The doorway of the chamber was beckoning them in. At Lucan’s sign half a dozen of the Queen’s knights lifted her body down from the chariot and carried it across the hillside into the chamber.
Guenevere followed with King Leogrance and Malgaunt, nerving herself to plunge into the earthy darkness within. Down they went and down until they came out into a low, domed space dimly lit with dragon lamps. In the center of the chamber stood a funeral chariot cast in solid bronze. The six knights set the Queen down on the chariot and withdrew.
Beside the chariot waited the Maidens of the Lake, girls destined to become priestesses, robed in white and gold. Deftly they arranged the Queen’s war regalia and raised her battle standard above her throne. Beside her they set her silver mirror and comb and her beloved cosmetics in their bowls of colored glass. In her lap they placed her jewel box brimming with amber, turquoise, and pearls, all her treasures from this world to delight her in the next.
“Hear me!”
Guenevere’s heart leaped in fear. Silhouetted against the entrance stood the wild shape of a giant black-and-white bird, its wings outstretched for flight. It was Taliesin, arms upraised in his singing robes, a great cloak of swan and raven feathers, half man, half God.
Cormac was harping passionately at his side. Taliesin cried again. “Hear me! I sing of a Princess born to rule, of a young Queen who loved her first champion, and made him her King and chosen one. I tell of her courage in battle, her frail form fearless against spears and arrows, her chariot always in the thick of the fray! I hail her strength in peace, and her wisdom in war.
“And weeping, I praise the beauty of a soul that made the Old Ones take her before her time!”
The dying cry hung trembling in the air. Nothing stirred in the singing, shimmering gloom. Then a radiance grew and filled the pulsing dark. In the heart of the brightness stood a lofty figure veiled from head to foot. Guenevere’s eyes burned. The Lady had come to bring her mother home.
The muffled shape raised her arms, fluttering her gauzy draperies. The sound that filled the chamber was the deep music of the earth itself.
“Great Mother of us all, you are life, you give life, and to you all life returns. You danced on the white foam of the waves, and divided the sea from the sky.
“From your body flows each sparkling stream, and from you all waters make their way to the sea. In the starlit sky, you come to us as the moon. And when the sun goes down and your children fall asleep, you are here to take us home.”
Now the haunting chant swelled up to ecstasy.
“O Mother, Goddess, Great One, take to yourself this child who was your servant, this Queen who loved her people, take this woman’s body, and let her soul sweetly slip its unwanted shell!
“Ease her journey to the Plain of Delight, speed the passing of her spirit through the world between worlds, and bless her steps to come to us again!”
“Be it so!” cried the Lake Maidens with one voice. “Be it so, be it so, be it so!”
Suddenly all the dragon lamps went out, plunging the burial chamber into night. In the black silence Guenevere felt a man’s breath—whose?—on the back of her neck. A scream rose in her throat and she choked with fear.
Then a voice she knew sounded from near the door. “Come!” called Taliesin. One by one the mourners turned and stumbled toward the light.
Out on the hillside the roaring crowd was calling on the Goddess and all the Gods. But faintly above the clamor came an unfamiliar noise. Guenevere blinked in the sudden sunlight and stared about.
And there it was again, “Domine, domine, miserere …”
“He hath put down the mighty from their seat,” rose the thin drone. “He hath punished the ungodly in the imagination of their hearts.”
Around the side of the hill came a column of chanting monks, led by a black-robed figure brandishing a cross.
“Christ worshipers!” Lucan swore. “How dare they come here?”
Malgaunt calmly surveyed the approaching troop. “Perhaps they have come to pay their last respects.”
“Respects?” Lucan exploded. “When they call the Old Ones idols, and destroy our shrines? These men respect no faith but their own!”
And on they came, swarming like black beetles up the grass. Their shaven heads shone red and raw in the cold, and their coarse gowns and rope girdles made them look more like swineherds than holy men.
Guenevere stared. Goddess, Mother, why do they dress like this? Cormac’s bardic silks were dyed with the indigo from the East, and Taliesin’s everyday gown was woven from the whitest wool. Anything less was an insult to the Great Ones, who gave beauty to the world for our delight. Why did the Christians make themselves so ugly for their God?
Taliesin emerged from the burial house, something glinting in his hands. “This is the ancient sword of all our Queens,” he said with a bow. “Take it, my lady, for it is yours now.”
Trembling, Guenevere looked down. The sword lay across her hands, heavy with slumbering power. In awe she stroked the sheath of jeweled gold and felt the antique gemstones pulsing with inner fire. Their force flowed into her, and she gripped the weapon like a talisman as the line of monks drew near.
“God be with you!” the leader cried, planting his cross in the ground. “I am Brother John, and these are the servants of Christ. We come to bring a blessing on the Queen who has gone.”
Guenevere forced herself to speak. “Welcome, sir. We take your blessing with thanks.”
“And we come to know,” he went on, thrusting his coarse red hands deep in his trailing sleeves, “who rules the Summer Country now?”
Taliesin drew up at Guenevere’s side. “The Summer Country obeys the rule of Queens. And the Queen-making of our lady Guenevere takes place tomorrow, at the feast of Beltain.”
Brother John pursed his lips. “This Queen-making—”
“It is the ceremony at which the Queen makes her mystical marriage with the land,” Taliesin’s mellow voice went on. “Her sacred union with her country, in the sight of all her folk, when the people come to the fires, when the sun comes to the earth, when the God comes to the Mother, and all life begins anew.”
“New life?” Brother John let out a contemptuous snort. “There is no life but in our savior Jesus Christ, nothing but death in following false gods!”
False gods? Guenevere felt the rage rising up her throat. How can they hate so much, these Christians, and still call themselves good? Why do they hate, when religion should be love?
“False gods?” Lucan was at her side, hungry for blood. “Do you insult our worship? You lousy dog, if you were a man and wore a sword, instead of making yourself a eunuch for your God—”
The monk’s face filled with blood. “We are warriors for Christ, you heathen slave, and we bring death to those who will not hear our truth!”
“Sirs, sirs!” Guenevere held up her hand. “Brother John, your kindness is welcome on my mother’s death. But I beg you, do not disturb our sacred rites. Hear me, sir—”
“Hear you?” he broke in violently. “No, madam, you hear me!” His eyes were bulging with fury. “What you do here is against the laws of God! God has forbidden women to have authority over men. Men were made in His image to fulfill His aims. Your Queen-making is the work of the devil, and against God’s will!”
How dare they? “Yet I am Queen here in spite of you!” Guenevere raged. She tore the sword from its scabbard and waved it around her head.
Brother John snatched up his cross and flourished it in her face. “Get thee behind me, Satan!”
Lucan could take no more. “Get out! Leave this place as you came, or you’ll find yourselves head down in a ditch to feed the crows!”
“Go!” Guenevere ordered at the top of her voice. “You heard our champion—go!”
“I curse you, demon woman!” the monk screamed. “Leave off this Queen-making, or you’ll burn in hell!”
There was a slow but unmistakable ripple through the crowd. Lucan le
aped toward the nearest group, farmers and villagers by their open look. “You heard these men!” he called. “Will you defend the Queen and the Mother-right?”
“Will we not, lord?” A clutch of brawny youths and sturdy men and women cheered and surged forward at Lucan’s call.
“Get back! Get back!” Brother John brandished his cross and began jabbering a Latin curse. “Maleficia maledico—”
Lucan sprang at him and leveled his sword at his throat. “Get out of here!”
The monk was pale, but with fury rather than fear. “We go!” he shouted, mouthing down his bile. “But like our Lord Himself, we shall return! Your late Queen has died young, struck down before her time. It’s a sign from above! Your gods are failing, ours will give us victory!”
Brandishing his cross with a final flourish of defiance, he turned to descend the hill. Behind him his black tribe trooped on his heels. Guenevere watched them with a sinking heart. They spoke no more than the truth. Like their Lord, they would return.
CHAPTER 10
The sound of chanting slowly died away. The column of monks wound down the hill and was lost in the fading light. High overhead the first star of evening appeared in the sky. And Guenevere breathed deeply in the damp, sweet air and looked around her with new eyes.
Below them, the watchers on the hillside were settling in for the night. One by one their campfires bloomed in the dusk as they made themselves at home. Others were lighting the Beltain fires, the great bonfires that would make the crest of the hill as bright as day and create welcoming pools of warm darkness for those who would creep into them together later on.
The fires …
Guenevere paused. Her mother had spoken of fires in her last words on earth.
Through the fires, she had said. Through the fires, he comes.
Who?
When?
Tonight?
Tonight the Queen would already know the answer as she passed through the Beyond, crossing the astral plane on the wings of their prayers. Unless the hatred of the Christians had hindered her journey and ruined their last farewell?
Beside her Taliesin sighed. “Fear not, lady Guenevere. Your mother is already walking in the world where the wind and stars are one.”
“No thanks to the Christians.”
Guenevere started. Like Taliesin, Cormac was answering her thoughts. He stared at Malgaunt. “And the Christians are the coming men, it seems.”
Malgaunt nodded, a smile playing around his lips. “So it seems.”
“They were there in London, you say, to welcome Merlin’s boy?” Cormac went on, his eyes fixed on Malgaunt’s face. “And today they were here again for our Queen’s farewell?”
“They wish to spread their faith.” Malgaunt shrugged. “There is no mystery there.”
Guenevere tensed. “But why here, today?”
Malgaunt smiled. “Ask them.”
Lucan stirred angrily. “They want to destroy everything we hold dear!”
“Yet their leader, the old man on Iona, is said to be wise and kind, and not given to the sword.” Taliesin raised his head, and deep lines of tiredness marked his face. “But it grows late, my lords. Shall we bring the lady Guenevere to her rest?”
THE ROYAL PAVILION was bright with rugs and rich hangings and great standing braziers warming the chilly air. To and fro went the Queen’s women in the candlelight, plumping up cushions, setting out hot wine and honey bread, and casting sweet herbs upon the glowing coals. As Guenevere came in, a dozen hands helped her out of her wet garments and into fresh clothes.
Now she was seated in the Queen’s great chair, with her feet on a padded footstool and a hot goblet of spiced wine in her hand. Outside a troop of the Queen’s knights kept guard, ready to perform her every whim. Yet she would have traded it all to be free of the fear that dogged her now.
The Christians want to overthrow the Goddess and bring in the rule of men. But only one man here would gain from that. A man born into second place, learning to hate the rule of women. One man hungry for power, and determined it should be his—
Guenevere leaped to her feet in fury, clapping her hands. “Send for the King! Say the Queen his daughter begs a word with him.”
The Queen his daughter?
She gave a bitter laugh as the attendant ran to obey.
Not if my loving uncle has his way.
Goddess, Mother, Great One, help me now!
OUTSIDE THE HILL OF STONES slept its primeval sleep. Through the walls of the tent, the campfires glowed like fireflies in the night. Where the country folk were camped, the funeral games and songs had been going on for hours. Now their chants took on a different note as more urgent rhythms stole through the dusky air.
Guenevere shivered. The children of the Old Ones were celebrating Beltain with all the power at their command. Could she harness the force of their earth magic to her own cause, as they labored to draw down the Golden One?
A solitary drumbeat cut through the night air. Inside the tent a sound fell softly like the evening dew. “He is coming …”
It was her mother. Guenevere stood quite still, and let her come.
“… through the fires he comes …”
He is coming …
The night fires …
Beltain and the coming of the God …
Slowly the wisps of thought wove through her mind. Was he the one she awaited, the young God Bel, the golden lord of fire, the Goddess’s chosen one?
The voice came again: “… he comes …”
Covering her face, she closed her eyes and wept.
“MY LADY!” It was one of the attendants. “The Queen’s champion is outside, craving a word.”
“Admit him.”
“My lady Guenevere!”
Lucan’s smile reminded Guenevere how he had won her mother’s love. He was freshly groomed, and handsomely turned out in a red tunic and white shirt, fine dark wool breeches and sleeveless leather overmantle, and perfumed with heavy musk. At his neck he sported the massive gold torque of knighthood, glinting with jewels as bright as animals’ eyes.
“My lady.”
Bowing low, Lucan kissed Guenevere’s hand and smiled into her eyes. The joy of his own power coursed through the knight’s veins. She was halfway his already, he could feel it. Tonight he would do well.
Guenevere’s skin prickled, and she moved away.
Why does he look at me like that?
“Will you take a cup of wine?”
He shook his head. “I have news that you must hear. When the Christians left, my men waylaid the leader and loosened his tongue. It seems they were encouraged, lady, to disrupt our rites!”
Guenevere caught her breath. “Who encouraged them?”
“A great lord from Camelot, the monk said.”
“Who?”
“Who knows?” Lucan turned his head and looked away.
Guenevere gritted her teeth. Well, only a fool would name Malgaunt without proof. “What are you saying, sir?”
“Madam, you need a champion to defend you against such as this!”
Guenevere studied the handsome, confident face. “Yourself, by any chance?”
He smiled his winning smile. “Who else?”
“But you were my mother’s champion.” She fumbled for the words. “And her—chosen one.”
His eyes flared. “The Queen of the Summer Country takes a chosen one for the good of all. She must maintain her vigor, when her vital life is the life of all our tribe.” He grinned with all the confidence of youth, reveling in his unchallenged animal strength. “As Queen, she marries her country, not one man. One man alone cannot sustain a Queen. Men grow older, they tire, and their flesh fails. So the Queen takes a new consort to renew herself. It is her duty to renew the marriage of the sovereignty with the land. And more—it is her right!”
He laughed, showing strong white teeth. In the enclosed area he seemed to fill the space with raw manhood, prowling like a tiger, smiling, cruel, bold. “
You do not like me, lady.” He stepped toward her, reaching for her hand. “That will change as soon as you are Queen.”
He was very close now, and the musky scent of him was dangerous and strong. Slowly he turned her hand in his hard grip. “Your mother took your father as the first of her chosen ones. She made him King, and the father of her child. He never lost these rights, though the Queen took younger men when the time came.”
Guenevere could not move. His fingertips brushed her palm. “Lady, your mother was wise, as well as beautiful.” He looked away, and for a second Guenevere saw his loss pass over his face. “Any young Queen would be wise too, to take a proven champion.” He raised her hand and touched it to his lips. “Especially one who offers himself to her freely, body and soul.”
“Ha!” The spell was broken. “ ‘Freely’ you say, Sir Lucan? Even young women know that few things are free.” Guenevere stepped back, and pulled her hand away. “What is your price?”
“Truly you are the daughter of your mother!” Lucan laughed in delight. “And the man who has loved one will be doubly blessed in the love of the other.” He caught her hand again, and brought it to his lips in a fervent kiss.
“But your love, sir?” Guenevere persisted. “What does it cost?”
“You wrong me, lady, my service has no price!” He laughed again. “But you would naturally reward the champion who helped you to the throne. You would make him King, and the father of your child.” He paused, his eyes flaming in the candlelight, his voice dark. “And he would make you love him, in ways you do not know.” He slipped his hand inside her sleeve and touched the soft skin of her wrist.
Guenevere could feel her face growing hot and her breasts pricking inside her gown. “Not so fast, lord,” she said huskily. “You are offering me your service, if I make you my King?”
“My service—and my life.” She’s coming, Lucan rejoiced to himself, she’s mine—
“But surely I can already command you to do anything I like?”
Lucan paused. “Lady?”
Guenevere, Queen of the Summer Country Page 8
