Guenevere, Queen of the Summer Country

by Rosalind Miles

  When she should be mine! his shriveled soul cried out. Mine by right, by blood, by the hunger of my loins— Furious, he glanced at Lucan, ready to spring to the attack if he had betrayed himself.

  But Lucan was lost in his own outrage, his sense of insult swelling like a wound. “You are a lord of the Summer Country, a prince of our blood. I could have borne to lose her to you. But this—to him—?” He paused, breathing heavily. “And will she marry him? Will she make him father to our future queens?” He paced the floor in mounting rage. “An unknown bastard to seed our royal line?”

  The smell of bitter fury filled the air. Malgaunt’s index finger played thoughtfully on his lip. “Hear me, sir. Let us make a truce till we see how this goes. Guenevere may simply be trying her newfound strength.”

  A spark of hope sprang up in Lucan’s eye. “Letting us feel her power, reminding us that she has the right to choose?”

  “—and that she has a choice other than us. Surely she will see reason in the end. But we should have a course of action if the foolish girl is minded to persist. Agreed?”

  “Agreed!” Lucan swore.

  Malgaunt broke into his most infamous grin. He threw a glance at his two companion knights hanging behind. “Then the only question is, do you kill him, or do I?”

  THEY SET OUT the next day, in a cool shining dawn. Soon Camelot lay behind as they threaded their way through the woods by tracks hardly known to man. Guenevere had not traveled these hidden greenways since she was taken to the Sacred Isle as a girl. Then she had ridden in a litter, pampered, but still treated like a child. Now she was flanked by the knights and men of her own guard, their banners dancing, and lances glittering in the sun.

  Arthur’s three companions, Gawain, Kay, and Bedivere, rode with them too, their air of suppressed excitement showing that Arthur had told them of his hopes. Arthur himself hung on her every word. Was it this that made the May blossom gleam so bright and the meadowsweet bless every verge with gold?

  “See, madam!” he called merrily as the lapwings flashed up from the ground, or as the startled hares went racing for cover at the sound of the horses’ hooves. At every turn of the road she could see how much he loved the land, from the loftiest oak to the small speedwell by the way.

  “Where do these old tracks cross the Roman roads?” he asked curiously. He told her of all the main highways of the land, all the routes an army could use. He had grown swiftly into kingship, she could see, knowing that when war loomed, there would be no time to lose.

  But as they drew near Avalon and the sweet mist of the holy waters began to reach them through the trees, he grew more subdued. By the time they came down through the forest to the plain of the Sacred Lake he was tense and silent, straining for his first glimpse. And there it was, hovering above the water, the island in the lake that the Old Ones called the Isle of Glass. Before them waited the boatmen of the Lady to ferry them across.

  Beside the Lake, the yellow kingcups and blue forget-me-nots dabbled their leaves in shallows as clear as glass. The midday breeze ruffled the shining water, and silver fish drowsed in the sunlit depths. Far off beyond the island the water grew dark and brackish, overhung with trees and clogged with bulrushes and water weeds. Shrouded in mist, the far reaches of the mere were home to the villages of Lake dwellers, the followers of the Goddess who lived out of their hooded skin canoes and hid from sight. But where Guenevere stood, the kiss of the sun felt like the Mother’s welcome home.

  Leaving the rest of the troop on the shore, she and Arthur embarked with Kay, Bedivere, and Gawain. The island lay before them like a dream. Along its edge, weeping willows trembled in the midday breeze, and above them drifted the blossoms of a thousand trees. And rising proudly over the orchards was the great Tor of Avalon itself, the high hill shaped like the Mother lying at rest, hiding her secrets beneath her grassy flanks.

  Standing beside Guenevere in the flat, slow-moving boat, Arthur pointed toward the Tor. “The Welshmen call this the way to the Otherworld,” he said thoughtfully. “They say the hill is hollow, the home of Penn Annwyn, the Dark Lord, King of the Underworld.”

  The Dark Lord who came to take my mother home …

  She could not let him think it. “The Isle is sacred to the Mother, and Her love brings life, not death.”

  At the island’s edge a rough stone jetty thrust out into the lake. Waiting to greet them was the small, taut figure of Nemue, the chief priestess of the Lady of the Lake. Her eyes glimmered in greeting as they stepped ashore. “This way,” she said in the rusty voice of those who rarely speak. “The Lady foresaw your coming. She is waiting for you now.”

  In silence they followed Nemue up the winding path from the jetty, through the white apple orchards and the dark groves of ancient trees. At last they stood before the Lady’s house, a delicate frontage of carved white stone built into the side of the hill. At a sign from Nemue, the doors opened without a sound.

  “Only Queen Guenevere and the King may be admitted,” Nemue said to Kay, Gawain, and Bedivere. “You will wait here.”

  A brusque sign from Arthur silenced Gawain’s protests. Wordlessly the two of them approached the door. Guenevere watched Arthur grow pale as he gazed into the darkness within. When she lived on Avalon, the girls in the House of Maidens used to whisper that the Lady’s house was not a house at all, but her enchanted way down to the lake below. Now as they crossed the threshold the air felt humid, and she thought she heard the sound of water far beneath.

  But as the great doors clanged behind them, they were in a warm, well-lighted place. They stood in a round chamber with a low domed roof, its walls plastered with soft honey-colored loam. Rich woven rugs in all the colors of the East covered the floor, and a tiny glowing dragon lamp crouched in every niche, casting a pool of gold.

  A rich and heady fragrance filled the air. Arthur stared about him, entranced. His eyes were fixed on a tall, strangely made throne set against the farthest wall. At its foot lolled a pack of large sleek water hounds, their gold collars glinting dully in the light. Guenevere watched as Arthur moved toward them, his fingers clicking in command. Then from behind them came a voice from her childhood, from the time before her dreams.

  “These dogs are trained to my hand, King Arthur. They will not come to yours.”

  Out of the shadows came a tall majestic shape veiled in soft draperies from head to foot. One floating arm pointed toward a pair of low stools by the throne.

  They settled at her feet as she took her place. Above the gauzy veil she wore a moon-shaped diadem of palest gold, its face encrusted with pearls. On her second finger she wore the Goddess ring, and in her hand she held an orb of polished crystal bound in gold. “Welcome back, dear Guenevere,” she said fondly. “And welcome, my lord King.”

  Guenevere knelt forward eagerly. “Lady, this king seeks your help. He faces many dangers. Can you tell what lies ahead for him?”

  The Lady nodded. “It is already written in the stars. The king who hates him—”

  “King Lot, it must be!” breathed Arthur.

  “—this king of darkness broods now in his castle, calls his astrologers, browbeats his Druids, and does not sleep at night.”

  Arthur’s face was bleak. “He plans his revenge. He will come for me.”

  The shrouded shape nodded slowly in agreement.

  A terror gripped Guenevere. “And what then?”

  “All men must flourish and vanish in their time. The only truth is the everlasting dark.”

  She could not bear it. “But will Arthur be High King?”

  A soft sigh came from behind the Lady’s muffling veils. “Ask that question of the right High Queen.”

  “The right queen?” Arthur breathed.

  The great veiled shape slowly inclined her head. “You are young, sir, and you long to feel your power as King. But women are the givers of all life. It is for women, then, to rule both life and love. If you hold fast to this truth, you will gain both life and love. And when you
lose it, you will lose queen and all.”

  Arthur grinned with relief and shot Guenevere a glowing glance. “Believe me, Lady, if I win this queen, I will never lose it, or her, or anything!”

  “No? Never? Are you sure?” There was a sigh like the sadness of the world. Then the Lady rose to her feet. “Come!”

  Behind the throne, the dragon lamp shone on the first steps of a wide stone staircase plunging down into the dark. “Follow!” came the command.

  Eyes wide, Arthur reached for Guenevere’s hand and carefully helped her down the slippery steps. Above their heads the void whispered with unseen wings and the soundless call of creatures who dwell in the dark. Step by step the blackness deepened till they might have been descending to the Land of the Dead. At last their feet hit softness, and the sound of water filled their ears. Out of sight in the shadows, small nameless things scurried away to their lairs.

  Suddenly the dark space was ablaze with light. They stood in a vast stone grotto roofed with glistening crystals in red and white, and walled by curtains of primeval stone. Unseen above their heads loomed the great mass of the Tor. All around them treasures richer than any dream hung from the ceiling and clustered against the walls: gold plates and bowls of silver, jeweled weapons, gold chains, ropes of precious stones, vast cauldrons of copper, and drinking cups of bronze.

  At the center of the chamber the Lady stood erect and motionless, like a pillar of stone in her pale sculptured robes. On either side, bubbling up into two deep hollows carved into the rocky floor, rose the waters of two springs, one white, one red.

  “The body of the Mother,” the Lady crooned, spreading her arms to embrace the echoing space. She pointed to her left and to her right. “The blood and milk of the Mother, the red spring and the white. The love of the Mother as it pours forth to the world.”

  She whirled around, caught up a lamp from the wall, and turned into the darkness behind. “Come!”

  As she raised the lamp, the light fell on an altar at the back of the cave. Arrayed on its black surface were four huge shapes of antique gold. Guenevere stood stock still. She had seen them before, in the scenes carved on the back of the coronation throne.

  “The Hallows of the Goddess!” hissed Arthur, falling to his knees.

  The Lady answered in a voice ringing with pride. “Yes, lord, the sacred treasures of our worship from the time before time.” Setting down the lamp, she took up a massive gold dish, heavily embossed around the edge. “The great dish of plenty, from which the Mother feeds all who come to Her.” She reached for a two-handled goblet patterned with strange symbols, big enough to send around a Great Hall. “The loving cup of forgiveness, with which She reconciles us all.”

  Now a long gold blade circled through the air. “The sword of power.” In her other hand the Lady brandished a slender golden lance. “And the spear of defense!”

  Reverently she replaced them on the altar. “These are the treasures of our Goddess, my lord King. Will you swear to defend them if She grants you this queen?”

  Arthur’s eyes were shining with reflections of milk and blood. “I will!”

  “And what of the Christians?” Arthur started. “The Christians?”

  “They seek the death of the Goddess, so that they can claim the Hallows as their own.”

  Arthur shook his head. “The Christians say that they bring life, not death.”

  The Lady’s low musical voice throbbed with scorn. “What use are fine words on the lips of those who hate? Religion should be kindness. Faith should bring us love.”

  Arthur nodded gravely. “And in that love, we all can become one. As King of all my people, I may not act against men of good faith. But I swear to defend the faith of my lady Guenevere to the last breath I have.”

  “So then, King Arthur.” Her voice was warmer now. “If you win Guenevere, do you swear to love and honor her all your days?”

  Arthur tore his sword from its scabbard and raised the hilt before him, gripping the blade with both hands. “I swear!” he cried.

  “And will you defend the Goddess, and be strong in Her defense?”

  “On the honor of a king!” Arthur cried. “On my sword, on my soul! And if I break this oath, may I lose life and honor too!”

  Guenevere’s soul was dissolving. Oh, Arthur—Arthur my love!—

  The Lady’s sigh came from very far away. “Remember this! You have pronounced your own doom if you break your word. You are bound to this queen and our worship now, and have thereby promised to defend every woman against the power of men. And in token of this, the Goddess will send you a sign.”

  Now her spirit grew till it filled the echoing space. “On one condition. You must return this gift to the Goddess when the time comes. If you do not, your soul will not find peace. Swear to abide by this!”

  “I swear!” Arthur’s oath went rolling around the cave.

  The Lady bowed. “And now, sir King, you must go back to the world above.”

  “Now?”

  “And leave your sword behind.”

  “Leave my sword?” Arthur was aghast. “Lady, no! A knight cannot go unarmed!”

  “All who come here must make offering,” the Lady intoned. “Either to me in place of the Mother, or else by casting their treasure into the Lake.”

  Arthur hesitated, at war with himself. Then he stepped forward, kissed his sword, and laid the weapon at the Lady’s feet.

  “Farewell, my lord.” The hand in the gauzy draperies pointed him to the stairs. Then the Lady’s posture softened, along with her voice. “We shall meet again, King Arthur, do not fear,” she said tenderly. “At the last crossing of the water, I shall see you there.”

  CHAPTER 17

  The lone figure of Arthur climbed up to the world above. The Lady sighed. “And now, little one, let us talk.” She raised her hand to her head and unveiled her face.

  A radiance filled the chamber, almost too bright to bear. At first Guenevere thought she saw the face of her mother as she remembered her, the starlit eyes, the same undying smile. But then she saw more than could belong to any woman—something more than human, a face alive with the wisdom of the ages and the freshness of the dawn.

  “So, Guenevere?”

  The Lady smiled her thousand-year-old smile, and the words fell from Guenevere’s tongue. “Oh, Mother, King Arthur has asked me to marry him, and I’m afraid—but why? What do I have to fear?”

  “Ah!” The Lady rested her chin on her hand and thought for a long while. At last her deep musical tones filled the air. “The dance of life is the rhythm of rise and fall. When we fall, we are returned to the earth from which we came. Then we come forth once more from the womb of our Mother the earth to live our dance again.” She leaned forward. “We have many lives to live, and women may dance more than once in the course of their days. One man alone cannot make all the music of the world.”

  She looked at Guenevere shrewdly, her large luminous eyes searching her upturned face. “Ah, Guenevere! You are not fated to be like other women. Ahead for you there lies a great and mighty love—a love you do not hope for—cannot dream—”

  “Oh, Lady—”

  Guenevere was weeping with joy. She would know love; love would come to her. Arthur would fill her heart, and she would look at him as her mother had looked at Lucan, shining with delight. And she would build a life, a great kingdom, an undying world with Arthur, just as her vision had said—

  “Bless you, Lady!” Laughing and crying, Guenevere kissed her hand.

  The Lady smiled. Why did she look so sad, when she had foretold so much joy? “Ah, Guenevere,” she sighed. “We are only the keepers of the dream. Fate spins as it will, and even the Mother cannot turn back the wheel.”

  Sighing again, she stood up. “Go then, in grace and strength.” Leaning forward, she brushed her cool lips against Guenevere’s face. “Go with the blessing of the Great One herself. Those who follow the Goddess can always enter the dream. May you awake from yours, and become tha
t which you have dreamed.”

  BLINKING, GUENEVERE STUMBLED out into the light. Nemue was waiting to lead her back through the orchard to the water’s edge. There in the same large, flat-bottomed boat as before, Arthur stood pale-mouthed and transported, while Gawain, Kay, and Bedivere clustered anxiously around their lord. He seemed to be trying to tell them about the Otherworld and the Lady beneath the Lake. But as Guenevere approached he sprang forward, shouldering the boatmen aside to grip her fiercely and draw her to himself.

  A single look passed among Gawain, Kay, and Bedivere, and the three knights withdrew to the farthest end of the boat. The stolid boatmen set to with a will until they were moving at speed across the water. But Arthur was oblivious. “We are foreordained, Guenevere!” he mumbled thickly, crushing her hands. “We have the blessing of the Goddess, and the love of the Lady herself. Merlin himself must smile upon our choice!”

  Merlin, Merlin—why always Merlin?

  “My lord! My lord!”

  Crouched in the prow of the boat, Gawain was pointing wildly at the water ahead. The early evening light glimmered on its surface, and the sudden flash of silver in the dusk looked like a fish leaping, or a water bird landing in a shower of spray.

  But there, rising from the surface of the water, was a woman’s hand holding a shining sword. Tall and tapering, its silver shaft seemed to draw all the light of the Lake, thrumming softly to itself with hidden power. It was a gift from the Otherworld, made for a hero by one of the Gods.

  From her days on Avalon, Guenevere knew of the great treasures cast into the Lake as offerings to the Goddess. She knew too which of the Lake Maidens were trained to swim up from the depths to catch them, and bring them back to safekeeping in the rocky caves beneath.

  Yet it was more than human skill that held the great sword above the water now. It was a more-than-human form below the surface, swathed like the Lady in gauzy white. And no human lungs could have breathed so long underwater as the unseen figure awaiting Arthur’s approach.