Guenevere, Queen of the Summer Country

by Rosalind Miles

  “Queen Guenevere!” Glowing like a boy with a secret, Arthur bowed and kissed her hand.

  Behind him Merlin stood robed in a long gown colored like thunder and lightning, now flickering blue and white, now brooding and gray-black. Its high collar seemed to elongate his neck, and the long sleeves dropped like rainfall to the floor. In his hand he carried a slender wand of polished yew murmuring to itself in a high, fretful whine. Like Arthur he wore a royal coronet, and all around were treating him like a king.

  “Lord Merlin!” Guenevere made him a fulsome bow.

  His yellow eyes looked sick, but he had to smile. “Your Majesty!”

  Slowly Guenevere led Arthur around the hall. Love is an open secret, and theirs seemed to be known by all. Laughing knights in silver mail, solemn lords in their rich dark velvets, Druids in their familiar blue-purple robes, and court ladies blooming like flowers, all beamed and nodded as they drew near.

  Even Malgaunt, Guenevere saw to her relief, seemed to wish them well. Lurking by the door with a group of knights and men, whispering to his grinning companions, he frightened her at first.

  But then she saw that he was dressed in purple and gold and decked out with his ceremonial weapons, ready to take his place at the feast. So he would accept Arthur as her champion, for the sake of the country, if not for Guenevere herself! Her heart surged with joy. As they came up to him, she gave him the warmest greeting of her life. “Blessings on you, Uncle! You are welcome here!”

  “Your Majesty!”

  Now it was Taliesin’s turn to bless them with a smile. From Cormac came a solemn bow, a fervent kiss on Guenevere’s hand, and a heartfelt “May the Mother bless you both!” His eyes said, “I wish you joy in your love with all my heart.” Even the King her father, Guenevere thought, looked cheerful tonight.

  “Thank you—thank you all.”

  Beside her Arthur smiled, bowed to lords, and kissed ladies’ hands as if he had been doing it all his life. But soon he whispered lightly in her ear, “Lady, let us speak our love now, for I am weary of all this.”

  Guenevere turned, smiling into his eyes. How could she deny him? In a mist of joy, she led him toward the dais at the end of the hall. As they mounted the steps, the trumpets pealed, and the noise of the court died away.

  “Attend all here!” the chamberlain cried. “Hear and obey your Queen.”

  Guenevere stepped forward to face the sea of eyes. “Good people,” she began. “I promised you a champion, and I have made good my word. Here is the man who will fight for me and for our country, to defend us in war and bring us lasting peace.”

  Her voice grew until it filled the hall. “Arthur Pendragon, son of Uther the High King, lord of Caerleon and ruler of the Middle Kingdom, is to be my champion and my chosen one. Soon we will marry, and he will be my King. And I give him to you now!” Laughing and flushed, she stepped back to enjoy the applause.

  “No!”

  The howl of rage split the air and echoed around the hall.

  “No foreign king shall champion our Queen, while a man in the Summer Country can lift a sword! No stranger wins the right to lie beside our lady, when a lord of the Summer Country lives to say him nay!”

  Lucan!

  Guenevere could not move. Thoughts of pure terror almost drowned her mind. Why did I never take account of this? Why did I not see that he would defend his position as the champion of the Queen?

  For Lucan wanted blood, it was plain. Feet apart, eyes glaring, he was advancing crabwise through the crowd armed with sword and dagger, a figure like death itself.

  “King Arthur, will you fight?” he ground out through gritted teeth. “I ask no quarter, and I will render none!”

  “A challenge, a challenge, à l’outrance, to the death!” yelped the chamberlain, hardly able to voice the age-old words. “Your Majesty, do you say yea or nay?”

  “Nay!”

  After days on the road, after the Battle of Kings, after sleepless nights here and on the Hill of Stones, if Arthur was forced to fight now, he was as good as dead. And for Lucan to challenge him here, to defy her chosen one in the face of her own court, was not to be allowed. “I will not permit it!” Guenevere raged. “The Queen’s word is ‘Nay’!”

  “The word is ‘Yea,’ lord chamberlain.”

  Drawn up to his full height, Arthur was pale, remote, and terrible. “Forgive me, madam.” He took her hand and touched it to his lips. “This is your court, your kingdom, your command. But this is a challenge that may not be denied.”

  Oh, my love, my love …

  Tears blinded Guenevere’s sight. Through a scalding mist she saw Arthur lying prostrate on the ground, swathed in black. His great frame was supported by three black-clad women, and the whole scene was framed in blackest night. Standing beside Arthur was Lucan, leaning heavily on his sword, his body gaping with open wounds.

  Blood pounded in her ears. Lucan would kill Arthur before she even held him in her arms—

  Arthur, my only love—

  Arthur leaped from the dais and landed lightly in the space in the midst of the crowd. In one swift movement he drew his sword and plucked his dagger from his belt. “Lay on.”

  “So!”

  Lucan drove at Arthur from above, his sword slicing the air in a vicious curve. Arthur jumped back heavily, stumbling and catching his breath. Shifting his sword in his hand, he tried a clumsy pass as Lucan leaped forward again with a mocking laugh.

  Guenevere clasped her hands and brought them to her lips. Goddess, Mother, help him—help my love—

  Lucan moved in and out, taunting Arthur, wearing him down. Like a dog in the ring Lucan nipped away at the great frame, and Arthur took all the punishment he gave with the blind dignity of a tormented bear.

  Goddess, hear me now—

  But Arthur was calling on Gods of his own. Planting his feet on the ground, he turned his eyes upward and reached into his soul. Then he braced his broad shoulders, gripped his sword, and moved onto the attack.

  “Pendragon!”

  Now it was Lucan’s turn to dodge and weave, to stumble and sweat. And as Arthur found his strength, Excalibur danced in its master’s hand, keeping Lucan at bay without ever striking home.

  For Arthur would not hurt Lucan, that was clear. Now the strain showed in Lucan’s bulging eyes, his reddened face, and the sweat running like blood from his brow. It maddened him not to win.

  “Come on, sir!” he snarled, whirling his sword around his head. His every stroke was growing wilder now, his eyes inflamed and blinded by sweat. At last with a scream he leaped forward to thrust at Arthur’s heart. And swiftly, smoothly, Arthur took him off balance and sent him crashing to the floor, his sword finding Lucan’s throat. “So, Sir Lucan!”

  Lucan was a warrior. He knew how to die. “No quarter!” he gasped. “I offered none, and I ask none.” His pale lips moved in silence as he gave his soul to the Old Ones and asked the Mother to take him home. Then he braced himself: “Strike home!”

  Arthur raised Excalibur. The mighty blade cried out for blood. A silence like death fell on all the hall. Sick and faint, Guenevere turned her head away.

  “No, not today,” Arthur’s voice said softly. “Not today, my dear.” He kissed the sword tenderly and put it away.

  The crowd let out its breath in a huge collective sigh. Arthur looked around, the battle magic falling from him like a cloud.

  “Arise and live,” he said quietly to the figure on the ground. “It would be a poor gift to Queen Guenevere to take the life of her finest knight!”

  Unsteadily Lucan struggled to his knees, his breath straining in his throat. Then he lifted his eyes to Arthur, crossed his arms on his chest, and bowed his head.

  “Accept my service, sire,” he said huskily, “till the end of my days. From now on, this life of mine is yours.”

  He lowered his head and kissed Arthur’s hands. Arthur placed one hand on Lucan’s head, and with the other struck him lightly on one shoulder, then the othe
r, once, twice, three times.

  “It is done, Sir Lucan,” Arthur said with the ghost of a sigh. “You are my knight now.” He raised his head. “Gawain?”

  “My lord?”

  The three companions tumbled forward, as joyful as dogs when their master returns safe from war.

  “Go, all of you,” Arthur said fondly. “Give this knight all the assistance he needs to recover himself, and bring him back here as soon as you can.”

  “Yes, sire.”

  The three companion knights led Lucan away. Slowly Arthur turned to the still hushed and fearful crowd. “And now,” he called into the depths of the hall, “we are here to celebrate my betrothal to your Queen. No more sadness then! Let the rejoicing begin!”

  A wild hum of delight ran through the court. Slowly Arthur turned back to the dais, his eyes searching for Guenevere.

  Tears filled her eyes.

  Oh, my love, my love—

  Arthur, Arthur, my love—

  The sound broke in on her like an evil dream. Goddess, Mother, what—? Guenevere searched the hall in torment. What was that noise? “King Arthur—a word!”

  Again the clash of weapons sounded through the air. Malgaunt strode forward, his sword and dagger ringing in his hands. At his back were the two knights he had been whispering with before.

  Malgaunt struck his weapons together again. “A new challenge, sir!” His eyes were bright with mischief, and he was wearing his serpent’s smile. “And this time, to your honor as a king!” He pointed his sword at Guenevere. “You should know that this fair field of the Summer Country, this virgin soil you so desire, has been under the plow before!”

  Under the plow—?

  What is he planning now?

  Arthur slowly turned toward Malgaunt. Guenevere could not move.

  Malgaunt raised his voice, and his words echoed round the hall. “Your Queen-to-be has known men before. Will you marry her now, King Arthur? Your Guenevere is unchaste!”

  CHAPTER 20

  Unchaste—

  “Yes, unchaste!” Malgaunt’s sneering voice went on.

  He indicated the two men by his side. “As these knights will tell.”

  “Arthur?” Guenevere cried, holding out her hands. But he was staring at Malgaunt, refusing to look at her.

  Malgaunt.

  What had he paid these men? What would they say? What did it matter, now the harm was done?

  “Unchaste?” Thrusting furiously through the stunned and silent crowd came a warlike figure, stooped and graying now, but still a man to be feared. “Take that word back, Prince Malgaunt, before you shame us all!”

  Suddenly Guenevere was on the brink of tears. A queen will always have her knights, her mother had said. And here was one, championing Guenevere as he had fought for her mother before.

  The newcomer came to a halt before the dais, planted his feet, and gave Arthur a sturdy bow. “They call me Niamh, sir, and I serve the Queen. I was her mother’s champion and chosen one, and I will not stand by to hear her daughter so abused! In the country of the Goddess, we honor the gift She gives. And She gives all women the right to treat their bodies as their own!”

  “Yes indeed!”

  It was the tart voice of Brangwen, Niamh’s wife of many years. “The Mother’s love for men is the source of all life. Without that, there is nothing! So all women have the right of love with the men they choose, and no man may say them nay.” She paused to throw a glare at Malgaunt standing by. “And when a woman takes a man in thigh-freedom, she is still mistress of her body, and not property of his!”

  “All this is true.” Taliesin’s voice rang strongly through the hall. “But hear me, King Arthur. Queen Guenevere has never taken a chosen one, nor shown thigh-friendship to any man.”

  Strong murmurs of agreement ran through the anxious court. But Arthur seemed deaf and blind to every sound.

  And with a sinking heart Guenevere saw another figure gliding toward the stage. Merlin was moving up to be with his boy, ready to drop his poison into Malgaunt’s brew.

  For Merlin had chosen to have Arthur brought up as a Christian in the kingdom of Gore, where the worship of the Mother had failed long ago. In the Middle Kingdom, where Arthur was now King, the rule of the Goddess had also passed away.

  By the laws of Christ, only men had the right to rule. By those selfsame laws, women belonged to men. The old Mother-rights of womankind were loathed and despised by them.

  Merlin must have fostered these beliefs in Arthur, Guenevere knew. And now she was accused of what they called a woman’s greatest sin, Arthur must reject her, for his own good name.

  Goddess, Mother, help me now—

  “So, sire!” It was Malgaunt’s voice, reeking with malice and delight.

  “So, Prince Malgaunt.” At last Arthur stirred. “The Queen is unchaste, you say.”

  Malgaunt grinned lasciviously. “Ask the Queen if she has a mole inside her left thigh.”

  A mole inside my thigh?

  A rush of shame left Guenevere scarlet from head to foot. Malgaunt, you know of this only from our childhood, when all summer long we played in the sun. How long have you planned to use it against me now?

  Already Malgaunt was in full flow with his tale, crooking his hand to summon one of his men. “These knights will confirm all that I say against the Queen. Myself, I was the first man in her bed. But for all I know, there have been many more than these.”

  Why does Arthur say nothing, do nothing now?

  Guenevere turned heavily toward him, avoiding his eye. “My lord—”

  “Prince Malgaunt.” The great bearlike form stirred again at her side. “You say the Queen is unchaste.”

  “I do!” Malgaunt scented triumph; he could scarcely contain his glee.

  Slowly Arthur lifted his tired head. “Then prepare to defend yourself, sir. For I am the Queen’s champion, my task is to defend her, and a queen can do no wrong.”

  IT WAS ALMOST worth the pain Guenevere had suffered to see the shock in Malgaunt’s eyes. “Fight, my lord? No, not I—!” he stuttered.

  Arthur shook his head. “We must fight, sir,” he said almost absently. “And to the death, I think. For such things must not be said about a queen.” The smile he gave her now held all the sweetness of their love. “Take courage, my lady,” he said quietly. “I will not let this pass.”

  When she spoke, it sounded like a sob. “Arthur, no—don’t take this quarrel on! You are exhausted—I beg you not to fight!”

  He stepped toward her and laid his finger on her lips. “Sweetheart, I must.” Wearily he signaled to the chamberlain.

  Guenevere turned to Malgaunt. “Give up this advantage, if you call yourself a knight!” she cried. “It is against all the rules of chivalry to do battle with an overbattled knight! You gain no honor if you defeat the King!”

  Malgaunt laughed in her face. “Too late for courtesies! The King has challenged; I may not refuse.” He turned swiftly on Arthur where he stood. “On guard!”

  In an instant Malgaunt’s sword and dagger were slashing down. Doggedly Arthur blocked the sudden assault. Stroke by stroke he withstood the shining hail of blows. With a sudden burst of power, he succeeded in driving Malgaunt back. But Malgaunt returned to the onslaught, and again Arthur thrust him away.

  And so it went, backward and forward, and Malgaunt could not break Arthur’s guard. Yet every minute that passed was draining Arthur’s strength.

  “Ha!”

  Arthur stumbled, and fell back with an oath. Gray-faced and sweating, he was having the worst of it now. Even Excalibur had lost its luster, the great sword swinging weakly in his hand. Malgaunt was winning by wearing Arthur down, drawing out the agony to prolong his opponent’s pain.

  Guenevere watched, frantic. At each of Malgaunt’s thrusts, Arthur would block and parry, parry and block again. He seemed to have no thought of going onto the attack. Was that to spare her kinsman, or his hatred of taking life? Oh, Arthur, Arthur, he would not spare you!


  Malgaunt would have spared no man now, Arthur least of all. Gods above, drive my sword into his heart! he prayed exultantly. He could smell blood; he could taste it; it filled his nostrils as they flared for the kill. Then a violent spasm crossed his face, and he screamed out with pain. His sword dropped from his nerveless hand as he fell on one knee.

  “The Prince!” cried one of his knights. “Save the Prince!”

  Arthur threw down his weapons and rushed to Malgaunt’s aid. Guenevere saw him bend forward anxiously over the kneeling figure just as Malgaunt’s dagger flashed up toward Arthur’s heart.

  “Arthur!” she screamed.

  Arthur leaped backward like a cat. The dagger missed its mark and slashed low across his side. Blood blossomed on his tunic, and like a man awakening, Arthur came to himself at last.

  Seizing Malgaunt’s wrist, he tore the treacherous weapon from his grip and forced Malgaunt facedown on the ground. As Malgaunt fell, spattered with Arthur’s blood, he felt his own dagger pricking the back of his neck, its point lodged in the soft hollow at the base of his skull.

  Throughout the hall there was no sound but the drip, drip, drip of Arthur’s blood. Malgaunt lay pinned to the floor, his face empty of everything except defeat.

  “So, Your Majesty.” Arthur looked up at Guenevere. “What is your will? Shall he live or die?”

  Malgaunt dead? The thought was almost too good to bear. But to take a life? She hovered in an agony of mind.

  Below her Malgaunt stirred. “Let me die standing,” he screamed. “Let me see my death!”

  “Rise, then!” commanded Arthur, picking up his sword.

  Slowly Malgaunt clambered to his feet. “Let me live, niece!” he called, with a show of his old assurance. “And I will swear allegiance to you till I die!”

  Malgaunt’s allegiance? Guenevere was seized by a wild urge to laugh. His allegiance was only to himself. No, with this last act of treachery alone he had forfeited the right to live. Let him die!