Guenevere breathed deeply, savoring the sweetness of the new-mown grass. She smiled at her mother’s joyful face and dancing eyes. The first tournament of spring was always the Queen’s Championship, and the Queen showed her pleasure openly, like a child. Indeed, she still was a child in many ways, Guenevere thought fondly, not like a queen nearing forty with a grown daughter now.
“Oh, Guenevere!” The Queen touched Guenevere’s hair with a loving hand and brushed the silken sleeve of her new gown. “So fair—darling, you’re so lovely today.” She was looking around the gallery as she spoke. “Has one of my gentlemen caught your eye at last? Your father thinks someone has.”
Yes, Mother, someone has.
But how do I catch his?
A dull sense of defeat dampened Guenevere’s soul. She willed herself to meet the playful gaze. “The King sees husbands for me everywhere,” she said evenly. “But madam, this is your special day, not mine.”
The Queen’s face clouded. “My special day—” She gave an odd small laugh. “It’s the feast of Penn Annwyn, did you know that?”
Guenevere shook her head. “The old Lord of the Underworld?”
The Queen nodded. “This is the day, they say, when the door opens to the world between the worlds. When the Dark Lord comes for those he has chosen to take home.” She shivered, the silk of her dress rippling like sunlight over water, and tried to smile. “Old superstitions from the Welshlands, where old things die hard. We have had word that Merlin has been seen.”
Guenevere gasped. “Merlin?”
She always knew it as a name of fear. The country folk went in dread of strangers because Merlin could take so many different shapes. Once her nurse had snatched her up and run from a child with staring eyes, certain it was the old enchanter himself. But that was childish nonsense, long ago. She steadied her voice. “Is it so?”
The Queen looked away. “The old man of magic is about again, it seems.”
Guenevere grew cold. “But that means—”
The Queen raised her hand and shook her head. “Where Merlin goes, dreams, rumors, and phantoms always follow him. We have sent messengers to London and to the Welshlands, and our scouts are everywhere. Whatever happens, we shall know of it.”
Suddenly the Queen’s spirits lifted, and she touched Guenevere’s cheek. “Never fear! Whatever is coming is already in the stars. And tomorrow will be soon enough for that.” She smiled her sweetest smile. “Be happy, my love!”
She called to the chamberlain. “Are the knights ready for the tournament?”
He bowed. “Ready and waiting for the royal word.”
“Why, then,” she said, beaming, “begin!”
In front of the gallery the heralds and trumpeters lined the grassy field, their colored tunics as bright as playing cards.
“All who challenge for the title of the Queen’s champion, come now into the field!” cried the chief herald. “Enter now, or all depart in peace!”
The Queen stepped to the edge of the viewing gallery, arms upraised to acknowledge the cheers of the crowd. She stood for a moment reveling in the applause, then dropped her handkerchief. The scrap of white lace fluttered through the air like a drowsy dove. The chief herald’s baton fell, a fanfare of trumpets split the air, and the best knights of the land rode out before their Queen.
“Look, Guenevere, look!”
Guenevere smiled. She knew her mother would miss no detail of the glittering armor and elaborate trappings as the twelve knights took to the field, their horses strutting out stiffly one by one. In their bright plumage of red and white and black, blue, green, and gold, they were gorgeous beyond compare. But with their helmeted heads and tall nodding plumes, there was something sinister about them too, more like birds of prey than men. Guenevere shivered. Why should such thoughts darken this sunny day?
“Leogrance the King, the Queen’s first champion!” the heralds bawled.
Into the ring rode a tall shape encased in golden armor, a gold coronet encircling his helmet, attended by knights bearing banners of cloth of gold. First champion and first love, the Queen had told Guenevere, in the white and gold wonder of their early days, when the glow they shared had brought her into the world. Uneasily Guenevere eyed the heavy form still straight in the saddle, but stiff and unbending on a none-too-willing horse. Why do you do this, Father, every year, she wondered unhappily, taking the field with knights young enough to be your sons?
The Queen sat bolt upright, staring ahead. Do not ask! commanded her rigid back. See only that he has to do it, and that he needs our love.
Now all the challengers had made their bows, and still the people had not seen the man they craved. A clamor began and was carried around the field. “The champion! Give us the champion!”
Once more the bellowing heralds split their lungs. “Give welcome to the Queen’s knight who comes here to brave all challengers—welcome the Queen’s champion and her chosen one—”
“Lucan!”
The crowd roared its applause. From behind the wooden walls of the knights’ enclosure at the far end of the field bounded a huge black horse with evil in its eye. Mounted on its glossy back, standing up in the stirrups, was a tall, lithe, laughing figure in red and gold.
The newcomer dragged the furious beast to a standstill before the gallery and bowed to the Queen. “Your servant, Majesty, in life and death!” he cried. Deftly he sent something spinning through the air. One of the knights reached down to catch it for the Queen.
It was a heart-shaped posy of roses and pinks, with trailing strands of honeysuckle that scented the air.
“A bleeding heart!” Guenevere said, entranced.
The Queen’s glance flashed toward Lucan and away again. “A weeping heart,” she corrected, her trembling fingers playing with the honeysuckle as if it were Lucan’s hair. Her eyes were very bright, and the smile she gave was for him alone.
The heralds were trumpeting the next lord into the ring. But after the laughing knight in red and gold, all the challengers were shadows, doomed to fade. Lucan would win. He knew it, all those around him knew it, and even the dark and ugly monster that he rode seemed to know it. With each challenge the black beast charged down the field in a frenzy, bent on destroying what lay in its way.
But for all its boldness, Lucan’s horse did not please the Queen. “That new creature Sir Lucan rides: what is it?” she demanded, and back the answer came: “A black stallion he sent for out of Wales, when he heard of its spirit from a lord who owned it there.” The Queen nodded, but the faint frown did not leave her face.
The sun beat down, hotter than usual for the time of year. Lucan was clad now in deep black armor gleaming like his horse, and his opponents had no more chance than men of tin. One by one they galloped down the lists, and one by one he knocked them all down. At last the sun stood halfway down the sky, and Lucan held the field alone.
“So now, which shall I choose?” The Queen’s face was pink, almost girlish, and lit again with that special smile.
“Madam, you know that you must choose the victor,” Guenevere said fondly, “if you want the best of your knights to defend you to the death.”
Once more the strange shadow crossed the Queen’s face. “Don’t talk to me of death!” She closed her eyes.
Guenevere stared. This was the woman who never admitted fear, the queen who had faced death in battle, fighting from her chariot like Queens of the Summer Country from the ancient days. No tears, no fears were words she had soothed Guenevere with from childhood as she schooled her to be strong. Faint strands of fear entangled Guenevere’s heart. What was haunting her mother? Was she enchanted; was she ill?
“The Queen’s champion!” The herald’s chant was howling round the ring. “The Queen will choose her champion and honor him.”
The Queen opened her eyes and gave Guenevere her best smile. “No tears, no fears, little one,” she whispered, squeezing Guenevere’s hand. “I must go.” Guenevere could not speak. She sat without
moving as the Queen’s knights and attendants parted the crowd and ushered her below.
In the center of the field, the men-at-arms had raised a low platform for the Queen. Guenevere watched as her mother lightly crossed the trampled grass and mounted the dais, all happiness now, her quicksilver soul at ease again. Others followed with tasseled cushions bearing the rewards for the victor, rich gifts of gold made ready for many months.
In front of the knights’ enclosure, Lucan stood waiting beside the King. Enraged at being kept standing, his horse was shying violently, till it was all the champion could do to hold the brute down.
At last the heralds gave the signal to move forward to the Queen. Flanked by the King, waving to acknowledge the wild cheers on all sides, Lucan set off in triumph down the field. On the dais ahead, the Queen waited for him with starlight in her eyes.
The sun was low in the sky now, the heat of the day no more than a memory lost. A sly wind sprang up, whipping the heavy trappings round the horses’ legs, and the air grew cold. The sun sank behind a livid bank of clouds, blue, black, and purple, swelling from the east.
The two riders drew up before the dais.
The Queen stepped forward to meet Lucan, the gold chain of victory in her hands.
“Well fought, Sir Knight!”
“My lady and my Queen!”
Still astride the snorting horse, his face wreathed in a grin of triumph, Lucan leaned down toward the Queen. She smiled and reached up to place the chain around his neck. Neither of them saw the horse’s evil eye fix her in its glare. With a loud scream the great beast reared up, its front legs pawing at the dying sun. Then, like heaven falling, it plunged down to strike the Queen and crush her into a broken, bloodstained heap beneath its feet.
With a scream of horror, Lucan leaped from the horse and dragged it away from the pale shape lying motionless on the grass. Still howling, he tore his sword from its sheath and struck straight and true into the horse’s heart. As the monster beast keeled over, bucking and heaving, a laughing, snorting spirit burst out through its mouth and took to the sky. The last echoes mocked the hollow air and died as the horse’s lifeblood sprouted in great red blossoms, soaking the earth where the Queen’s body lay.
“He has come!” A low cry swept through the screaming crowd. “The Dark Lord, the Lord of the Underworld, has come; he is here!”
CHAPTER 3
Gods, it was cold! And sure to rain before night. Blowing on his hands, the guard shouldered his pike and stamped up and down. Dubiously he eyed the dark armies of full-bellied clouds massing in the west. But even on the best of days, Caerleon was a bad place to defend.
With a jaundiced eye he surveyed the rugged walls of the old castle, the low battlements, the shallow moat. Standing at the head of the valley, it was girdled with thick woodland that a shrewd defender would have cut back by a mile. A spy could look down from the hills behind and see all he wished to know. But whoever built Caerleon had cared more about presenting a handsome face to visitors than repelling attack. And since King Lot seized the land, the puppet kings who ruled the place for him had never had to defend it at all.
In fact, they’d probably forgotten how to fight. The guard cocked an ear to the drunken sounds of revelry in the Great Hall, and shifted his numb feet. Come tomorrow, none of them would be fit to lift a sword.
Yet kings must know what common people knew. And everyone knew that Merlin was about.
Some reckoned he’d been seen above Caerleon, but others swore he was in the Summer Country now. He had been in London when he called that great assembly there only days ago, that was a fact. Then he had vanished again, most likely back to the Welshlands where he lived with the wild pigs in the forest, rode a horned stag under the full moon, sang to the stars, and drank rock water for his wine. That too was true; everyone knew that.
But no one knew if it was true about the new king. A king for the Middle Kingdom, they said, where there had been no king at all since old King Uther died. Or rather, where they had had too many, ever since King Lot’s vassal kings had arrived. The guard grinned mirthlessly to himself. Six of them all told, and every one a coward or a fool.
But a Pendragon now, that was different. Uther Pendragon, he was a king. The ghost of the dead king rose before him, and the guard remembered him with pricking eyes. A man to rejoice in, lusty and full of life. Hands made to swing a sword in battle, and arms as strong as a bear. Built like a bear, too, big and broad and rough, but a man through and through.
The guard dwelt tenderly on Uther for a while. Strange that a man like Uther had never had a son. His queen had had children from a marriage before, but there never came one of the marriage that Uther could call his own.
Yet Uther had taken his plow to the field often enough if gossip spoke true, the guard chuckled to himself. Both night and day, men said, he had had his heifer in the barn. But she never threw a single calf for him. Well, only the Gods knew why.
The shade of Uther faded into the glimmering dusk. A nameless sadness overtook the guard. Everything was better when the High King was alive.
He turned and stamped his way back to the shelter of the gatehouse, kicking his boots against the stones to warm his feet. Would the red dragon ever fly from the topmost turret of Caerleon again? The first Pendragon had claimed this land a thousand years ago. If Merlin had truly found a king who was a Pendragon, or a Pendragon who could be King, then every man jack would rally to his flag.
A burst of bellowing laughter came from the Great Hall, and once again the sound of wild carousing filled the air. The six kings were in their cups, there was no doubt of that. Gods above! They’d be brawling soon, wasting the fight they’d need to meet an attack.
An attack …
Hopelessly he gazed around. The guards on the battlements were drinking and playing cards, while the lookout dozed openly in his box. But what could you expect of the lads, when the lords were drunk already, and calling for whores in the Great Hall? Even a small band of raiders would go through these like a knife through butter.
Well, serve them right.
If only—
His eye quickened. If only Merlin had found a new king for them. A king of the people, as old Uther used to be, to put down evil and restore the good. A young king who would take a queen, and sire more sons of Pendragon to reign. A man whose name and honor would never die.
Pendragon.
If only the King would come again …
Alone in the shadows of the castle, cold and wretched and without hope, the guard allowed himself to dream.
IN THE GREAT HALL of Caerleon the torches had burned out. King Carados groaned and raised his pounding head. The table was sticky with spilled beer and wine, the hall full of sweating bodies, most of them asleep. They had started at noon, and it must be past midnight now—twelve hours and more of low debauchery.
In every dark nook or corner a knight huddled down with a half-dressed serving girl. On the benches around the walls some of his men were still drunkenly availing themselves of the women of the town, rutting like stags. Well, knights would be knights. They were no worse than their lords.
Better, most of them. His stomach lurched as he remembered the fat slut he had toyed with earlier, when his blood ran high. Thank the Gods he had thought better of it and sent her back to the kitchen where she belonged!
He turned in his chair in a spasm of disgust. And there she was, sprawled across the table in a drunken sleep, her body shamefully exposed, her nipples swollen and red. Now he remembered taking her from behind like a dog, punishing those plump breasts, pinching her nipples savagely as she knelt before him on the table, to the loud applause of all. One thought possessed his mind. Ye Gods, why did I do it? And why now?
Painfully Carados raised his eyes. What time was it? By the fading stars, the dead hour before dawn. Beside him lay another victim of last night’s revelry, his breath whistling through his drink-slackened throat, a trickle of thin vomit running down his chin. Carados ey
ed the loose body with something close to hate. Gods above, if they had to rely on Rience, they might as well give up now!
Still, Rience was no worse than the other four. And thank the Gods there was no cause for alarm. Six kings would be more than a match for anything. They were all in this together, each sworn to King Lot for his portion of the Middle Kingdom, each ready to defend it to his dying breath.
Carados caught himself up. Gods above, why talk of dying now? In twenty years they’d never had to fight for the Middle Kingdom, and they never planned to die for it, then or now.
Still, this threat of Merlin’s boy had to be faced.
“Lights!” he roared, booting the nearest servant boy awake. “Get me some lights here, or I’ll have your hide!”
Farther down the table, another of the drowsing shapes stirred and came to life. “Carados, you devil, is that you?” It was King Agrisance, the hardiest of the six vassals of King Lot. “You and I must be the only ones still alive.”
“We won’t be alive for much longer, unless we can rally them!” Carados jerked a thumb down the table at the sleepers beyond. “Rience will sleep till noon, and Vause is no fighter at the best of times. Nentres and Brangoris are puking-ripe to take to their beds for a week. If this boy of Merlin’s comes, you and I will be facing him alone!”
Agrisance broke into a roar of drunken laughter. “He won’t come! And if he does, tell me, what can he do? Make six kings bow to a bastard of no blood? Yield up our swords to a beardless boy?”
“He does not come alone,” Carados muttered. In spite of his head, he found himself reaching for more wine.
“No.” Agrisance chuckled. “He comes with that mad old warlock Merlin and a ragged army of boys and fools, marching with their arses hanging out of their breeches, and half-dead for lack of food.” He burst out laughing. “Think of it, man: would you attack a dunghill with a force like that?”
Guenevere, Queen of the Summer Country Page 2
