Arthur held up his hand to bring the discussion to an end. “Pellinore will be grateful that Lamorak does not have to ride out into danger, as our other knights must every day they are away. No man ever lost his life at court, dancing attendance on a queen. In years to come, Pellinore will thank me for protecting his son’s life!”
His son’s life …
There was a pounding in Guenevere’s head, and her sight dimmed. Through a mist she saw Morgause and Lamorak riding out to the Orkneys at the head of a great train. She saw the queen’s rich, full body turning to Lamorak, laughing with him as they rode now into this castle on a crag, now into that palace by the sea.
Then without warning the scene was drenched with blood. Waves of black, boiling blood washed over them, and she saw them both go down. Thin wreaths of mist swirled over the sea of blood, and the scene melted like an evil dream.
Goddess, Mother, spare them, spare us all …
Guenevere covered her eyes and tried to clear her sight. How clever Arthur was! There must be some bad blood brewing against Morgause, some threat to her kingdom, that only Arthur knew.
So a blood feud was brewing, but Lamorak would save Morgause. Now her death would be averted through Arthur’s foresight and care. Slowly Guenevere’s heart revived, and she looked at Arthur with the old wondering love. Already he was taking care of his lost kin. Morgause would live to be grateful that Arthur had sent Lamorak to be her knight.
The farewells were long and very hard to bear. Morgause said good-bye to her mother with a grief that showed she did not expect to see Queen Igraine again on this side of the grave. The queen herself set off on the same day, beginning the long ride south as Morgause and her party took the road north.
Arthur wept heavily as he folded his mother in his arms.
“To lose her, and Merlin too!” he lamented to Guenevere as Queen Igraine rode away. “This is the longest time he has stayed away. Where is he, Guenevere? When will he return?” But his real grieving came afterward, in the hours he shut himself away and would let no one come to him, not even the dogs.
Alone in her chamber, Guenevere struggled with resentfulness and loss. How could he leave her so, just because they had gone? But when she sent messengers asking if she could come to him, he would not admit her, and she had to endure in silence till he emerged again.
THOUGH MORGAUSE AND IGRAINE had gone, Morgan remained.
While Arthur kept to his chamber in the King’s apartments, Guenevere tried to get to know her new sister and to make much of her.
But Morgan was a lost soul, cut adrift from all she knew. The clock of life had stopped for her on the day she was sent to the convent, and the world beyond the cloister was too much for her now. Would she like to ride? Guenevere asked, hoping to chase the pallor from her cheeks. But Morgan had not ridden for twenty years and more. Would she come to dinner in the Great Hall, or take a turn about the court? If she had to be near any man except Arthur, even kind old Sir Baudwin or the gentlest of Uther’s old knights, she would flare her eyes and flinch like a panicking mare. Then only Arthur could calm her, and she would cling to him like a child.
Arthur could not bear to watch the torment she suffered now. How could his father, King Uther, have done this cruel thing? And to a little child, he reminded himself in pain. Yet Morgan was not a girl any longer. She was a woman, and a royal woman too.
“I want to give Morgan a true place in the world,” he announced abruptly to Guenevere one day, coming into the Queen’s apartments unannounced as she worked on the monthly dispatches from the Summer Country while the couriers stood by. “She should have her own castle and lands, her own waiting gentlewomen and men-at-arms.”
And her own lords and ladies, her knights and horses, men and dogs and maids? Guenevere looked up from her papers and blinked in surprise. How long had he been planning this without a word? Long enough, she saw with annoyance, to have decided already what he was going to do. “You have somewhere in mind?”
“King Ursien has a fine estate below Gore. It lies deep in a valley in the heart of the Wounded Forest, and they call it Le Val Sans Retour. King Ursien has offered it to me as gift of his allegiance now I have taken my father’s place. I mean to give it to Morgan and install her royally there.”
The morning sun fell on the wall above Arthur’s head, fingering the ornate moldings of white and gold. In a corner of the window a fly buzzed maddeningly against the glass. Guenevere laid down her seal on the surface of scratched oak and stared at him.
Without discussion, Arthur, without a word?
Why had he not told her any of this before? Why was it so important that Morgan’s needs be served? A worm of resentment turned in Guenevere’s heart. “If you’re giving out land and estates, Arthur, what about all the others we have to thank? Lucan left the Summer Country and his old allegiance to follow you. King Pellinore saved your life. Others have done you sterling service too. Sooner or later they deserve their reward.”
“And they will have it,” Arthur said shortly. “But my sister must come first.”
SO MORGAN WAS given her estate, her ladies and her knights, her horses and dogs, her waiting gentlewomen and her men-at-arms. Arthur issued orders that she was to be styled the Princess Morgan of Cornwall and Gore. He loaded her with jewels from the royal treasury and commanded the best of the court dressmakers to clothe her like royalty from head to foot. “Arthur …”
Guenevere tried to tell him that she thought he was moving too fast. Morgan had asked for nothing. She said nothing when Arthur announced his gift to her in the full court, though the rainbow of emotion that played over her pale face spoke for her in full. Quiet though she was, Morgan’s bond with Arthur was plainly the only thing that mattered to her now. Her eyes never left Arthur whenever he was near her.
“She follows you everywhere,” Guenevere cried, “and everyone knows that she wants nothing except to be with you!”
And you watch her, I’ve seen you, she longed to say. I know when you entrust her to the horse master to take her out for a ride, and then find a reason to ride out that way yourself. I know you have given orders that if she seems distracted or distressed, you must be sent for instantly. I know—
Arthur clenched his fists, and an angry color rose in his face. “Guenevere, Morgan has the right to be with me! She has to learn to live like a princess and the sister of a king. She is not a nun anymore! And besides—”
He broke off and turned away. Like all their discussions about his family, this was suddenly at an end. But as she watched his clouded eyes and troubled brow, Guenevere knew what he meant.
And besides, his honest heart was saying, nothing can make up for what my father did when Morgan was a child. But I must try.
Now Arthur was on fire to make up to Morgan for her lost girlhood as a royal princess. When the summer came, he promised her they would ride to Le Val Sans Retour, deep in the Wounded Forest. There he would make her queen of her own court, and mistress of her domain.
But would she live and rule there quite alone? Guenevere wondered. When she looked at Morgan’s long, pale, enclosed face, her great black eyes and full mulberry mouth, she saw the woman in her, not the child. And when the court clothiers had done their work and her tall, lean body was dressed in the gowns of a queen, she looked everything that Arthur hoped she was, and more. Though she still favored modest, nunlike styles, the rich silks and clinging velvets Arthur had ordered showed off a woman’s small, high breasts and shapely flanks growing more supple by the day as Morgan learned to live.
And Goddess, Mother, no woman should live without love! One night in bed Guenevere nestled into Arthur and said drowsily, “Morgan deserves to be as happy as we are, sweet. We must find her a lover. Any man would be glad to pay court to her.” Arthur would be pleased, she knew, that she cared for his sister’s happiness too.
But his whole body tensed, and she felt him draw away from her. When he spoke, his voice was remote. “If it comes, it comes. Don�
��t think about it, Guenevere—I don’t, and neither does she, I know.”
Guenevere felt instantly rebuked. “Oh, Arthur, I didn’t mean—”
“Hush, my love.”
Gently he laid his hand on her mouth, and they said no more.
But the next day Morgan would not leave her chamber until nightfall, when she appeared in the Great Hall silent, white, and drawn. Her eyes were wild. She sat hunched beside Arthur at dinner, dressed all in black again, and would not eat or speak.
It did not take Arthur’s severe look to make Guenevere feel ashamed. Morgan had great gifts of the spirit, even as a child, her mother Queen Igraine had said. Once before in her girlhood, others had decided her future and destroyed her world. Could she have sensed that Guenevere was talking about getting her married, planning her life again?
Guenevere tried to shake the feeling off. Unless Morgan had been a mouse in the wainscot or a cat hiding in the hangings, she could not know what they had said in bed last night. But something had aroused that angry, sideways look of hers, something had lit that Otherworldly fire in her black eyes, the glint that hinted of a deeper darkness, a strain wilder and crueler than her nunlike outside.
Guenevere felt as if she were Uther himself come back to haunt and hurt a defenseless woman again. Wretchedly she swore a silent oath: No more! Of course Morgan would be happier being courted and in love, as any woman would be. But if this was the way she and Arthur reacted to the very mention of it, then the less said, the better for them all.
CHAPTER 30
The knights rode out in the first autumn of Arthur’s reign. By the time the wild hyacinths were scenting the spring air, Arthur and Guenevere were reaping the harvest they had sown.
“Ahead there, against the sun—a mighty force!”
“To arms! To arms!”
“Sound the alarm!”
“What orders from the King?”
Summoned by wild-eyed guards, Guenevere and Arthur looked out from the topmost tower of Caerleon. Banners darkened the distant horizon above a forest of glittering lances and an army of marching men.
High in the watchtower, the lookout man called down. “Black acre on white ground, crowned—the insignia of the Black Lands, and the banner of their king!”
“To your posts, every man!”
Arthur commanded an immediate alert. Flying their own flags in defiance, he and Guenevere met the oncoming host on the plain outside the castle in ceremonial armor and full war array. But the King of the Black Lands had not come to offer war.
“Greetings to King Arthur and Queen Guenevere!” his heralds trumpeted as they drew near. “The Black Lands served King Uther during his reign. Now we have had word that the rule of Pendragon has returned again. Our king offers fealty to King Arthur as High King. May it please you to accept the service of his sword?”
Before them in the field a herald knelt at Arthur’s stirrup offering a silver ceremonial sword on a pallet of gold cloth. Arthur reached down for the weapon and raised it above his head. “We accept this tribute with a thankful heart!” he called out to the heralds. “And beg your king to enter Caerleon to receive all the honor we can give!”
THE KING OF the Black Lands was a small sturdy man with bright eyes like a blackbird’s and a rich chuckling laugh. They feasted him for three days and nights, and he returned to his kingdom well satisfied, laden with Arthur’s gifts. And after him came others, barons and lords and lesser kings, all eager to swear their allegiance and to join Arthur’s cause.
“Who sent you here? Who brought you word that Arthur is now King?” Guenevere asked them all the same question she had asked the King of the Black Lands as he sat at her right hand on the first night of the feast.
“Why, Sir Gawain, the King’s knight!” had been the king’s reply.
Guenevere nodded. Gawain, Arthur’s first companion and his most loyal knight. In the months that passed, the names of Sir Kay, Sir Bedivere, and Sir Lucan were also heard from the mouths of those who came to pay tribute to Arthur’s rule. But every one who went out played his part, above and beyond his calling as a knight.
One by one the tales of knight-errantry came in. On a far estate Sir Sagramore had put down a nest of vicious beggars who preyed on all comers and kept the owner in constant dread. That old lord wept on his knees before them as he told of his suffering, and of his joy when Sir Sagramore came to his relief. Sir Griflet had set free a lady who was held a prisoner in her own castle by a knight cruelly set on marrying her against her will. In single combat Sir Griflet had killed the knight who had been such a traitor to his vows, and now the lady begged him, Griflet said, to marry her instead.
“And she is beautiful,” he said lamely, “and young, and very rich. And yet …” His voice trailed off.
“And yet,” Guenevere prompted, “you do not love her?”
Sir Griflet flushed. “I think I could,” he said. Frowning uncertainly, he looked very young. “I have dreamed of loving a lady just like her. But I never thought my mistress would speak first! I thought I should woo her a long time before she would yield.” He sighed as if his heart would break.
Guenevere tried not to smile. “Upon my word, Sir Griflet,” she said gravely, “this is a true conundrum for your honor as a knight!”
BUT WHERE WAS Merlin? One by one the knights rode back to court, and each was feasted as the hero of the hour. None of them had seen Merlin, and as Arthur listened to their tales he felt a shadow even on the keenest joy. But for Guenevere, to see them all return alive was the best reward she could have.
Lucan, laughing in triumph, galloped into the courtyard with his red banner fluttering as boldly as the day he rode away. Then Sir Kay limped back, nursing a bad wound in his leg, taken as he fought a dwarf who had turned against his knight.
“I found him leading his lord, who had been bound to his horse, beaten unconscious, and tied facedown across the saddle, half-dead already from the handling he had had,” Kay said grimly. “The dwarf claimed that another knight had done this deed. But when I went to release his master from his bonds, the treacherous creature stabbed me from behind, half severing my leg!”
He laughed sardonically, relishing the jest. “I’ll never run or wrestle now with Your Majesty as we did when we were boys, or sit a horse again with the best of your knights. But that villain did not live to raise his hand a second time. It was his habit to take employment with wandering knights, then kill them for their armor and their gold. Well, he won’t prey on any more innocent men.”
“If King Arthur and his knights can cleanse this land, Your Majesty,” the King of the Black Lands had muttered to Guenevere at the feast, “all men will be begging to serve under his banner as High King. None will deny him!” He raised his goblet and the candlelight flashed through the green glass into the heart of the red wine. “None will dare!”
NOW, NIGHT AFTER NIGHT the Great Hall at Caerleon rang with the sounds of revelry it had forgotten for so many years. From their seats at the high table, King, Queen, and court looked down on a sea of glittering chain mail, glowing velvet, and bright fluttering silks.
“What shall I feast you with tonight, my love?” Guenevere murmured to Arthur as they lay in bed. “Roast suckling pig and rabbits in a crust—?” And she got no further, as he stopped her mouth with a kiss.
Laughing, she pushed him off. “Arthur, help me—I have to give commands to the cooks. They’ll be here for their orders anytime now!”
“Tell them—whatever you want.” Sleepily he nuzzled her ear and his hand wandered to her breast. Her resolve wavering, she yielded to the moment as his fingers teased her nipple this way and that. Then her conscience pricked her as she remembered all that had to be done. The food for the feast, the order of seating at the high table, more cooks for the kitchens, more provisions for the stores—
She grimaced and abruptly sat up in bed. “What do you want the minstrels to play tonight?” she demanded, swinging her feet to the floor.
Ar
thur laughed and rolled over onto his back. With his arms behind his head he watched her contentedly as she made for the door, calling to Ina as she went. “You know I have the rough tastes of a soldier, Guenevere. Command the minstrels yourself if you want anything more than the old songs of love and war!”
ON HIGH DAYS they would clear the hall for dancing, and each knight would take his lady to the floor. Three thrones now stood on the dais, since Arthur had persuaded Morgan to take her place with them. Kay would sit out at her side, making sharp jibes against the dancers, bringing brief smiles to Morgan’s plum-colored lips. Would he win her heart as well, with his dark face and wicked tongue, Guenevere wondered idly, or would she cast her eyes on Sir Lucan, the golden lord? But she kept these thoughts to herself and was simply happy to see Morgan smile.
And one night when the sun had left the sky, a bard came and begged admittance to the hall. He was a man of might, the servants said. His last king had rewarded him with a dozen white ponies, twenty purple cloaks, and a hundred gold crowns. Once heard, his voice would never be forgotten, and his songs passed through his hearers’ hearts, changing the color of their dreams.
“Can any man be so good?” Arthur wondered good-humoredly. “Well, let him in. There is always much to be learned from men of prowess.”
Proudly the bard stalked up to the royal dais. A short man of middle age, he had the pale eyes of a prophet and the solemnity of a child. Whatever had happened to the purple and gold, he wore none of it. He stood before them in a simple green-stained robe like a woodland sprite.
“Hear me!” his plangent harp rang out. “Nevermore, by forest pathway or the deep lake’s shore …”
He sang a lament of loss, weaving a haunting beauty out of the melodies of pain. Guenevere thought of her mother and was stabbed again by grief. The whole hall was hushed with the sorrow of his song. A slight sound beside her made Guenevere turn. Arthur was weeping openly, his hand over his eyes.
Guenevere, Queen of the Summer Country Page 25
