Guenevere, Queen of the Summer Country

by Rosalind Miles

  In the cool of the Queen’s apartments, she would not let them undress her—she was not ready to lay aside the beauty of the day. But she was glad to feel light hands lifting off her crown, and bathing her face and hands before she sent them away. Their silent care lifted her somber mood, and at last her heart revived. The sky might fall tomorrow, but tonight would be for love.

  He came at last, and she ran toward him to relieve him of his cloak. But he laid his finger on his lips with a mischievous smile, and took her by the hand.

  “Come!”

  His eyes were dancing like a wild creature of the wood. Together they stole unseen through the depths of the palace, down, down into the heart of the rock, till they found their way outside into the wood. And soon they were lost in the great green depths again.

  High in the sky rode a moon as white as buttermilk, attended by a thousand twinkling stars. Beneath the trees the woodland lay warm and still, and the scent of night hung heavy in the air. Within a grove of hawthorn blossom, a thick fall of honeysuckle made a natural bower. And there Arthur took her in his arms, and kissed her as a man kisses the woman he means to make his.

  “Oh, my sweetheart!” he murmured brokenly. “My little love!”

  Inside the palace, Guenevere knew, the bright candles and torches that brought the bride to bed made every woman shine like a queen of the night. Here only glow-worms hung in the bushes, and the pale moon smiled down. But Arthur shone on her like one of the Lords of Light who had walked in the forest before the world was born. He was as fair as the Shining Ones who had made the world.

  “Arthur, Arthur, my love!” She reached for him and wrapped her arms around his neck. Gently he stroked her face and kissed her again. She clung to him, drowning in his touch. His body was hard against hers, and the hair on the back of his neck was as soft as down.

  “Guenevere!”

  Arthur drew in his breath in bliss. He might have been born for this minute, and he wanted to hold the joy of it for the rest of his life. His hands slid blindly down her back, and with a sigh of wonder he took her by the hips. Her body was warm and full, more real than he had dreamed. “Such a little waist!” he said.

  Guenevere laid her head upon his chest. The scent of him was mingling with the sweet airs of the night, honeysuckle and violet and vernal grass. All around them the living woodland breathed in its sleep. “Come!” Arthur whispered. He threw his cloak over the bed of ferns, and drew her down to lie by his side. Overhead the wild honeysuckle made a natural canopy, and the white moon gleamed through the lattice of pink and cream tendrils onto Arthur’s face. Suddenly he had lost the soft look of boyhood and taken on the spirit of the wild. Now she could see the desire in his eyes and feel the heat of his body pressed the length of hers. And a heat she had never known before rose to answer him.

  Trembling, Arthur fumbled with her gown, his great hands baffled by the tiny pearl fastenings in the front. With a drowsy laugh, she lay there till the last one gave way. Her gown moved like moonlight on water as he parted its shimmering folds.

  Arthur could hardly breathe. Never had he seen anything so lovely as Guenevere’s naked form. Her body was white in the half-light, glowing with the pale moon’s midnight fire. And she was giving all this to him?

  Yes, Arthur, Arthur my only love …

  Guenevere lay lost in ecstasy. She was floating now, above her body, above the forest, above the roof of the world.

  Arthur shook his head like a man in a dream. “Ohh …,” he breathed. Roughly he stroked her breast, and the warmth at her center blossomed under his caress. “Oh, my love!” he moaned.

  He reared up and tore his tunic over his head. Naked, his body gleamed with a golden light.

  “My Queen—my wife!”

  He entered her, and she felt a stab of pain. Then a triumphant burning grew in her and spread till her whole frame throbbed with fire. A raw cry burst from her throat.

  Arthur cradled her in his arms and gentled her tenderly, stroking and soothing her with a thousand little sounds and soft caresses as if he had been doing it all his life. Then he gripped her hard, and plunged and reared and cried out in throes of his own. Afterward he laid his head on her breast and wept. Then he folded them both in his cloak, and they lay entwined in their ferny hollow, and watched the stars dancing till they fell asleep.

  GUENEVERE AWOKE the next morning in the Queen’s great bed. Arthur was standing fully dressed at her side. “Awake, my love!” he said urgently. “We ride for Caerleon now!”

  All Camelot heard them as they thundered out of the castle and down through the narrow cobbled streets of the little town. Ahead of them rode Arthur’s knights, while behind came all the Queen’s knights with Lucan in the lead. In the midst of Arthur’s knights rode Merlin with King Ursien, King Pellinore, and last night’s messenger, Sir Ector himself. Forbidden by Arthur to ride, the old man had ordered the grooms to hoist him onto his horse, tied himself into his saddle, and declared that he would go with them or die.

  “To Caerleon!”

  Arthur’s cry roused the birds from their trees. Guenevere took one last look at the white battlements of Camelot, their glimmering turrets bright with flags in the dawn, and turned her face away. The Summer Country would be safe in the hands of Taliesin and her father, she had no doubt of that. But when would she see her beloved land again?

  “Onward!” Arthur cried, standing up in his stirrups, his upraised arm cleaving the air. “To Caerleon!”

  TO CAERLEON …

  Onward to Caerleon …

  Onward …

  Those who saw them pass said they rode as if all the devils of the air were on their trail. Four, six, eight hours after they left, the round-eyed observers were still wondering at their furious pace.

  From Camelot they made straight to the Severn Water, pushing on mile after dreary mile. Darkness overtook them before they reached the ferry, but they dared not stop to rest. On the other side of the water, a final gallop brought Caerleon into their sights.

  Caerleon …

  Dimly Guenevere traced the looming outline of the great castle on the rock, its back against the mountain, its four high towers encircling the mighty keep. But they crossed the moat in darkness almost before she was aware, raced at full tilt up to the citadel, and there, without pausing to change their travel-stained clothing, swept into the nearest chamber for a council of war.

  INSIDE THE CASTLE it was colder than the night outside. The room where they sat smelled musty, the hangings were worn and faded, the air stale with dust undisturbed for many months. The corridors they passed through were dirty and rubbish-strewn too, with cracked flagstones and cobwebbed beams proclaiming their neglect. The six kings may have descended on Caerleon for sport and revelry whenever they desired, Guenevere saw, but the place had not had a chatelaine’s care in years.

  And who were all these grim and unsmiling men? Why did Arthur not command more torches, to brighten the room and put heart into them all? Guenevere sat in silence, her senses bruised by the strangeness of her surroundings, and tried to follow what was going on.

  Could this be Caerleon’s Ruling Council, this handful of sad old men huddled by the light of one dim candle around the end of the Council board? And surely she and Arthur must have been hurried into an unused antechamber? Vast as it was, this musty room with worm-eaten paneling, cracked windows, and worn baize could never have been the Council Hall of kings!

  Yet here they were, half a dozen graybeards with furrowed brows and lined faces, clad in ancient gowns of spotted velvet smelling strongly of better days. Sir Baudwin, an old knight of King Uther and lord-lieutenant of Caerleon, bluntly broke the news. His large plain face was carved with a deep concern, and he tugged restlessly at the forks of his iron gray beard. “King Lot has declared war and is marching on Caerleon. But let me tell you, sire, that old Sir Ulfius, your father’s wisest Councillor, has gone hotfoot to him with urgent terms of peace.”

  “So!”

  Across th
e table Merlin sat bright and attentive, showing no trace of the long hours on the road. Guenevere eyed him with sharp distaste. Did he know that his actions had stirred up this hornet’s nest? Was there no way to reclaim Arthur’s birthright without inflaming King Lot? How could Merlin so blithely have ignored the malice of the man who thought he should be High King?

  “Where is King Lot now?” Arthur sounded very calm.

  “On his way down from the Orkneys, rallying his allies as he comes,” said Sir Baudwin heavily. “He rewards all who join him and kills all who refuse, making them sacrifices to his cruel Gods. Eleven kings have joined the league against you now. Some see the whole country coming under his sway.”

  “The whole country?”

  Sir Baudwin groaned. “The whole island, sire! King Lot commands more territory than you think. He holds lands in Cornwall as well as his Orkneys terrain. So he claims the right to rule in the north and in the far south, with our kingdom, sire, lying conveniently in between.”

  Arthur looked baffled. “Cornwall? How?”

  A low whine escaped from Merlin’s yew wand as it leaned against his chair. But the old man sat smiling strangely, staring out at them all. Guenevere glanced around in fear. Had anyone else heard the wand cry out?

  Arthur seemed oblivious. Another of the old lords around the table took up the tale. “Sire, when your father was making himself High King, he needed King Lot as an ally, to hold the northern territories for him. But Lot knew his price. He wanted King Uther’s eldest daughter as his bride.” Baudwin bowed down the table in apology. “At the time, my lord, the girl was all that Uther had in the way of kin. Your father had kept your birth secret, so no one knew that he had a son. In Lot’s mind, then, marrying Uther’s daughter made him the High King’s heir.”

  “What?”

  The blood drained from Arthur’s face. “Lot married King Uther’s daughter?” He gripped the edge of the table, his eyes bulging with shock. “I thought I was my father’s only child!”

  Again the yew wand made its grumbling complaint as its owner smiled and smiled. “You are indeed, my lord!” Merlin agreed. “King Uther your father married only once, and had one child, yourself. When you were born, he sent you away in secret under my care, because he feared that his enemies might capture you, and he wanted to save your life. But the Queen your mother had been married before. She had two girls by her first husband. It was the elder who was given to King Lot.”

  Arthur was still struggling with it all. “There were two daughters when I was born—half-sisters to me, then?”

  “Hardly that,” said Merlin brusquely. He waved a withered hand. “The Queen and her daughters have no meaning in your destiny.”

  Guenevere stared. A ruling queen dismissed out of hand like this? A mother to have no place in her son’s life?

  Arthur was very pale. “Why did you tell me none of this before?”

  Merlin opened his eyes wide and gave a smiling shrug. “There has been little time for family history, sire!”

  Sir Baudwin nodded. “But you see from this, my lord, why King Lot thinks fit to challenge you now. He had thought of himself as the premier king of these islands for many years. Already he rules Lothian and all the Orkneys in the north. Until you came, he thought he held the Middle Kingdom as his own. And through his wife, he claims Cornwall too.”

  He inclined his head courteously to Guenevere. “You must know, Your Majesty, that like the Summer Country, Cornwall has kept to the old ways. Her queens, like yours, rule in their own right. The daughter who married King Lot is her mother’s natural heir. Already Lot uses his power and his marriage to her daughter to try to bully and dictate to the old Queen. When she dies, King Lot expects to claim the land in his wife’s name, and rule it as his own. With all these territories under his control, King Lot would be set fair to call himself High King.”

  A hollow silence settled on the room. Guenevere had to speak. “Lot is married to King Arthur’s half-sister, you say?”

  Every gray head round the table nodded in response. Guenevere leaned toward Arthur. “Then King Lot is your kinsman, my lord. Why not send him a strong brotherly overture of peace, to back up the treaty offered by Sir Ulfius?”

  Arthur laughed bitterly. “Guenevere, I’m no kinsman in his eyes! If he declares war now, that means he denies my claim. To him I’m no more than a bastard King Uther gave away!”

  “My lord! My lord!”

  It was Gawain, clamoring at the door. “The embassy to King Lot has returned!”

  “Ha! Sir Ulfius, did you say?” Arthur leaped to his feet. “Now we shall see how our peace terms were received!”

  AND THEY SAW INDEED. Thrown into the castle gatehouse by King Lot’s horsemen lay the body of old Sir Ulfius, covered in blood. The peace treaty was pinned to his chest by a knife buried in his heart.

  Arthur leaped to pick up the battered form. Serene in death, his gray hair tumbled and his face smudged with dirt, Sir Ulfius lay in Arthur’s arms like a sleeping child. Arthur raised his head and stared out into the night as the sound of galloping hooves slowly died away. “So, Lot,” he breathed, his eyes dark, “we offer peace, and you return us death. Look to it, then, for we shall pay you back! You will feel our vengeance a hundredfold!”

  CHAPTER 24

  Above the cloister, the sound of the angelus bell faded on the evening air. The chant of plainsong rose to take its place. Cramped into a corner of the low sleeping space, Brother John allowed the glorious melodies to weave their way in and out of the chambers of his heart. Oh, to be one of this community!

  But that would be only if he proved worthy of the call. Brother John struggled to contain his soul in due humility as he shifted his body gingerly on the hard wooden chair. He was still sore enough from the beating he had taken at the hands of Lucan’s men to think twice before he moved. But the news that had brought him to the Abbot could not wait.

  “Married?” Seated opposite John in the small cell that served him for office, dormitory, and living space, the Abbot pressed an index finger to the side of his aching head and tried to think. What now, O Lord, what next?

  Brother John frowned. “As they call married. By their pagan rites.”

  “Spare me.” The Abbot waved a weary hand. “I know their filthy ways.” His mind recoiled. A crusty silence settled in the room.

  “So,” the Abbot resumed after a while, “their two kingdoms now will be one. But will both lands now come under the Mother-right?”

  “The Middle Kingdom is ours!” protested John. “Or at least it was. We had driven their Goddess into the farthest hills. We even built a chapel in the stronghold of Caerleon itself. If Arthur wins his kingdom from King Lot, surely he won’t throw it all at his concubine’s feet?”

  The Abbot sighed. Brother John was a man of virtue, to be sure. But a monk could be too upright in his calling, when it blinded him to the lower impulses of other men. What was wrong with all these Britons, he asked himself. Did dishwater run in their veins, not blood? For the hundredth time he found himself wishing that all their young men were forced to spend part of their novitiate in Rome, the city of love, the smiling city of sin. Did they not know here, did they never observe, that for the whore who pleased him, a man would do anything? He groped for an inoffensive way of putting it. “The Queen of the Summer Country may bring him under her influence, and win him to her ways,” he said at last.

  “And the succession!” John fretted on. “Their offspring will inherit a united land. But will a child of theirs be for us or against us, Father? Can you see that far?”

  The Abbot brought his fingers to his lips. “That all depends upon the child God sends. If the pagan Queen throws only females as her litter, then the people will likely cling to the old ways.”

  John’s eye quickened. “But if she has a son—”

  “Then God will have shown us that this land is ours. That He has sent one to carry out His will.”

  Brother John nodded eagerly. “This Ar
thur can hardly call himself a man, if he will not fight for his own son to succeed!”

  “Just so.” The Abbot paused, and a slow smile broke over his cavernous face. “And if he fails—or even if the Queen bears him ten daughters and rears them all in the faith of the Mother of Evil herself—there is another fighting on our side.”

  “Ha! Of course!”

  Brother John had taken his meaning in a second, the Abbot saw. Well, it was plain enough. “Merlin will not suffer the daughters of Guenevere to triumph over one of Arthur’s sons. He will move heaven and earth to hold Arthur to his destiny, just as he held the spirit in Uther’s body for three days after the life had died. The old devil will do anything to advance Pendragon power. He will spare no one, least of all a foreign woman or her child.”

  Brother John looked at the Abbot with reverent eyes. It was plain to see why their leader held his place. But even as he basked in this thought, the Abbot was speaking again.

  “Our other task must be to see that there is little or nothing for a daughter of the pagans to inherit when the time comes. We have destroyed the Great Mother in many places now, country by country, shrine by shrine. We have other kingdoms in these islands under our rule. If we turn all the force we have under God against the Summer Country, how long can it hold out?”

  Brother John gazed at him wonderingly, and shook his head.

  “No longer than it takes to get a toehold on Avalon. To wrest their relics and rituals to Christian use.” The Abbot leaned forward and tapped Brother John on the knee. “A renegade from Avalon, one of the Lake villagers, has come to us. His tales of the gold objects of their worship, I confess, inflamed my desire. The Goddess has a loving cup, it seems, from which She succors all who come to Her.” His thin face took on a sacral gleam. “Imagine, Brother, if we had such a relic of our Lord!”

  “The cup He used at the Last Supper, say!” Brother John breathed ecstatically. “The blessed Holy Grail, which God has promised we shall regain someday!”