Guenevere, Queen of the Summer Country

by Rosalind Miles

  Now a trumpet called for attention, silencing the crowd. A cry rang through the hushed assembly till it echoed around the hills: “Hear me! And through me, hear the words of Her I serve!”

  Taliesin stepped forward from the shadow of the Queen Stone, his pale face blazing, his eyes in a trance. On his head he wore the priestly crown of gold, and his long robe flashed with disks of gold that sang sweetly as he moved. His voice echoed through the standing stones. “Great Goddess, Mother of us all, bless this new Queen. Raise her up to the Queen Stone, and honor her as the leader we now choose—”

  Behind Taliesin, the massed ranks of Druids swelled his prayers with a deep, heartfelt chant. The cry passed to the people as more and more voices took up the call.

  The day wore on. As Guenevere watched and listened, the power of the ritual stole over her, and her dread began to fade. Lulled by the chanting, cocooned by the warm air, she fell into a trance. Now she could hear the secret music at the heart of things and feel the breath of the mystery brushing against her cheek. Her senses swam in a pearly light like Avalon, and a great sweetness filled the air.

  Suddenly she was touching the world between the worlds. Somewhere near, she knew, her mother’s spirit was passing among the stars. What is there to fear? Cormac had said. Resting her back against the throne, feeling the weight of the Queen’s diadem, Guenevere dared to believe that it might be so.

  Taliesin was coming to the end of his song. “I am old, I am young, I am dead, I am alive, I am Taliesin!” he cried. “From the cold, from the fire, from the land of the dead, from the world to be, I bring you your Queen!”

  “So be it!” came Cormac’s strong response.

  “So be it, so be it, so be it!”

  The chanting of the Druids and the cry of the harps were blending now with the rising of the wind and the sinking of the sun in the sky.

  “Here is your Queen!” Taliesin cried to the echoing hills. “I call on the Queen’s kinsman to bring her to the Stone.”

  Malgaunt rose from his seat and moved to stand before the throne. “Hear me, people of the Summer Country!” he cried, pitching his voice to the far rolling hills. “I come to bring you Guenevere. She is your true ruler by descent, and we are here to make her our Queen.”

  I come to bring you Guenevere—

  She wanted to laugh, to weep, to break into a dance. How she had wronged Malgaunt! All along he meant to give her the people, as he knew he should. He was going to make her Queen!

  She stumbled to her feet and tried to speak. “Good people—” But her voice failed in a rush of happy tears.

  And Malgaunt was still calling to the crowd. “You all know that war threatens us now. So I pledge myself to you as the Queen’s companion in arms, her war leader and champion, to guide and direct her through what lies ahead. Take me when you take her, make me her consort, and I dedicate my life to her service—and yours!”

  With a triumphant cry he tore off his mailed gauntlet and threw it at Guenevere’s feet. Then he turned on her, smiling his whitest smile. “So, Guenevere, what is it to be?”

  CHAPTER 13

  Already the cheers were roaring through the crowd. Guenevere was faint with fear and anger, gasping for breath. “You cannot—dare not do this! I will denounce you—I will refuse!”

  “You may not refuse.” Malgaunt did not even look at her as he raised his arms and stepped forward, wreathed in smiles, to acknowledge the applause. “Thank you, my good people!” he bellowed jovially. “My dearest thanks to you!” His good people?

  A voice Guenevere did not know tore from her throat: “Father!”

  So Malgaunt thought he was the only one who could present the new Queen? But a father was a kinsman, too; his voice would serve! “King Leogrance!” she called. “Father, propose me now!”

  From the ranks massed around the throne, King Leogrance rose to his feet. As he stood up, the whole assembly quietened to hear what he had to say.

  And there it was. Dully she shook her head. No, Father, no! “Guenevere must take a champion for the sake of the country. And who better than her kinsman Malgaunt?”

  Oh, where is the man my mother loved?

  “Malgaunt then has my voice. With Malgaunt as her champion—”

  Suddenly there was a furious flurry at her side.

  “Malgaunt for champion? Never!” Lucan’s howl of fury was ringing around the hillside. “The Queen’s champion stands here!”

  Malgaunt’s eyes bulged with shock. “What, Sir Lucan?” he snarled. “Do you dare to challenge me now?”

  “Dare?” scoffed Lucan, grabbing for his sword. “I dare, Prince Malgaunt, anytime you choose!”

  “Hear me, profaners of our ritual!”

  Taliesin’s rage blasted them like a winter storm. “Do you forget, lords, why we are here? This is Beltain, when we bring back the God! We shall invoke his presence now, at once. When the God comes, we shall settle your dispute!”

  Guenevere closed her eyes. Oh, it was loyal of Taliesin to buy time like this! But he could only put off her defeat. What good could it do, deferring the evil hour? She clasped her hands in prayer. Goddess, Mother, help me now …

  And the answer came.

  The land kin—if I can make them mine, they will make me Queen.

  “Sirs!” She turned to the dark-faced chiefs. “Hear me!” she cried.

  The leader rose to his feet. “You are the Throne Woman,” he said in the rough tongue of the Old Ones. “What is your will?”

  “Go!” Guenevere urged him furiously, tears in her eyes. “Go to your people, bid them enthrone me now! Say I will not leave them undefended if war comes. But I will choose my own champion, as a queen should do—by the laws of the Mother and the ancient freedoms of this land!”

  The chief inclined his head, and his men rose to their feet. “We go.”

  Malgaunt stepped forward, laughing in his throat. “They will not save you, Guenevere. In other times, they would cling to the old ways. But now they want a warrior, not an untried girl. And as your champion”—his teeth flashed in a venomous grin—“I can wait, my dear.”

  AND SO THEY waited as the golden day faded, and the fires of evening sprang up all around.

  “Great Bel, golden God, Lord of the Fires, Son of Heaven, Only Beloved of the Mother, come to us now …”

  In the shadow of the Queen Stone, Taliesin had returned to his prayers. The sacred smoke rose in blue and purple gusts as he began the ceremony to draw down the God to earth. Outside the circle of stones, the people were clapping and singing, some dancing, some threading their way among the sacred fires. Already the bolder women were approaching their chosen men, and the sounds and scents of earth magic hung heavy in the air.

  Time passed without a trace. The low chanting of the Druids lingered in the gold and rosy dusk. Without warning an attendant appeared at Guenevere’s side. “A stranger bard has come to honor our feast, he says,” he declared. “Will you hear him?”

  Guenevere hardly cared if the standing stones themselves had offered to dance a jig. “Admit him,” she said monotonously. “Let him sing his song.”

  Into the firelight came a tiny boy carrying a harp as tall as himself. Leaning on the child’s shoulder, the aged bard walked behind, moving with blind deliberation, using the boy for his eyes. He was richly clad in a long green velvet robe, its silken sleeves brushing the ground. On his head he wore a tall bardic headdress over his long gray locks, and beneath the hair matted on his forehead, one yellow eye stared blankly out. As he took up his place at the center of the arena, his sightless gaze swept the assembly and to Guenevere’s troubled mind, it seemed to fasten like a hawk on her.

  But soon she found where his real interest lay. Taking his harp from the boy, the bard struck a loud chord, and began.

  “Lords, knights, chieftains, I sing of a hero and a man of might!” came the rhythmic, wailing cry. “The Gods themselves will set him at the right hand of Queen Guenevere, to guide her to destined heights!” />
  Malgaunt! The bard was promoting Malgaunt against her! Seize this old villain, silence his song, and cast him where no man ever sings! her soul cried out. But it was too late to stop his tribute now.

  Across the grass she could see Malgaunt frozen with delight at his good luck. Could he have sent for the bard, she wondered frantically, ordered his attendance, commanded this song of praise?

  No, it was impossible—bards were Druids, they served the Great Ones, and their voices were not for hire. Had this bard, then, seen something in the stars that foretold Malgaunt’s success? If he had, she was defeated, and might as well yield now.

  She could have moaned aloud: Goddess, Mother, what wrong have I done? Why do you punish me now?

  And still the chant went on. “Prince Malgaunt is the hero of my song. He will rule this land; he will reign for many generations as the Queen’s consort and her chosen one. He will be lord of many battles and father of many children; he will live through war and death, and die at peace in his bed. He will be King, when all men raise him now!”

  Already the word was passing among the people, racing down the hillside from fire to fire: “Malgaunt for champion, Malgaunt for King!” And now the chieftains were returning through the gathering dark, bearing the verdict of their folk—would they say the same?

  Taliesin stepped toward them. “What news?” he cried.

  “We took the word of the Throne Woman to our people,” called the chief, “and we bring their answer now.”

  “Say on!”

  The chief paused. “They say, ‘We will take the Lady Guenevere as our Queen.’ ”

  So!

  Guenevere’s heart burst with joy. She had triumphed, she had—

  “We will take her with the champion who has come forward for her, now, here, tonight. We take Prince Malgaunt to be her lord and consort—now, here, tonight!”

  AT LAST!

  Oh, it was sweet—

  So sweet—

  Malgaunt let out his breath in a long hiss of joy. Taliesin stood motionless, and Lucan screamed and beat his head with his hands. The fiery twilight spread across the hills, and a great darkness settled on Guenevere.

  “Goddess, Mother, call down the Lord of Gold! Show us your sign, before we raise up the Queen!”

  It was Taliesin, making one last attempt to hold back Malgaunt’s triumph and save her from this fate. At the altar, eyes closed and head thrown back, his face upturned to the full moon, the Chief Druid was praying as he had never prayed in his life.

  “The God, Great Mother! Give us the God! Bring down the Lord of Gold!”

  All the crowd was hushed by his terrible cry. The wind was rising in the brightness of the dark, passing softly between the standing stones. Behind Guenevere rose the voices of the Druids: “Come to us, Lord of Gold, great Bel, come!”

  “Come, come!”

  From the hillside a thousand voices echoed the call, their yearning cries drowned by the howling wind.

  “Come!”

  “Come!”

  “Come!”

  A WILD SCREAM pierced the darkness at the foot of the hill. “He comes! He comes!”

  Outlined against a campfire, one of the women of the land kin stood pointing into the darkness, her voice shrill with terror and joy. “There!”

  “There!”

  The groups around the campfires broke and scattered in dread. A howling clamor swelled up through the night. “The God is here!”

  “He comes!”

  “The God comes!”

  A crowd had gathered around the unseen thing. Now the whole group was surging up the hill. Inside the Stone Circle Guenevere rose to her feet, craning forward, eyes straining to penetrate the dark. A wild hope knocked at her heart— Could it be?

  And suddenly there it was, a massive shape in the midst of the swirling mob. Broader than a bear, taller than a man, it towered head and shoulders above the rest.

  “He comes! He comes!” The wailing intensified.

  Fear gripped Guenevere, but a mad excitement too.

  Who was coming?

  The God?

  Could it be the Golden Lord himself?

  She covered her eyes, then forced herself to look. A huge bearlike figure, armored in gold from head to foot, was making his way through the crowd. Behind him were three others, lesser gods in gold and silver too, coming up the hill. The leader was covering the ground with mighty strides, forging through the campfires in his way, scattering sparks as he went.

  The crowd howled in ecstasy, their cries filling the air. And on he came, cresting the flames, fire on his golden helmet, fire on his breastplate, sparks of fire on his spurs and thighs, flashing through the dark. He swam toward her, armored and helmeted, a creature with no face, as she stood breathless, almost lifeless, waiting for him. In the silence at the heart of the clamor, she heard her mother’s voice: He is coming—through the fires, he comes.

  “The God!” howled the people, and the whole hillside shook. “The God! Bel comes!”

  Opposite her Malgaunt stood frozen in rage and dread, his face gray-green in the fire’s red light. King Leogrance stood as still as the standing stones, Lucan beside him staring like a child.

  Now the noise was deafening, rending the night sky. Then a deeper cry rang out above it all. “The God! The God! Bel has come to champion the Queen!”

  Leaping to the center of the arena, Cormac threw his voice to the farthest hills. “Hear me! You wished for a champion for the Queen, and lo, here he comes! You called him forth, and he has come to her!”

  What? Malgaunt’s head snapped back, and his lips parted in a wordless snarl.

  “Stop him—stop Cormac—” But the moment was gone.

  “The God comes!” The cry ran like wildfire through the crowd. “The Queen has a champion—bring her to the Stone!”

  Guenevere stood quite still. The gold-clad stranger entered the ring around the Stone Circle and made straight for her.

  “Raise the Queen to the Stone!” Cormac screamed.

  For one long moment the newcomer faced her, his gold and silver knights on either side.

  Then the strong mailed hands of his knights were gripping her by the elbows, and she was lifted above their heads onto the top of the great stone. As her feet found a purchase she steadied herself, then turned to face the people. Gripping the edges of her golden cloak, she raised her arms like wings, offering herself to the land, to the night, to the Gods, and to the Goddess of them all. There was a groan from the hillside like the shrieking of the earth: “The Queen! The Queen! Guenevere the Queen!”

  Below her she could see Malgaunt, white with the shock of defeat. Beside him Lucan fell to his knees, his eyes raised in adoration, his hand on his heart.

  But nearest of all was the unknown stranger, the lord of gold. His three knights converged on their leader and vaulted him up to the Queen Stone at her side.

  Guenevere faced her savior. “Who are you?”

  He knelt before her and took her hand in his gold-mailed fist. Reverently he touched it to his forehead, then brought it to his helmet’s cold metallic lips. Then he clenched his fist and placed it on his heart.

  I am your champion, his actions said. Your champion and your servant, for as long as I live.

  Half mad with fear and joy, she leaned down to him: “Who are you?”

  The gold-clad figure shook his armored head. But from somewhere within the helmet came the soft chuckle of a man. Guenevere closed her eyes. And through the falling air, her mother spoke for the last time: Through the fires, he comes.

  CHAPTER 14

  High overhead, birds wheeled and sang in the cloudless sky. Beside the track, yellow coltsfoot and white daisies tossed in the passing breeze, and all around them the grasslands rolled away like a green sea. Now they were coming to the outskirts of the forest, passing under the shadow of the trees, the horses picking their way delicately through the pale pools of sunlight on the leafy floor. The woodland lay hushed and dreaming as it
welcomed them in.

  Guenevere fixed her eyes on the cool green shade ahead, and tried not to look at the man riding by her side. Tall and broad-shouldered, he handled his horse with the air of one born to master his world and all the creatures in it. Beneath his armor he wore a royal tunic of glossy red silk edged with gold, and loose breeches of fine wool. His leather belt was inset with gold, and at his side hung a sword of kingly magnificence and a dagger inlaid with gold dragons chasing each other down the blade.

  In front of them rode a band of knights, and behind came a troop of marching men. At the head of the procession a red dragon fluttered on the stranger’s banner, bold against a background of pure white. His wrists were blue with tattoos of twin dragons locked in fight, half-concealed by wristlets of heavy gold. And Guenevere was still wearing her coronation dress of yesterday, and furiously wishing that she had something else. For she was Queen Guenevere now, riding back to Camelot with a guest of equal royalty—Arthur, High King of Britain, for so he said he was.

  QUEEN GUENEVERE—and every inch a queen, both queen and woman, the woman of the dream …

  Arthur made himself sit his horse quietly, holding the reins loosely so that the horse did not feel the trembling of his hands. He knew that he was holding his breath, and schooled himself to try to breathe normally.

  Queen Guenevere …

  Guenevere, my love …

  He dared not look at her. But now he knew what force had drawn him here, against reason, against all sense. Only days ago he had been fighting in Caerleon against enemies on all sides. Yet here he was riding out on a May morning in search of love.

  No, not love, that was not it, he told himself, trying to order his thoughts. He had come to find Merlin, because he needed his mentor now. He had pardoned the six kings and sent them away, sparing all their lives. And that, as Gawain had forcefully reminded him, was to have turned loose an angry wounded beast, hungry for revenge. They would be sure to come again. Soon he would face the greatest battle of his life.

  But where was Merlin?

  Merlin had come here.