“The Summer Country, yes.” A wisp of memory passed through Arthur’s mind. “We passed by their borders on our way here. We talked of a treaty then, to keep them safe.” And not only of a treaty, he remembered silently.
“Isn’t Merlin taking too much on himself, acting for you like this?” Kay said disagreeably. “A King should make his own treaties. And as for the rest of it—”
“Yes, what’s all this nonsense about the ‘darkness’?” glowered Gawain. “Why does he spoil our victory with such thoughts?”
Kay nodded, his face sour. “As if he needs to tell us to set lookouts, and keep a watch—”
“The six kings,” said Arthur tensely. “He is saying they will return. He is warning us to beware.”
But Bedivere watched Arthur’s face and read his eyes. He was from the Welshlands too, and he knew what Merlin meant. “And to take heed of the darkness,” he said quietly, in his firm, rhythmic lilt. “For every man has his darkness, and the greatest has most of all.”
OH, IT IS DARK now; it is a great darkness, darker than ever, yet better than ever too!
Merlin groaned till he felt his ribs crack.
She rode him hard, this spirit woman, and she changed shape every time. Yet it was always the same woman, and it always had been, at least he knew that now.
He cried out and tried to shift his aching loins under the abiding torture of her jabbing frame. When had it started, the darkness and desire?
Long, long ago, too long ago to recall. Once, he knew, he had been like other men. Oh, he had been granted the gift of tongues, and the making of music too. Above all he had the power, but in the Welshlands that was nothing strange.
The power had been with him from childhood, when his Pendragon mother taught him all the magic that she knew. Then as a man he became a mighty bard and in the end a Druid of the seventh seal, one of the lords of light, the masters of the earth. Yet even then he had been like other men.
But one by one the ropes had frayed that bound him to this world. All his male kin except Uther were lost in a great battle, butchered one by one when the power failed him, and he could not turn the tide. Not a man was left standing on all that field of blood, and he had to watch them all slaughtered, one by one. After that he ran mad, harping from high hills and singing to the stars.
So he took a young wife, to bind him to the earth. He loved her, and she had given him a son. But his wife caught a fever that made her as mad as he was, and burned up her sweet body to a crisp.
When she died, she took their son with her to the Otherworld, because she loved him far too much to leave behind. Then Uther his great kinsman, as big as a bear and as brave and beautiful, he had wasted too and died, though Merlin had used all the power he had to hold the life in him for days afterward, and even made him move and speak and cry out too.
And then they were all gone, and he was driven from Caerleon, hunted like an animal, till he became one too. And it was then, when he lay buried in the deepest part of the forest, huddled in a black cave in the heart of the living rock, that she first came to him. A night-riding beauty, a princess of the air. A spirit for sure, but his body felt her flesh and knew it, his ancient organs trembled under her fingers, her touch brought back his fire.
Since that first time, she had come again and again. Always in the spring, though she came at other times too. Sometimes she came as a pure young virgin with a lascivious sideways glance above a starched white collar and a forget-me-not-blue gown.
Most often she was a wanton woman who lured him to make free with her, then scorned and derided and punished his withered flesh. Sometimes she was a haughty matron, and he had to take down her arrogance, and the pleasure then was in her pain, not his. She had even been an old woman with soft loose crumpled flesh, well worn in the ways of love, and none the worse for that.
But always she came to him out of the darkness of his lust and desire and despair and fear of death. Indeed she brought the darkness, she was the darkness, and always she left him in a worse darkness than before.
Yet still he craved her coming and was powerless when she came. He knew the price of pleasure was a blindness that prevented him from seeing what he should, when he was in the grip of it as he was now.
“Gods above, I beg you, let me be free!”
He cried out and opened his eyes. Above him on the bed rode a woman with a fox’s head and bared white gleaming fangs, and instead of nipples, burning orange eyes. Her white hands ended in claws as red as blood, and her feet had claws too, tearing the flesh of his legs as she straddled his groaning pelvis, gripping his hollow flanks with her iron knees, digging the spurs of her claws into his bleeding thighs.
He cried out for mercy and she laughed aloud, he screamed and she rode him harder, he begged for relief and she pulled herself off him to leave him raw and unsatisfied, laughing at his throbbing misery now a hundred times worse than before. He could not reach his suffering to relieve it, for she had tied his hands. He could not escape, for his feet were bound too.
And only she could release him from her poison, touch him and stroke him with her hands or breasts or belly till the release came that would leave him humbled, clear and chastened—until she came again.
He could feel his whole being bursting toward this point. How long would she hold him here, condemned to bear the painful standing of his shuddering flesh—hours, days, weeks?
He shook his head frenziedly as the darkness gathered once more. There was still something he should think of, something he had to do.
Something about Arthur in Caerleon—about the Summer Country, and the Queen-making there—
Something he must see to, take care of, before he could enjoy …
He gathered all his fading mental forces for a final act of will. One more visit to the Summer Country. One brief effort to send forth his spirit shape to do what it must. And then he could embrace the darkness, go with her where she would.
Then he could take this beauty with her pulsing lips and all-devouring mouth. Or be taken by her till the darkness drowned him at last, drowned her, drowned all of them.
CHAPTER 12
Goddess, Mother, tell me, will he come?
HE CAME AT MIDNIGHT, stooping through the hangings, his dark-dyed robes sweeping the ground. Behind him the moonlight glimmered on the black sheen of low-lying distant waters, and farther off still lay the cloudy shape of Avalon, framed in its inland sea. His thick hair was bound back in Druid fashion, and his white skin and blue eyes shone with unnatural brightness in the candlelight. Guenevere stepped toward him, her heart in her mouth. Cormac, Cormac—
When had she first noticed him? She did not know. He was there all through her childhood, a lanky youth too old to play, yet always patient with a little girl. She was there as he grew to manhood, learning the mastery of horses and men. When he proved a ferocious fighter, she was first among the maidens who crowded around to applaud. Like his boyhood friend Lucan, he seemed destined to challenge for the title of Queen’s champion when the time came.
But then he took to walking in the woods, and it was whispered that his spirit was turning away from war. At court he shunned the feasts and would not dance when the minstrels played. He was seen haunting the Stone Circle, the great temple of the Mother, seeking Her aid. At last he vowed himself to Her to serve life, not war and death. Now he was foremost among the young bards in the College of Druids where Taliesin was chief. And Guenevere had looked at him, and dreamed of him, for many weary months.
“Lord Cormac, you are welcome.”
“Good evening, lady.”
His somber face softened as he came in. In his hand he carried a small silver lyre inlaid with gold. Her joy at seeing him vanished at once. Did he think she sent for him to sing a lullaby?
She had forgotten he could see into her mind. “You do not wish for music?” he said sharply. “How can I serve you, then?”
Guenevere pulled herself up. “I need your counsel. Tomorrow I fear my cousin M
algaunt plans to tell the people that I cannot rule alone—that he will try to overthrow me, or install himself beside me on the throne.”
“So—” He broke off, his face alive with thought. “And your father?”
She laughed bitterly. “My father sees the future in Malgaunt, and the rule of the Mother as passing from us now.”
His eyes sought hers with burning urgency. “Tell me then, where do you stand?”
The blood rushed to her face. “I stand on my right! I am Queen here, by due descent. And all true men should love and serve me now!”
He gave an unexpected laugh. “Oh, they will, lady, they will!”
She was suddenly, foolishly happy. “Will they?”
“You are our Queen! And for tomorrow—listen!”
He strode to the entrance of the tent and threw back the hangings at the door. From the warm spark-filled darkness, low groans of joy, small cries and whispers, and noises of content floated through the fiery air. The night was full of acts of love and worship, the joy of bodies doing the Goddess’s will.
Guenevere felt herself grow hot. Cormac lowered the door covering and looked at her, a smile of great sweetness on his lips.
“It is good to celebrate the life the Goddess gives,” he said gently. “These are your people, lady, and there lies your right. Tomorrow when their desires are sated and their love duty done, they will raise you to the Queen Stone. Prince Malgaunt must present you, according to custom, as the Queen’s blood kin. And Taliesin and all the servants of the Great Ones will be there to confirm you in your place. What is there to fear?”
“My father says that I must have a champion.”
Again his burning eyes were fixed on hers. “Lady, you will never lack a champion.”
“But tomorrow,” she persisted. “Who will stand for me tomorrow?”
He smiled again. “Why, I will, and so will Taliesin and all your men. We live only to see you enthroned.”
“You,” she said, trembling, “would you champion me?”
“I have said so.”
A sudden joy was singing in her veins. “Then I call on you, Cormac, for I need you now.” He gasped. “What?”
“If Malgaunt moves against me, I want you to fight for me, and help me to the throne.”
He was very pale. “I have given up the way of death.”
“But you would take up your sword again if danger threatened something you held dear?”
“I—I would.”
“But not for me?”
“Lady—” He threw back his head in pain. “You need a warrior, not a poet and a dream weaver!”
He moved away and began roaming around the tent. “In times gone by, the finest flower of our young men were sacrificed for the life of the tribe, hung on the tree till the third day when the heavens opened for them, and the sky turned black. Today we believe in a faith of love, not killing, of life, not suffering and death. So now, those who hope for the highest must sacrifice themselves and give their lives to the Goddess. I have made that vow. I have sworn to make the journey to the Island of the West, and live there in Her holy worship all my days.”
She knew she must not weep. “And tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow you will have many knights. Choose one of them, and leave your bards to serve you as they can.” He reached for his harp and bowed as if to go.
Guenevere could not bear it. “So you abandon me to Malgaunt; you throw me to the wolf?” Her resolution crumbled, and the hot tears flowed like rain.
At once he was by her side. “Lady Guenevere,” he said urgently. “What do you fear?”
His robes were heady with incense, and his body was very close. Oh, why did he not take her in his arms?
“Tomorrow is nothing,” she moaned. “We will live long after tomorrow. I am young and unpartnered, and I need your love!”
He recoiled, his eyes wide with shock. “All this has been too much for a young girl,” he said slowly. “You are still in grief, Lady Guenevere. You do not know what you say.”
“Goddess, Mother!” she wept. “When will men see I am a woman grown, queen of my country, and of my body too?” She turned to him. “I know what I am doing, don’t you see?”
“But—why do you choose me?”
She seized his hand and looked deep into his eyes. The blood rushed to her head, and she felt herself grow strong. “Lord Cormac, I have loved you all my life. Be my champion now, and I will call you to the fires before all the folk tonight. I will take you as my King and consort, I will make you the father of my daughter, I will not change you for a new champion but love you always!”
His face was glistening with pain. “Oh, lady, lady,” he groaned, “truly those who formed you made you lovely among women. Whoever shaped your flesh was a master of his art.”
He reached up to touch a strand of her hair. “The Gods spun this from moonbeams,” he said with a breaking sigh, “and the evening star put the light in your eyes.” Like a man in a dream he moved his hands down her body. “Oh, you are ripe for love! And you would grace the life of any man.”
For a long moment he held her like a lover, then pushed her away. “Oh, Gods, you torture me—how have I sinned?”
He was weeping now like a warrior, denying the grief. “I cannot break the vow that I have sworn! I cannot choose you above the Mother, for Her anger would kill us both.”
He made a faint farewell. “I will not say forgive me. But when your champion comes, let him help you to forget.” With a last glance, he stepped weeping into the night.
THE NIGHT WAS very long. But she was ready when they came for her, ready for Malgaunt, ready to be Queen. She had dressed with care in a fine gown of poppy red, and a cloak of gold cloth from out of the East—the people should see her, even from the farthest hill. At her neck she wore a gold collar studded with rubies, glowing with deep fire. The Queen’s women—still she could not think of them as hers—had treated her face with the Queen’s colors and rubbed her temples with sweet patchouli to calm her nerves. Now her lips were as red as her gown, her skin glowed, and no trace of last night’s weeping marked her eyes.
The chief of the women deftly dressed her hair and fixed in place the Queen’s gold diadem, its great pendant moonstones encircling her brows. “There, my lady!” she said proudly, holding up the mirror.
Guenevere looked, and hardly recognized what she saw. The face that looked back at her was both older now and harder, the cheekbones high and unyielding, the dark-eyed stare that of a woman who, if she could not have what she wanted, was determined to take what she could get.
It was the look of a queen.
Queen Guenevere.
Trembling before the mirror, she swore in the darkness of her soul that it would be so.
THEY CAME FOR HER as the sun soared in the heavens, pouring down rays of gold from a clear blue sky. As she stepped out of the Queen’s pavilion, Malgaunt was the first to meet her eye. “Good greetings, niece,” he said with a smile. “We come to call you to the Hill.”
Guenevere’s gorge rose. Yet he looked no different from her father, Lucan, or Taliesin, all finely arrayed and armed to the hilt. Where were the signs of treachery? What was brewing in Malgaunt’s subtle mind?
Even in daylight the Hill of Stones still basked in the warmth of last night’s feasting, wearing the smiling face of a woman who has been well pleasured and longs for more. They climbed the hill through the great crowds of sated onlookers, past the still-smoldering fires and flattened beds of bracken, over the shining grass. Lucan led the way with a troop of the Queen’s knights, and the Queen’s women and attendants brought up the rear.
As they mounted the hill, the crowds thinned out toward the top. Below them lay the Summer Country, ageless in beauty, drowsing sleepily under the kiss of the sun. Guenevere looked down on the vast primeval forests crossed by their ancient greenways, hidden tracks made by the Old Ones long before the Romans came to make roads. Across the flatlands wandered countless little farmsteads, eac
h with its wattle pens, beehives and chicken runs, and a cherished pig or cow. The silver streams wound in and out of dark, brooding pools, and the rivers fed green-black lakes gleaming like glass. All along the riversides were groves of creamy hawthorn and weeping willows trailing their fingers in the water like lovesick girls.
At the top of the hill stood the great Stone Circle, and at its center a massive square of black rock as tall as a man. Once a queen was raised up there before all the people, she would rule the Summer Country till her dying day.
In front of the Queen Stone stood a carved wooden throne plated with bronze, glittering in the sun. On its high back were scenes depicting the Great Mother inviting all to drink from her loving cup, feeding the hungry from her dish of plenty, succoring the weak with her sword of power and spear of defense. These were the sacred relics of Goddess worship since time began. Guenevere’s heart leaped as Taliesin led her through the throng toward the throne. Goddess, Mother, make me worthy of this place!
But the mere sight of Malgaunt taking his place was a sick reminder of how far it still was from hers. And all around him were those who could block her path to the throne, the people of the Summer Country from high and low. In the first ranks sat rows of the greatest lords and knights, their velvet robes, gold collars, and sleek silver mail proclaiming their status to the world. Behind them were the strangers she had first seen yesterday, short, sturdy warlike men in rough pelts and furs, their swords lying ready on their knees as they watched the proceedings with fierce unblinking stares. They were the chiefs of the land kin, the dwellers in these islands from ancient days. These were the men, King Leogrance had said, who would not make her Queen unless she could give them a champion and war leader too.
Guenevere looked around. In the center of the seats facing the throne Malgaunt, King Leogrance, and Lucan were plain to see. Shadowed by the Queen Stone, Cormac stood ready in front of a band of dark-clad Druids, holding his harp. His drawn face showed that he had slept no better than Guenevere last night. But his haunted gaze never once turned her way.
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