Guenevere, Queen of the Summer Country

by Rosalind Miles

  In the kitchens the cooks had toiled for days, thrown on their mettle by the sudden demand. A thousand and more would sit down to eat, all the court and people of Camelot, all the lords and knights who kept their own castles and manors in the country beyond. Those who could not be seated in the hall would be fed on the grass outside, served by armies of attendants with food and wine.

  And there would be meat and bread, eggs and cheese, an abundance of all good things. Every home farm for miles had been raided for its stock. “Pay the best prices, give them what they want,” Guenevere ordered, “but we must have every table groaning with good food!” None who came would go hungry, Guenevere swore, if they had to feed five thousand there. Everyone would share the glory of the feast.

  On the eve of the wedding, Guenevere told Arthur that they would not meet that night. They would not dine together, nor walk in the twilight as they had. The last hours of her maidenhood she wanted to spend alone. But now, as the night wore away, she sent for him.

  Deep underneath the castle lay a cavern, in the heart of the living rock. Some said it had been the first war stronghold of the palace itself. Others said it was a sacred place of the Mother, one of the wombs of the earth, which the old land kin made into a shrine to worship Her. At its darkest end it still held the ancient black stone of the Goddess, sister to those on Avalon and the Hill of Stones.

  In other castles, chambers such as this were reserved for dark tortures, or as living graves. But this was used as the treasure chamber of the palace, bright with heaps of gold and silver piled up on long stone tables, loving cups and great dishes, and trenchers a yard across and more. Royal crowns for queens and kings, gold collars a hand’s span deep, and ropes of gold sparkled in alcoves around the walls.

  Farther down, fine jewels spilled out of silk-lined chests and glowed in boxes of sandalwood and shell. Here were the royal rubies and the amethysts Arthur had brought, with all the pearls and garnets, coral and amber, turquoises and tiger’s-eyes that the Queens of the Summer Country had treasured since time began. Here too slept all the country’s finest weapons of war till their time came to awake. And here on the altar lay Guenevere’s wedding gift.

  Arthur, my love …

  Her heart leaped with a painful joy as she saw him shouldering through the torchlit darkness of the low passageway, ducking his fair head into the chamber, his sword Excalibur as always by his side. In the world above, she knew, the air was warm in the June night, glittering with fireflies, heavy with all the sweetness of the earth. But here the rock sweated like a living thing, and the torches guttered in the thick damp air.

  In silence Guenevere drew Arthur down the room. On the altar where she had placed it lay the regalia of her mother, the Queen’s sword and shield and spear. She took up the sword, drew it from its scabbard, and laid the weapon down again. Facing Arthur, she passed the jeweled sheath into his hands. He started, and a look of wonder passed over his face. “Why, Guenevere!” he sighed. “It’s like a living thing!”

  She nodded soberly. She could hear her mother’s voice as she used to tell this tale. “There was a Queen of the Summer Country who was so beautiful that the King of the Fair Ones fell in love with her. After long wooing, she took him for her love. Though she was a mortal, she made the sacred marriage with this man of the Otherworld so that all her children and all the Queens of the Summer Country after her would be like him, tall and fair with shining brows.

  “And he loved her so much that he made this magic thing. He wove a charm into the gold and silver of the casing, and whispered his will into the stones and jewels that adorn the sheath. The spell he cast was to keep her safe. Being mortal, she could lose her life with one blow. But when she wore this in battle, even if she was wounded, she would shed no blood. The spell still holds today. And this is my gift to you, Arthur, because I love you so.”

  His hand flew to the place where Malgaunt had wounded him. His eyes met hers, wide with love and desire. “You know what it means if you give me this?”

  Guenevere nodded. “I know that I will never lead an army in battle as my mother did. She would not train me up for it, because she said that warfare was changing now. When the Romans came, they brought new ways of death. Soon even our war chariots will be things of the past.” She pressed his hand. “But that is not why I am giving up my birthright to you. It’s because there is a life now that is dearer to me than mine. You are my life. And tomorrow when we marry, you will be mine, and I yours, for ever and a day.”

  Arthur took the scabbard and raised it to his lips. “So be it,” he said huskily. Tears of deep feeling were welling in his eyes. “I have sworn to protect you, and now you show your care for me. May this gift shield us both from evil to come. May I never betray this tribute, or prove unworthy of your love.”

  Oh, Arthur, Arthur—

  She never loved him more than she did then. But as he spoke, a gust of air brushed her cheek, and she heard the shadow of a sigh.

  It was the sigh that had breathed through Avalon when Arthur swore his undying faith to her. It was the voice of the Lady, and it whispered of all the sorrow of the world. In it she felt the wind off the desert, the chill of the place beyond Eden, the grief of all vows shattered, hearts broken, and faith betrayed.

  But a moment later she was shaking the tears from her eyes and laughing joyfully as Arthur kissed her and crushed her to his chest. And she shook the moment off, and they hastened back to their chambers to make ready to step out gaily on their wedding day. For they were young and knew nothing except that they were in love.

  CHAPTER 22

  Back in her chamber, Guenevere still carried with her the memory of Arthur’s face. She saw his high forehead with its prominent brow bones and thick eyebrows of glinting gold. She saw his broad cheekbones and strong nose, and his fearless laugh as he threw back his head. She saw his kind eyes, and his wide mouth approaching for a kiss. How could she ever be good enough for him, she moaned to Ina, roaming the chamber in spasms of dread as the dawn birds cried.

  “Never fear, madam, you will!” Ina soothed. Her Otherworldly face was alight with its wildcat gleam. “He should ask himself if he is good enough for you. Come now, your gown!”

  Ina was purring with pride, as well she might be, marveled Guenevere, her eyes wide. For the old dressmaker had created a wonder to behold. With her crooked fingers she had spun a gown out of gossamer and moonbeams, floating in a magic of its own. She had fashioned a headdress and veil as delicate as the blossoms on Avalon, and a train made of morning hopes and sweet evening dreams. The whole creation whispered and sang to itself as it waited for its time, dazzling and shimmering in its own reflected light.

  From another of Ina’s kinfolk came a pair of little slippers as dainty as foxgloves, with silken heels. Her stockings were cobweb-fine, held up by garters of white lace. Gold bracelets set with moonstones circled her wrists, and a moonstone collar clustered around her neck. And like her bridegroom Arthur, she too wore the crown of her own country, the great diadem of queens, gold and moonstone, set with crystal and pearl.

  At dawn they rode out of Camelot, Arthur on a bay stallion and Guenevere on a mare of silver-white. The grooms had bridled the horses with reins of silk and gold, and plaited tiny bells and rosebuds into their manes and tails. The women of the town had fashioned arches of greenery to hold above their heads, and the children ran before them, strewing leaves and flowers under the horses’ hooves.

  Caroling and dancing, a long train of townsfolk followed the couple down from the hilltop where Camelot floated above the valley, across the causeway over the ring of shining water, and into the woodland beyond. The town piper made merry music, and sweet bells and cymbals sounded from every hand.

  Arthur rode beside Guenevere, chastely clad in a tunic of pure white. But his cloak was a vivid scarlet and his soft leather boots and breeches were ebony black. Deep clasps of gold encircled his wrists, and his wide belt was inlaid with gold. At his side Excalibur hung sleeping
in its new jeweled scabbard heavy with old gold. And on his head he wore the great gold crown of King Uther, surmounted by the beast of Pendragon made all of emeralds, with great rubies flaming from its dragon eyes.

  ON THEY RODE, and into the woodland’s heart, through hidden greenways and tracks hardly known. Now the laughing, dancing crowd fell silent as it followed them into the temple of green trees, hushed by the spell of the Mother as they entered Her domain.

  With a proud smile Arthur caught Guenevere’s eye and glanced at his knights riding behind. At the head of the band were Gawain, Kay, and Bedivere, glittering in their finest mail. Behind the bright banners of the knights came King Ursien and Merlin, escorted by both King Leogrance and Lucan, splendidly arrayed. As Guenevere looked back, she met an unblinking golden eye. Riding on a white mule bridled with silk, resplendent again in all his woodland hues, Merlin could have been the lord of the forest, the Horned One himself.

  On they went, and on. Above the green roof of the woodland, the noonday sun burned down. Shafts of sunlight burst through the trees as they passed, and flecked their path with fire. A languorous warmth hung under the canopy of leaves, and the rich scent of foliage filled the air.

  The heart of the forest was crowned with burning sun. Through the trees the red and gold light beckoned them into the green grove ahead. And there Taliesin waited with his Druids, a white-robed choir humming a chant of love. At the sight of them, he raised both his arms, and began.

  “Guenevere, Queen of the Summer Country, and Arthur, King of the Middle Kingdom, I bid you draw near …”

  AS THEY MADE their vows, a cloud of doves burst cooing from the trees and hovered overhead, a living, fluttering canopy of white. In the west the love-star bloomed in the eye of the sun, then gently faded into the evening light. How she made her responses, what Arthur said to her, Guenevere did not know. But she saw she was lovely to him, and beloved beyond compare. She saw it as they stood at the green altar in the forest, and she saw it, felt it, rejoiced in it, all the way back to Camelot.

  FOR NOW THEY were married, now she wore his ring on her finger and he wore hers. Now the singing, drumming, dancing, laughing, and crying were redoubled as the townsfolk escorted them back through the woodland over the hills and valleys, and down to Camelot where the revels lay.

  As they came into the Great Hall hand in hand, roars of approval rang to the roof beams. It was the signal for the minstrels to pipe up in the gallery, for the jugglers and tumblers in the hall to spring to life, for the choir of children to begin their wedding song.

  “Courage, my love!” breathed Arthur as the people pressed in from all sides.

  “See how they love you!” she whispered back. The heady scent of the bridal lilies enveloped her like a caress, and the leafy boughs decking the hall breathed a green woodland air.

  “And I you!” he murmured, his heart in his eyes. “But all the world loves us as we love each other now!”

  Somehow they made their way toward the dais as the joyful hubbub increased. Behind them King Leogrance and Lucan struggled to bring Merlin and King Ursien through the crowd. Arthur’s twenty knights and Lucan’s hundred were little help. For knights like Lucan were heroes to the people, and each had his own band of admirers impeding him.

  They had reached the steps to the dais when they heard the flurry at the door. It was the chamberlain: “Your Majesties! A messenger from the Lady, come from Avalon!”

  The figure who stepped into the hall was robed in shining silk, her head veiled, her sweet face grave. In one hand she carried a wand of applewood, in the other she held the Lady’s crystal globe bound round with gold.

  A slow hiss of breath came from Arthur’s right. Guenevere turned to see Merlin staring at Nemue as if he had seen the vision of his life. “A messenger from the Lady?” he breathed heavily, his eyes glittering. “Who is she? Who?”

  Guenevere eyed him coldly. “Her name is Nemue. She is the chief damsel of the Lady of the Lake.”

  “Queen Guenevere!” cried Nemue in her strange husky voice. “And my lord King Arthur! The Lady sends you joy on your wedding day. She calls down the blessings of the Mother on your bed. And she begs you to accept these gifts of love.”

  She raised her hand. Through the door came four of the Lake Maidens, lustrous in their gold and glossy green. The first led a dainty white bitch on a gold collar and lead. “For the Queen!” she called, and bowed.

  The second had a white hart on a chain and collar too, a tame doe who calmly looked around and fastened her great liquid eyes on Arthur. “For the King!” the maiden cried.

  On a green velvet cushion the third carried a massive torque of twisted gold. “For the King!”

  And gleaming on its own cushion lay a crown of moonstones cool in the burning sun. “For the Queen!”

  “The Queen thanks you, for herself and the King!” Guenevere cried in delight.

  Merlin leaned toward Nemue and crooked a withered hand. “Come to me, my dear!” he beckoned, grinning with an odd familiarity. “Sit beside me. I dare swear that you and I have much to say to one another—and much to learn!”

  What—?

  Would the old man dare to try to impose himself on a priestess of the Goddess, their most honored guest? Guenevere felt herself flushing with anger and shame.

  Nemue looked at him with eyes as clear as the waters of the Lake. “Forgive me, Druid,” she said coolly. “But I am sworn to the Mother, and I keep company only with men of my choice.”

  Merlin cackled with delight, rubbing his hands. “And what must a man do to win your choice?”

  Nemue’s voice grew colder and clearer still. “I do not choose men by what they do, but by what they are.” She turned to Guenevere. “May I take my seat with my maidens, Your Majesty? We have traveled long to be with you today.”

  “Certainly, at once!”

  Turning her back on Merlin, Guenevere ushered Nemue through the ranks of joyful revelers, some already the worse for the freely flowing wine. In the central aisle of the hall the people were cheering the tumblers and jugglers and village clowns. Yet none of the capering fools grinned and nodded as Merlin did, Guenevere thought angrily, or looked at Nemue with such wild eyes.

  He was watching them closely now, his withered forefinger raised as if to beckon Nemue to his side. Gods above, what was he trying to do? Guenevere could not suppress a sharp unease. Could Arthur speak to his old mentor, and take care of him?

  But across the hall she could see Arthur in deep discussion with Sir Kay and his mother, Dame Arian. Kay’s sharp face was troubled, and Dame Arian showed signs of evident distress. “Have no fear, lady!” Arthur was reassuring her. “Sir Ector will not miss my wedding day!”

  Kay nodded. “He may have been delayed at the Severn crossing,” he said slowly. “The water can be rough there, even in June.”

  “I do not doubt it! Come, let the feast begin!”

  Laughing and jostling, court and country folk queued to find places at the long tables in the body of the hall. Good humor and good wine were flowing in equal measure, and it was a long while before all were settled and ready to begin.

  At last the trumpets sounded, and Arthur stood up to speak. “My Queen, ladies and lords, knights and revered Druids and people of Camelot—”

  “Gods above!”

  There was a loud commotion outside the hall.

  “Your Majesty, forgive me!”

  It was the chamberlain crying at the door. Leaning on his shoulder as he staggered in came an old man covered in blood, raw with the wounds of great falls from his horse.

  Arthur’s throne crashed to the floor as he started up. “Sir Ector!” he cried in horror.

  The old man fell to his knees, spitting blood, then raised his battered head. “To arms, to arms!” he rasped. “King Lot has raised eleven kings against you! Their armies are massing, many thousands strong. He challenges you to meet him in the field. He has sworn an oath to kill Merlin’s boy!”

  CHAPTER 23


  Arthur attacked—on our wedding day?

  Guenevere stood drained of all thought but one. Goddess, Mother, is this your will? Your punishment? What is our sin?

  Beside her Arthur drew in a long raw breath. “Caerleon attacked?”

  “Not yet, my liege. But the hosts of King Lot are on the march.”

  “To horse, to horse!”

  Gawain leaped into action, bellowing orders at the servants by the door. Kay and Bedivere sprang to follow his large ungainly frame. “I will order the horses, sire!” he threw urgently over his shoulder. “Do not fear, they will be ready sooner than you can think.”

  “Gawain, no!”

  The stern command cut through the silent court. Arthur took Guenevere’s hand and turned to face the crowd. “Tomorrow at dawn we ride to Caerleon, not before.”

  “Sire!” Gawain was aghast. “They’re massing against you, marching on Caerleon now!”

  “They will not reach Caerleon overnight. And I will not go to war on my wedding day.”

  Sir Ector raised his bruised and battered head. “Thousands, many thousands, are coming,” he said hoarsely. “All whom Lot can rally to his side.”

  Kay hastened forward. “My lord,” he began. Behind him Sagramore, Griflet and Ladinas, and all the rest of Arthur’s companion knights were pressing forward too, eager to be off.

  Arthur held up his hand. His face was set and his voice remote. “Tonight is sacred to the Queen-Goddess of this land. I have married her, and I will fulfill her rites.”

  WHEN LOVERS MARRIED in Camelot, all the court would bring the bride to bed, laughing and dancing, with candles, songs, and flowers. But there would be no revelry tonight. Alone with her women, Guenevere waited for Arthur to come.