Guenevere, Queen of the Summer Country

by Rosalind Miles

  I have gone to the Summer Country, his letter had said, to secure our borders there. But if a treaty was to be made, and this was Kay’s sharp contribution to the debate, then as King, Arthur should be there too. What could be more important than good relations with his kingdom’s nearest neighbor and potential ally, even friend?

  Determinedly Arthur had turned his mind to the objectives to be achieved. And equally determinedly, he had closed his mind to the dream he had had the night before he came—an unknown woman, never seen before but recognized on sight, her form veiled in a cloud of bright hair, her eyes the eyes he had seen only in dreams.

  WHO IS HE?

  Whoever he was, Guenevere owed him her throne.

  For the stranger’s appearance, armored in gold from head to foot, had swayed the people to her side. All night she had sat enthroned with her new champion, while all came to swear their allegiance to her. Only Malgaunt held aloof, pale-mouthed with fury, but powerless to resist.

  Behind them the three stranger knights stood guard, living statues of gold and silver in the dancing light. Outside the ring of stones the Beltain bonfires made night into day. The hill was alive with drumming and dancing, feasting and drinking and joy without end. All night long the cries and moans of lovers filled the darkness as maids and wives called their chosen ones aside into warm beds of bracken, to honor the Goddess with the gift She gives.

  At last the sky lightened in the east, and Guenevere felt the wind of dawn. A thought stole through her mind: The Gods of night are never seen by day. As if he heard her, Guenevere’s faceless champion rose to his feet. With one mailed hand he signaled his knights; with the other he raised her up and led her from the Stone Circle, downhill and away.

  At the foot of the hill his banner fluttered in the air, flaunting a huge red dragon to the skies. Around it clustered a train of knights and soldiers, serving men and maids, dogs and horses, pack mules, boxes and chests. The rising sun lit the whole world with gold, but brighter still were the waiting faces when they saw their lord.

  Beside the road the three companion knights were ready with a troop of horses. Gravely Guenevere’s unknown savior helped her to mount a pearl-white mare, then swung himself up on a stallion of royal height. Seizing his reins, he turned the horse’s head toward Camelot, pushing up the all-concealing visor of his helmet at last. And only then did she see his face.

  “WHO ARE YOU?”

  It was the question that had haunted her all night. She could still feel the shock that had run through her when he first took her hand, the burning where his hands had circled her waist as he helped her to mount. And then the first sight of him, as he looked into her eyes—

  Who is he?

  She tried to read his face as she waited for him to speak. Bright and open, it glowed with youth and trust, high ambition and the will to change the world. His thick fair hair was tousled now he had taken off his helmet, but still he had the natural dignity of the finest lord. His gray eyes held a visionary gleam and an age-old sense of the sadness of the world.

  He looked to be in his twenties, no more than a few years older than she was. Yet he wore signs of sharp experience too, and an air of hard-won authority beyond his years. There was a weary set to his shoulders, and there were deep lines of resolution around his mouth. The same look could be seen on the faces of his knights, she thought, all men newly battle-scarred, hard and wary, with hands never far from their swords.

  He turned his clear gaze on her, and something shifted around her heart.

  “Who am I?” The strong fair head went up. “I am Arthur, son of King Uther of the House of Pendragon, Lord of the Middle Kingdom and her City of Legions, born to be High King of Britain and Dragon King of these isles.” He paused, then gave her a light smile. “Or so the Lord Merlin insists that I be called.”

  Guenevere found herself oddly annoyed. “Why does your Druid tell you what to say?”

  “Because only he can tell me who I am,” Arthur replied. “He took me from my mother when I was born and had me brought up in secret by a knight of the King of Gore.”

  “He took you from your mother? Why?”

  “It was all to make me King when the time came. Merlin helped my father to win my mother’s love, and in return, Merlin demanded me.” Guenevere gasped. “Merlin told you this?”

  “And more.” He took off his gauntlet, clenching and flexing his fist so that the tattooed dragons fought and snarled around his wrist. “He showed me that I bear the mark of kings. These signs denote the House of Pendragon. Indeed Lord Merlin bears them himself, for he claims kin to my father on the female side. I have borne these tattoos all my life, and never knew before now what they meant.”

  Pendragon—

  I am one of the House of Pendragon—

  Arthur paused. Could any listener, even this queen hanging on his every word, understand what this meant for him, after a lifetime as the boy with no name? Doggedly he went on. “Those who fought with my father say that he was a lion. But I think of him as a dragon, and this was his sign.” He smiled, but there was a question in his eyes. Is this foolish? I beg you, do not think I am a fool.

  Guenevere felt a pain that she could not name. And suddenly behind the great bearlike figure at her side, she saw the spirit shadow of another king, older and greater, more luminous, yet bathed in dying light.

  His father?

  Or Arthur himself, as he was to be?

  Who are you? her soul cried to him again. Yet if what he said was true, how could he know?

  She made herself try again. “We heard that Merlin proclaimed you in London. They called you Merlin’s boy.” She found herself coloring to remember Malgaunt’s taunts. “How old are you?”

  He smiled, but his color rose a little too. “Older than I look,” he said quietly. “And older than you are, Queen Guenevere, as I hear.”

  She felt herself grow hot, and hurried to change the subject. “When Merlin proclaimed you—”

  “Yes?” He laughed, a young and happy sound.

  “He told you that you were the chosen ruler of the kingdom, born to be King?”

  His face was shining with conviction. “He did.”

  “How did he prove it?”

  Arthur’s eyes glowed. “He said that I would draw the sword out of the stone before all the people, and foretold that they would make me King.”

  “But how did you do that?”

  Arthur burst out into open, boyish mirth. “Why, when I was a boy, we did it all the time! We tried our weapons out on everything, on rocks and stones and trees!”

  “What?” She did not understand.

  “To test them for battle,” Arthur explained. “Swords have to hack through armor, and split helmets like rotten apples—and heads too!”

  “But this sword—this stone—”

  Arthur fixed her with his large, honest eyes. “There is a knack to it, finding the vein of weakness, sinking the sword into the stone in a way that only you can know. I had put the sword in the stone as one of many tests of strength, so of course I could draw it out. Merlin says that my father often made such proofs of his prowess.”

  Merlin said, Merlin says … “What else did Merlin say?”

  If Arthur heard the sharp note in her voice, he gave no sign. “He said that we should march at once on the Middle Kingdom,” he replied. “He foretold that we should take Caerleon, and we did. He has also promised to bring the leader of the Christians to crown me there.”

  Guenevere started, and a shadow fell across her path. “Merlin wants you to have a Christian coronation?”

  Arthur turned his fearless gaze on her. “Yes,” he agreed. “Is that wrong?”

  “I fear the Christians,” Guenevere said hotly. “They hate the Great Mother, and religion should be love!”

  “Yet they love their own Lady, the mother of their Christ.”

  “All the worse that they put down the Goddess and destroy her worship among our people!”

  “Yes, the
people,” said Arthur thoughtfully. “Do you not think that the faith of Christ may be good for them, and easy to understand—one life, one salvation, one God?”

  “What is hard about the love of our Mother?”

  “Ah, lady,” he said slowly. “Where I grew up, the rule of the Goddess has passed away. We cannot make enemies of the Christians, Merlin says. I shall need their help in establishing my rule.”

  Did Merlin make all the plans, Guenevere wondered with another spurt of annoyance. Yet Arthur did not look like any man’s puppet. She was at a loss. “Why have you come here?”

  “Your country is my country’s nearest neighbor. My first concern must be alliance with you.”

  “And mine with you.” Guenevere smiled at him more sweetly than she knew. “I will always be in your debt. Your arrival came most luckily for me.”

  “It was an honor, madam, to be the man who raised you to the Queen Stone!” he said fervently. “I only hope your kinsman Malgaunt is not angry with me for usurping his role!”

  Malgaunt angry, defeated, and pushed aside? Guenevere savored the thought. “It is true,” she said carefully, keeping her face straight, “that Malgaunt did not expect you to be here. He did not think you would win back your lands. He was sure that all the petty kings and lords who carved up your kingdom would band together to drive you out.”

  Arthur took a breath. “And so they did,” he said heavily. “Oh, the common people rallied to me at once—they had not forgotten my father, who gave them peace and upheld the rule of law. And I had a small band of friends who swore to follow me as soon as I was proclaimed.”

  He broke off and turned in the saddle to Gawain, Kay, and Bedivere, riding behind. “Come, sirs!” he cried. “Let me present you to the Queen!”

  At once the three broke ranks and rode up, Gawain in the lead. At last a chance to meet this gorgeous creature, the big knight thought, struggling to hold back the wrong response. Gods above, with that face, that hair—he dared not think of that body—Arthur must go for her, or he had no blood in his veins! And if he did not, Gawain vowed, he’d be tempted to try for her himself.

  “Gawain!” cried Arthur.

  “My lord?” The big knight looked at Arthur with something close to love.

  Guenevere smiled at Gawain, taking him in. As well built as Arthur, he rode with the same rough style, and his big beefy face was bright with the same hope.

  “Sir Gawain was the first of all those in London to offer me his allegiance,” said Arthur fondly. “I knighted him there and then, though he was young for the honor, because he left his lord to follow me. He was my first companion, and he swears he’ll be the last.”

  “Not if fate spares me!” came a tart interjection from the second knight. Guenevere turned her gaze. A sallow, sharp-faced man a few years older than Arthur, small and well shaped, he sat his horse like a knight, and held the reins in knowing, quiet hands.

  “He rides well, no?” said Arthur merrily, following her gaze. “But then, Sir Kay had an excellent training in knighthood. I should know—I used to be his squire!”

  Kay smiled uncomfortably. “The King was brought up by my father,” he explained. “We learned all our battle skills together from childhood on.” He gestured to Bedivere riding at his side. “As this knight did too. He came to us from the Welshlands as a boy, also to undergo his knighthood training with my father.” Kay laughed ironically. “Little did we know whose knights we would become!”

  Bedivere smiled and nodded. Dark-haired and slight, he had the look of the Old Ones, Guenevere decided, like all those born on the Marches, that misty borderland between their world and ours.

  “You are from the Welshlands?” she asked. Was he another of Merlin’s changelings? Or was she seeing the hand of the old enchanter everywhere?

  “Born just outside the Middle Kingdom, lady,” he replied. The lilt of his birthplace was unmistakable. So was the glance of devotion he turned toward Arthur as he spoke. “They call me Bedivere, and I serve the King.”

  “And these loyal souls were with me when we took Caerleon, against an alliance of six kings!” Arthur said. “Six kings?” Guenevere said fearfully.

  “Six,” he repeated somberly, “each with all his lords and knights, horses, weapons, and men. All vassals of King Lot of Lothian and the Orkneys.”

  “King Lot!” Guenevere shuddered. Only the invading Saxons, who crucified their captives, were crueller than this king. “How did you prevail?”

  “I hardly know. We were outnumbered a hundred and more to one. Merlin had read the skies, and saw a great victory written in the stars. He proclaimed in London that I would reclaim my right. But many there laughed at him as a dream reader and called me a fool. They had no thought that we might win.” His voice darkened. “But at dead of night, I and a hundred knights made a blind sally into the castle, and sent them running for their lives.”

  As he spoke, a mist rose before Guenevere’s eyes. Through the gathering gloom she could hear the thunder of horses’ hooves bearing down on sleeping troops, the screams of those awakened at swordpoint, and the howls of dying men. Now the scene ran with blood and she saw a bleak dawn, and a lone figure weeping on a corpse-logged battlefield, with crows and ravens circling around his fair head.

  She shivered through and through. Slowly Arthur’s voice came back to her through the mist. “So all six kings were defeated—”

  “And were sent packing, leaving everything they had!” Gawain crowed. “Horses, armor, even the finest weapons thrown down in the heat of the fight.”

  Kay laughed. “Bag and baggage, too!”

  So that was it, Guenevere smiled to herself. That was where all the finery had come from—the royal armor, the great swords and horses, probably even the tunic Arthur wore—they were all spoils of war, abandoned by fleeing kings! Well, now she knew how a boy from nowhere had made himself a king—how an unknown youth had become a golden god.

  Yet still he was a man, and a man above men—a man like no other, a man who—

  Goddess, Mother, what am I thinking?

  Visions moved before her eyes. Guenevere gripped the reins and forced herself to sit still. Slowly the swirling images faded into the air. What was happening? How did this Arthur have the power to stir the sight in her, moving her to thoughts she never chose to have?

  All at once she could not look at the long well-breeched leg lying along his horse’s flank, the great size of him, the strong brown soldier’s hands. “One more question,” she said, suddenly conscious of a husk in her voice. “What now?”

  He made a graceful bow. “Now I must come to you in state, and sue for the friendship of you and yours,” he said confidently. He paused, and his eyes met hers. “I have good men”—he flashed a loving glance at his knights and the troop marching behind—“but they need—”

  He broke off in sudden confusion. “In truth, they and I both need—we need—I want—”

  He stopped again and looked away, forcing a sudden laugh. “Well, time enough for that.” He gave a signal, and Gawain, Kay, and Bedivere fell behind.

  “CAMELOT!” CAME THE CRY from the head of the line.

  And suddenly Guenevere was as miserable as she had been happy before. The journey was ending, and they would never have this time again.

  And there it was, the ancient citadel of queens, the precious stronghold of the Summer Country, looking as small as a child’s castle in the valley below. It lay deep in its wide green hollow, its towers and battlements white in the golden sun, banners fluttering from every slender spire. Around it flowed a ring of bright water edged with reeds and marigolds.

  Arthur did not try to hide his admiration. “A fine place, Your Majesty.”

  Guenevere smiled at him, delighted with his praise. But he was scanning the whole place systematically with a warrior’s eye. “When were you last attacked?” he asked casually.

  “Attacked?”

  His eyes continued their restless search. “Where the castle sits,
raised up on a walled mound in the valley—that’s a good position. And your whole city below the castle is walled too. But all fortifications can be breached. I was wondering how easy it was to defend.”

  Guenevere stared at the grim set of his jaw and grew cold. Her rescuer, the High King, the golden god, might have won one battle, but he was still in danger of his life.

  Oh, Arthur, Arthur …

  Guenevere’s heart quailed, and her soul cried out.

  Arthur, you came to my aid when you cannot yet call any place your own. You spare time for me, when your own task looms so large that no ordinary man could face it alone. Widows and children are driven from your lands to seek refuge in ours. Your orphans hide in our forests, living on roots and acorns like wild swine. Your countrymen, brutally beaten, stumble across our borders, barefoot and bloodshod, only to die in the first kindly arms. And you have taken it on yourself to right these wrongs, when you do not know if you can sleep safely in your bed at night?

  Her senses stirred as her mind wandered this way and that. His bed at night …

  WHAT WAS SHE thinking of?

  She was trembling, her body burning, her face and hands like ice. Goddess, Mother, help me now—

  With an effort she forced her thoughts back into orderly grooves. Arthur was her guest. His bed tonight would be in Camelot, and there she would defend him from all foes. All Camelot would honor King Arthur, son of Uther Pendragon, as if he were High King of Britain now.

  AND THESE WERE her orders as they crossed the causeway and rode through the crowds of cheering townsfolk into Camelot. Dismounting at the gatehouse, they were offered water in jeweled goblets, and honeyed wine. “Conduct King Arthur to the royal guest apartments,” she told the goggling servants, “and see to it he has everything he needs.”

  Arthur bowed. “If it please Your Majesty, events are pressing in the Middle Kingdom, and I cannot be long away. When may I meet your Council to propose our treaty, and discuss our needs?”

  Above his wide cheekbones, she saw now, great bruising shadows darkened his gray eyes. He looked sick with tension and fatigue. Guenevere nodded. “I will command a general Council at once.”