Guenevere, Queen of the Summer Country

by Rosalind Miles

  Igraine closed her eyes. “When King Uther made himself High King, he sent for all the rulers of the lesser kingdoms to come to swear allegiance to him. When I came, he approached me in lust to take me to his bed. But I defied him, and hurried back with Gorlois to Cornwall to defend my land.”

  She set her mouth in a thin line. “And not only my land. Gorlois and I had children.”

  “Morgause and Morgan?”

  A radiant smile broke over Igraine’s face. “Gorlois gave me what every woman wants, a daughter to love. Morgause was born to be the next queen of our land, and she was my heart’s delight. And then Morgan came with her own special joy …” Her eyes glistened with tears, and her voice softened even more. “Morgan had been blessed by the Goddess in her cradle, as it seemed. Her spirit shadow shone round her as she walked. Even as a child she communed with the Fair Ones, and the people called her Morgan Le Fay. Some thought that her powers would make her the Lady of Avalon in time to come.”

  “But then Uther came—?”

  The Queen’s face tightened. “When I scorned his advances, King Uther swore to take revenge. His Council agreed that I had defied the High King. They gave him authority to make war on Cornwall to impose his rule.”

  Guenevere shook her head in misery. “And so he did?”

  “He brought his whole army down to crush Cornwall. Gorlois was holding our fort at Terrabil. I was defending Tintagel, to keep Morgan and Morgause safe. We were well armed and well fortified, and we thought we could withstand Uther’s assault. But there was one fighting for Uther we did not know. One you know too.”

  Guenevere could hardly breathe. “Merlin!”

  Queen Igraine nodded, far away. “When I refused him, Uther took to his bed, sick almost to death with anger and desire. All his lords were in fear that he would die. So his chief knight, Sir Ulfius, sought Merlin out and brought him to the King. Merlin offered Uther a bargain. Merlin would fulfill the King’s desire, if in turn King Uther would swear blindly to fulfill Merlin’s own.”

  “And the King agreed to that?” Guenevere felt sick. “King Uther swore to give Merlin his desire, when he did not know what it was?”

  Igraine inclined her shapely head. “He swore on the Four Evangelists to do Merlin’s will. So Gorlois and I were fighting against malice and magic, not merely a mortal foe. Merlin raised a mist round Terrabil, just as my Gorlois sallied out to attack. Gorlois was killed, and Merlin took the ring I had given him when I made him my chosen one. Three hours later, Merlin brought Uther disguised as Gorlois through Tintagel’s gates.” She gave a weary shrug. “The guards accepted the ring as a sign to admit their lord, as they had done a thousand times before.”

  Now the sickness was deep in Guenevere’s center. “He was planning to come to you—pretending to be your husband—?”

  “—to take me in my bed.” Her eyes flamed again with unquenched fire. “Thanks to Merlin, his pimp!”

  Merlin again!

  Guenevere’s head was pounding with shock and disbelief. How could Merlin have used his powers so? How could he have schemed to kill an innocent man, to destroy a loving marriage, shatter a family, and force a woman into the bed of her husband’s murderer—all for Uther’s lust, and his own hunger for power? No wonder he had seen fit to disappear before Lot’s burial, and be far away when Igraine arrived!

  Igraine was lost now in some long distant landscape of pain. “In the morning they brought me the body of my love. He had been stabbed through the heart, as Uther had stabbed me through the womb time and again that night. My Gorlois lay dead in the hall, and Uther called for a priest. The Christian mumbled his dog-Latin, I stood there without a sound, and Uther called us married from that moment on.”

  “Ohh …” Guenevere caught herself up. There were no words to say.

  Igraine shrugged. “What difference did it make? The victor always enjoys the spoils of war.”

  Guenevere moaned in pain. “But why did he take your child away from you? How could he bear to part with his own son?”

  Igraine shook her head. “He could not avoid it. He had sworn an oath. The very next morning Merlin came for his reward. Uther had been granted his desire, the old man said, and now he must fulfill Merlin’s, too. He swore I was with child, and he claimed it for himself.” She laughed, a dry rustling sound. “But to part with Arthur served Uther’s purpose too. By the time Arthur was born, the world was whispering that this was not Uther’s child. They said he was Gorlois’ son, and not Pendragon blood at all—a bastard, not true-bred.” She drew a hissing breath. “Uther thought that he could give this child away and make more sons as easily as he made the first. He boasted that with seed as strong as his, he would get a son from me every year. But I saw to it that there would be no more.”

  Guenevere shivered. “How?”

  “I took the Mother’s way to close up my womb. Arthur was the last child I ever bore. Then I lost my daughters, too—you know that. Uther let me keep them till the baby came, because I took the death of Gorlois so hard that he feared for my mind. But then he wanted all my love for himself. So he gave them away, and I lost everything. All because of Uther. Because of his lust.”

  From the inner chamber came a low growling moan. Guenevere’s skin crawled. Had Morgan heard all this? Surely she must hate Uther—and his son?

  Her sister Morgause was with her, Igraine had said.

  Morgause too—a woman nursing her stricken sister, mourning her dead husband, in the house of Arthur, whose lustful father had cost her father’s life. The man who had killed King Lot and made her a widow, just as his father had widowed her mother.

  Goddess, Mother, save Arthur from this legacy of hate …

  Igraine read Guenevere’s mind. She took her hand and searched deep into her eyes. “Well, Uther is long dead. We must pray that his evil sleeps with him in his tomb.”

  Guenevere’s lips moved in silence with Igraine’s. Goddess, Mother, grant the Queen this prayer …

  CHAPTER 28

  “More wine, Your Majesty?”

  Guenevere shook her head. “But there, see there?” She waved the attendant on down the long table, where goblet after goblet was being drained in a cheerful toast.

  “Queen Guenevere, your health!”

  “And a health to the King!”

  “Eternal blessings on the King and Queen!”

  The hum of revelers rose to the rafters of Caerleon’s Great Hall. On the dais where they sat, one long trestle held all the kings and queens and lords, while countless white-covered tables ran off it down the hall. In the gallery above, a consort of minstrels entertained the guests. The vast flagstoned space was bright with torches and great fires. The feast Arthur had promised his mother and sisters was in full swing.

  Struggling and sweating, the busy servants toiled to and fro. Each table had a boar’s head and a whole suckling pig, a side of mutton, and a crown of lamb. Dishes and bowls of brawn and broth and beans crowded the boards to feed the fighting men, along with slabs of coarse black bread and flagons of beer. On the high table, a nest of white swans and peacocks, their feathers tipped in gold, formed a glittering centerpiece. Royal birds for royal guests, the head cook told his underlings, since they were feasting all the King’s allies and all the lesser kings who had fought under his banner, as well as Arthur’s royal kin.

  A feast of kings, with the King and Queen at its head, just as Merlin had decreed. Guenevere smiled. She and Arthur were indeed both at the table, but never more apart. Arthur was at the far end of the narrow trestle, gorgeously clad in royal red and gold, but a mile away from her now, and almost invisible behind the gleaming candles, gold goblets, and mounds of fruit and flowers. She sent a loving message through the air: Arthur, Arthur, look at me, smile at me now …

  GUENEVERE—oh, my love …

  For the rest of his life Arthur never would forget this feast. Shining through the candlelight, radiant in crystal and pearls, floating like thistledown in one of her gossamer gowns, Gu
enevere smiled at him, and glory filled his eyes. His fingers remembered the satin-smooth feel of her hair, his eyes the peachlike bloom of her breasts and the sheen on her silken skin. He thought of the way that she welcomed him to her arms, and marveled at his good fortune with all the wonder of a humble heart. Oh, my love, my love, my love …

  Guenevere caught his eye, and he glimmered back at her with a joy too deep for smiles. His wife ahead and his mother at his side—what more could a man want?

  Oh, my love—you look so lovely tonight …

  OH, ARTHUR—you make me want …

  With a conscious blush, Guenevere realized that she was longing for bed and dreaming of having Arthur in her arms. Shame overwhelmed her. The guests! She must pay attention to the guests!

  She looked down the long white expanse of the festive board with an anxious gaze. Tonight Arthur was entertaining both his allies and his newfound kin. But Queen Morgause, they had agreed, could not be expected to face the men who had killed her husband in Arthur’s cause. The only solution had been to seat the two groups as far apart as it was possible for guests at the same banquet to be, with Arthur feasting Morgause and her sons at one end, while at the other Guenevere took care of King Pellinore, his son Lamorak, and the French kings Ban and Bors.

  Behind Arthur stood Gawain and his three brothers, in attendance on Morgause, Morgan, and Queen Igraine. For hours now the four sons of Orkney had proved true to their task, showing never a hint of boredom or fatigue. Yet even without four fine young princes standing behind their thrones, Guenevere marveled, these women would have been known as queens anywhere. Tall and upright, Igraine shimmered in a gown like evening falling across the sea. Morgause’s large shapely frame caught all eyes in a court gown of draped red velvet whose sensual folds matched her full peony mouth.

  Only Morgan had clung to her plain attire, her nunlike habit and headdress of severe black. Seated beside Arthur, she hung on his every word. The meeting between the two of them had been as poignant to Guenevere as the reunion between Arthur and Igraine. “Bring him to Morgan,” Igraine had urged Guenevere, “when I have calmed her and she has slept awhile.” That evening, she and Arthur had returned to the guest apartments to find Morgan standing waiting, supported between her mother and Morgause. Gripping their hands, she was weeping and shaking convulsively from head to foot.

  At the sight of her, Arthur had wept too. A long silence had stretched out to fill the chamber with unbearable pain. At last Morgan had thrown back her head and unleashed one endless catlike wail. Then she threw herself forward into Arthur’s arms, sobbing inconsolably while the others looked helplessly on. Arthur had held her till she wrenched herself away and reached up to plant one fervent kiss on the side of his neck. Her small teeth gleamed briefly as she threw him a broken smile, then she suddenly whirled around and was gone. In all this time she had not said a word.

  Now as Arthur spoke, Morgan’s huge eyes roamed the hall, but she was otherwise composed. There was no sign, Guenevere saw with relief, of the wild distress of before. Indeed, as Arthur tried to put his half-sister at her ease, her clasped hands came again and again to her mouth as if to hide a smile.

  Guenevere watched her, trying to understand.

  Morgan …

  She could speak with the Fair Ones, and they called her Morgan Le Fay …

  What is it about Morgan? Guenevere asked herself. Arthur loves her now, and something about her makes me long to embrace her too. But when she came into the hall tonight and I greeted her so warmly, her lean black body arched away as soon as I drew near. When I tried to show her a loving, sisterly regard, she turned aside with a stiffness that was almost like disgust. Well, so be it. Guenevere stifled a sigh. It would take years before time and love could breed out what the convent had bred in. She would have to learn to be a sister to Morgan without expecting any response, till the poor sufferer was ready to be a sister to her in return.

  She caught Arthur’s eye again, and he raised his goblet in a silent toast. Her heart jumped with the pain that happiness so often gives. Never had Arthur looked more himself, or more pleasing to her eye. And seated among his mother and his sisters, he had the uncertain joy of a man come home at last after a long journey full of woe and pain.

  A sudden vow sealed itself in her mind. She would never tell Arthur what Igraine had told her, the cruel saga of how he came to be born. He knew only what Merlin had told him, and believed that Uther had sent him away only to save his life. Like every son who never knew his father, Arthur adored his memory and idealized his name. How could she tell him that judged by the laws of the Mother, the hero he idolized was a rapist and a murderer?

  Yet when they fell in love, they had promised always to tell each other the truth, to keep no secrets from each other all their lives—

  “You have a worry, Majesty?” asked a French voice at her side. Guenevere started. King Bors, quieter than his older brother Ban, was regarding her thoughtfully, his head on one side.

  “Not in the least!” Guenevere forced a laugh. She raised her glass gaily to King Bors and King Ban, then to King Pellinore and his son on her other side. “A toast, gentlemen! A toast to the dear friends who saved my husband’s life!”

  “Now, madam, no more of that,” King Pellinore said gruffly, turning away. His old ears had gone very pink.

  “Yes indeed!” Guenevere insisted playfully. “Unless you want me to say that two phantom heroes crossed the plain to save the King, not you and your brave son!”

  Now Pellinore’s son had changed color too, but he bowed his head gallantly as he accepted the toast. Rawboned and golden-haired, young Lamorak looked better than he knew in a tunic of indigo slashed with crimson, and a broad silk sash. Guenevere’s imagination took sudden flight. He was a fine young man. He would make a good husband for one of the ladies at court—perhaps even Ina? And what a catch for her, a king’s only son—

  A king’s only son …

  Guenevere turned her head.

  His name is Lancelot—

  Guenevere’s hand flew to her heart. Where had she heard these words before? And why did she hear again the shadow of a sigh? She opened her eyes to find the bright brown gaze of King Ban fixed questioningly on her face. “You have a son, sir, I believe,” she began hurriedly. “Lancelot, is that his name? Where is he now? And yours of course, King Bors. King Arthur and I will never forget the noble youths who fought so bravely on our behalf.”

  “Ah, Bors’ two boys, and my own Lancelot!” said King Ban fondly. The two kings exchanged a smile. “They would gladly be here if they could, my lady, to kiss Your Majesty’s hand.” He laughed merrily. “But they have gone to a much harder place.”

  “It had to be.” King Bors smiled too, but his face was grave. “Back home in Little Britain, we are always threatened by our overlord, the King of France. But we shall fight for Benoic to the last drop of our blood. And our sons must face this war when the time comes.”

  Ban nodded. “So we have sent them to learn the arts of war—which to a true knight must mean ‘cherchez la femme’—”

  “Cherchez la femme?” Seated beside King Pellinore, Lamorak’s face lit up. “Father, it’s the place I told you about, it has to be!” He leaned forward urgently. “Excuse me, sirs—have your sons gone to the war college in the north?”

  King Pellinore gave a loud snort of disgust. “Not the school for warriors run by that—that—?”

  “That woman?” King Ban burst out laughing. “Queen Aife is known the world over for her skill in war! And who better than a woman to introduce young men to the cruelties of life?”

  King Bors looked steadily at Lamorak, then shifted his gaze to Pellinore. “Your son is already a fine warrior, sir, as he showed today when you saved the King’s life. He may have fought this battle as your squire, but the King will knight him for this service, mark my words. His future is set fair. Our sons have promise, Lancelot most of all, but they still need to learn the arts of war. Young knights must take
service with those who will bring them on.”

  King Ban twinkled at Guenevere. “And how lucky they are that a queen like Aife will bring them on! Beautiful, clever, bold, and a woman of the world …” He rolled his eyes, placed his hand on his heart, and gave an extravagant sigh. “But all young men should be formed by an older woman’s touch.”

  King Pellinore threw an outraged glance at him, then at his Lamorak. “You Frenchmen may say so, sir,” he growled. “But in these islands, we do things differently!”

  “Your Majesty!”

  The clear, full voice rang boldly round the hall. Unhurriedly Queen Morgause rose from her seat beside Arthur and dropped to her knees. Her sons Agravain, Gaheris, and Gareth moved from their places to form a line behind her, arms folded across their chests and legs spread wide.

  “My lord and brother!” Morgause cried in measured tones. “I beg a favor, on your honor as a king!”

  “Of course!”

  Guenevere’s stomach tightened in a knot.

  Arthur, wait, wait, my soul …

  “Name it, my dear sister!” Arthur cried, his eyes very bright. “If it lies in my power, it’s yours!”

  Wait, Arthur, think! Guenevere’s soul cried to him silently. This is how King Uther agreed to Merlin’s demand, whatever it was. And now you agree to this, whatever it is … Whatever it means for us … for all of us.

  Morgause clasped her hands together and raised them in the air. “Sire, my eldest son, Gawain, was your first companion knight. I beg you, brother, take these three fatherless sons, and be a father to them now.” She did not look behind. “Agravain!”

  The eldest of the three knelt at his mother’s side. King Lot had been black-haired and red-faced. Morgause was a darker blond than Arthur, with glints of red-gold. Her four sons spanned every shade of fair and dark. Gawain was fair, his broad red face quick to color up at the slightest thing. But Agravain was swarthy, with heavy brows and a jutting chin. Even kneeling to beg a favor, Guenevere noticed, he did not smile, but stared straight down the hall. And his burning eyes seemed to bore into her.