his feet, “think I best go find Mordred. Arthur says he’s most likely down at the practice field.”

  “Probably.” I nodded, then added h
astily, “You know, I’ve been giving him riding lessons, and tutoring in the morning. I do hope we can go on with that.”

  “Sure.” The redhead grinned. “Maybe teach him a bit about honor and courtesy as well—wouldn’t hurt to start a little earlier than I did.”

  We both laughed at that, and I watched him walk away, shoulders swaggering, muscles taut. He brought the most amazing zeal to anything he went into, and I shook my head in bemusement.

  ***

  Thus always with the Celts, I thought, forgetting that I was one myself.

  Chapter XXXVIII

  The Face of the Future

  As the year moved toward Samhain, the other Companions who had gone off on their own business over the summer began to return to Camelot. There was much exchanging of news and jests, and the Hall filled with familiar faces.

  Bors arrived from Brittany, bringing his brother Lionel for the first time. Lionel proved to be less boisterous and outgoing than his sibling, but with just as much humor, and between them and Dagonet our meals were kept merry.

  Pelleas and Nimue returned to Court, having made their vows at the Sanctuary of Avebury on the night of a blue moon. I watched them together, as comfortable and settled in their partnership as Arthur and I were in ours. The delight of romance might be missing, but the sturdiness of a solid marriage made up for it. If one had to choose between the two, I told myself I had the better part of it.

  Then, in the height of winter, we heard that Tristan had married a girl in Brittany. I froze, wondering if Isolde knew, hoping she didn’t. But what if it was Lance who had wed…wouldn’t I want to know? The very notion shattered my composure, and excusing myself from the table, I fled the room, white and shaken.

  Grabbing Igraine’s cloak, I made my way upstairs to the lookout tower atop the Hall. The young sentry on duty nodded respectfully, then left me alone to pursue my own thoughts. Pulling the hood closer about my chin, I leaned against the window ledge and stared out over the land, waiting for my heart to quit racing and the tears to leave my eyes.