Guenevere, Queen of the Summer Country

by Rosalind Miles

  Guenevere did not hesitate. “Morgan must do as she and you think fit. But my daughter must be born in Camelot, and her father should be there.”

  Arthur gripped her to him like a precious thing. “Oh, my love,” he groaned, “forgive me. Of course the baby must come first!”

  He kissed her, then jumped out of bed. “We’ll go to Camelot now!” he cried. “That way we’ll travel while you can still sit a horse, and we won’t have to go at a litter’s plodding pace. And we’ll hold jousts and tournaments there to pass the time, while your people are waiting to meet their new princess!”

  He strode round the chamber glowing with the brilliance of his idea. “A royal tournament at Camelot—oh, Guenevere, what a thing that will be!”

  There was a soft knock on the outer door. “A visitor from London, my lord,” came an attendant’s voice. “The—”

  “Enough!” groaned Guenevere. Goddess, Mother, can’t I enjoy my love for a second? Why must they press in on us like this?

  “Sweetheart, don’t upset yourself!” Arthur ordered with a look of alarm. “For the baby’s sake, you must be careful now. Leave this to me, whatever it may be.”

  I SHOULD GET away more often, the Abbot thought, pacing Caerleon’s Great Hall as he waited before the throne. A journey like this is a renewal of faith. To see these old strongholds, how fine they are!

  He stopped to survey the towering walls, the long mullioned windows, the massive hammer beams supporting a ceiling that was almost out of sight. If ignorant pagans could raise these mighty piles, dragged down as they were by sin and wickedness, what glorious monuments could the faithful raise in time to the one true God? What soaring columns and elevated traceries, what lofty roofs and monitory spires could be built by Christians to honor Him and His Son?

  Yes, he was right to come. The journey from London had been a joy in itself. Wandering westward on a patient mule, he had doubted at first the wisdom of coming here. The event that he thought had played into his hand seemed a slender basis to call upon a king. But as day succeeded blessed golden day, he had felt more and more sure of the hand of God.

  For God was all around, in the tender green of the unfolding leaves of the beech, in the song of the cuckoo high up in the sky. Hating the winters here so much, he scolded himself mildly, I forget their sweet summer days, their white and blue heavens, their lady-faced flowers by the wayside, the softness of their grass.

  His soul lifted. For all these things, praised be Thy name, O Lord.

  And not only for Thy bounty may Thy holy name be praised, the Abbot prayed devoutly. Through days of hope and nights of earnest prayer, the long slow journey had restored his faith in God’s purpose and his own part in it. God’s meaning had been plain. The Lord had cast down the mighty, He had punished the unbeliever with hellfire and suffering. Now all that remained was to make a Christian use of it.

  “The King! Prepare to meet the King!” came the cry at the door. Arthur strode in. “Father Abbot!” he cried. “I am glad to see you here! It is many months since I stood with you and Merlin in the yard of your great church. But I shall never forget the goodwill you showed me then, when I was very far from all of this!” He threw out both his arms.

  The Abbot bowed and smiled. “We had faith in you, sire,” he said smoothly. “It was plain that God had called you to a high destiny. But He has also sent you a hard cross to bear. We were sorry to hear of Lord Merlin’s sad collapse. Madness is a torment like no other. I have come in person to condole with you.”

  And to replace that old villain with a Christian father in your heart, he could have said. To stop the flow of superstitious ignorance and bring you to the knowledge and love of God.

  Arthur’s face clouded. “It was a grievous loss. He was a man of such prodigious gifts—so wise—so loving—and so good to me.” His eyes filled with tears. “Truly I have lost a father in his love!”

  A father of all darkness, the Abbot thought, folding his hands in his sleeves. “A father indeed,” he agreed.

  “And he may recover his mind,” Arthur said urgently. “Will you pray for him?”

  “We shall, my son, we shall,” said the Abbot, making a mental note to ask God to keep Merlin’s wits in their finest disarray. “And in the meantime, we hope to be of service to you. No man can emulate the father and friend you have lost. There can be only one Lord Merlin on this earth. But among our ranks we have men of vision and power. The spirit that led us to embrace your cause is at your disposal now.”

  “Why, I thank you, sir, with all my heart,” cried Arthur with open gratitude.

  How young he is, how young, the Abbot thought. Well, all the more apt to be an instrument of God. “One scheme of yours, sire, where I thought we might be of use,” he went on seamlessly, “is the question of your knights. All men know that you want to create an order of men dedicated to the highest ideals, who will flee temptation and advance the good. We too have young men who undertake such vows. They agree to renounce the vanity of worldly goods and give up the life of self-pleasure and joy. They swear to live chastely and defend the right. I would like to offer you all our assistance, sire, in shaping the rules of the Order of the King’s Knights.” He paused, weighing Arthur up. “Like your dear Queen, we all love this land and wish to see it flourish. Like her and yourself, we all worship the good,” he concluded piously.

  Arthur stared at him wide-eyed. “How fine of you to think of this, Father!” he exclaimed. “And of course you’re right, there is much in common between your cause and mine.” He clenched his fist and happily punched the palm of his other hand. “Advise me on my Order? You shall indeed!”

  The Abbot bowed. “You are most generous, sire.”

  “As any man would be. I have had great news today, Father Abbot, the word that any man, any husband, is longing to hear!”

  Perdition seize her, the concubine is with child, was the Abbot’s bleak thought. “God’s blessings, sire!” he said.

  “The Queen is bearing the next of her line of queens!” Arthur announced, glowing with pride. “I have been given a sign in a dream. The child will be a girl.”

  The Abbot nodded. A pagan sign, very well—dimwit tomfoolery, nothing more. In time God will show us His will with this child. “God is with us, sire. He sent me to you at the best of times.”

  Arthur took his arm confidingly. “We have not yet told our Council the good news. You are the first to know, and I must rely on your discretion till our lords are informed.”

  “Indeed, sire,” the Abbot purred. “My lips are sealed by my own vows to God. But in time, I trust, we may honor the event.”

  He drew a breath and sent a prayer winging heavenward. Lord God, hear me, let this shaft find its home. Slowly he eased himself down onto one knee. “I have a boon to beg, in the name of the faith we showed you in your hour of need. How soon, sire, will you bring us the infant to invoke God’s blessing and glory on its head? And in memory of your beloved Lord Merlin too—when may we baptize the next holder of the Pendragon name?”

  CAMELOT, CITY OF her childhood, home of her heart—the white palace on its sweet green hill, the gold-roofed towers bright with banners in the breeze, lay below her in the long lost valley again. As they drew near, the streets were lined with townspeople cheering themselves hoarse, throwing flowers, reaching out to touch the royal couple’s stirrups as they passed.

  “The Queen, greet your Queen!” Lucan cried as he spurred ahead of the procession. “Welcome the Queen, the King, and the Princess!”

  “The Queen, the King, and the Princess!” Gawain, Kay, and Bedivere echoed as they galloped on down the hill. “Make ready to greet them now!”

  For Morgan had come with them after all. She had had to travel in a litter, but when she had no fear of being stared at, she would have the curtains of her traveling bed drawn back. Then Arthur and his knights would take turns walking their horses alongside, and entertain her as the royal train plodded along.

  To everyone’s surpr
ise, Sir Lucan the ladies’ man was the most dutiful of all. It was odd to see his red-gold head leaning in to Morgan’s dark one and to think of a man so loved by women dancing attendance on a woman who had never known men at all. Indeed, with her plain black robes and fierce shyness, Morgan still seemed very much the nun—hardly what Lucan was used to in a woman, Guenevere thought, smiling to herself.

  But now, arriving in Camelot, Lucan was determined that Morgan would not be overlooked.

  “The Princess Morgan of Cornwall and Gore!” he announced to the crowd of onlookers, whooping loudly as he drove his horse across the causeway with Gawain, Kay, and Bedivere on his heels.

  “And the King!” bellowed Gawain.

  “And the Queen!” cried Kay sharply, not to be outdone.

  The quiet Bedivere had the last word. “The Queen, the King, and the Princess, give them your welcome here in Camelot!”

  “The King, the Queen, and the Princess!” Now all the people lining the road took up the cry, roaring and cheering as they rode in. And Arthur’s four companion knights reined in and stood by to form a guard of honor, grinning like idiots as they were welcomed home.

  CHAPTER 34

  “You will find all in order, Guenevere,” said King Leogrance with gruff satisfaction as they sat at the feast that night. Guenevere breathed in the rich scent of pork and herbs, boiled bacon, savory and winter greens, and could only nod contentedly in reply.

  Yes, her father the King had a few more lines on his face, and more than a few white strands in his iron-gray hair. But still he seemed happier now than she ever remembered him. On her other side, Arthur was listening to Taliesin with a passionate attention, and she could see that he was ready to venerate the Summer Country’s Chief Druid just as she did. Only one face from the days before she married Arthur was nowhere to be seen among the crowd in the Great Hall. She leaned across to Taliesin. “What news of Cormac? How is he these days?”

  She knew that she could trust Taliesin to understand without words that she had never told Arthur of her earlier love. Told him? What was there to tell? And love? Not as she had ever known love with Arthur.

  Taliesin favored her with his sweetest smile. “He has fulfilled his heart’s deepest dream. He has gone to the Island of the West to join the Druids who worship the Mother there. It is green and fertile, he says, and the soft rain wraps the isle in mists for months of the year. There they can keep the worship of the Great One undisturbed. I do not doubt he will be a great bard, even a High Druid in his time.”

  “Blessings on him, then!” Guenevere said fervently. “And on the Mother too. She has called a good man to Herself, and he has won what he sought all along.”

  Now the rafters were ringing with cheers and laughter, loud good-natured fooling, and a thousand loyal toasts. Again and again Guenevere raised her glass to acknowledge a tribute from the crowded hall. There was only one faint shadow on her joy. “How is my kinsman Malgaunt? What’s the news of him?”

  King Leogrance reached for a dish of quail, and laughed. “Malgaunt? He lives peacefully at Dolorous Garde, running his estate and doing what he does best. He spends his days in war games, training the young men who come to him to be knights.” He cocked his head and wagged a finger at her. “Hear me, daughter. The time has come to forgive your kinsman for his deeds of long ago. They say Malgaunt’s knights are now the best in the land. I know he has vowed them to the service of the Queen.”

  “Make peace with Malgaunt? Invite him back to court?”

  He was eyeing her shrewdly now. “Well, that’s for you to decide. The rest of the country also sleeps in peace”—he raised his glass—“thanks to Lord Taliesin here!”

  Taliesin bowed and smiled, shaking his white head.

  “King Leogrance fails to mention his own vigilance,” he murmured, “and the care he gives to our country’s welfare. Our army is still the finest in the land, and our knights the bravest in all the world.”

  He waved a hand down the room. Below the dais where they sat, the Round Table stood in the center of the Great Hall. It was covered in white damask now for the feast, gleaming in the candlelight like the face of the full moon. As the Queen’s champion in Camelot Lucan sat in pride of place, with Gawain to his right and Kay and Bedivere to his left. Beside Gawain, wide-eyed and silent, sat his three brothers, the dark-faced Agravain, the quiet Gaheris, and lastly Gareth, the baby of them all.

  All around the table the knights of Camelot were greeting Arthur’s knights like long lost brothers. Sir Griflet, Sir Sagramore, Sir Tor, Sir Ladinas, and Sir Dinant were carousing as if they were at home in Caerleon, to judge by the raucous laughter and flowing wine. Yet there was wonder too on the faces of Arthur’s knights, as they saw how their fellows lived in Camelot. Only Lucan, born and blooded here, was unself-consciously at home.

  Guenevere looked around the hall. Everywhere her eye fell, a fine lord in gold and velvet raised his glass, a reveler rosy with contentment stood to honor her with a toast, a stout beaming matron or blushing maid popped from her seat with a curtsy and a joyful smile. From the table of the Queen’s former champions, old Sir Niamh surged to his feet, his glass in the air.

  “A health to Your Majesty!”

  “Here’s to our Queen!”

  “And the King! A health to King Arthur our lord!”

  Above the merriment the sweet voices of the minstrels wove in and out. The smell of good food filled the air, the fires roared up the chimneys, and loving glances met them on all sides. In Guenevere’s rounding belly her daughter kicked sweetly, like the pulsing of her heart. Yes, Camelot was the place Maire should be born.

  AND IN CAMELOT, as Guenevere had hoped, it was as if Merlin and all the poison of his madness had never been.

  “A tournament, Guenevere!” Arthur cried. “We must have the tournament I promised you!” He caught both her hands and kissed them fervently. “I will wear your favor in the lists and vaunt the beauty of my lady over all who come!”

  “A TOURNAMENT, a royal tournament!”

  The heralds’ silver trumpets sounded far and wide. Messengers were sent to Arthur’s old friends, King Ursien away in Gore, King Pellinore, and the Kings of Little Britain, Ban and Bors, as well as a host of other kings. The roll call of those who took up Arthur’s challenge was enough to make any heart beat faster—King Marhaus of Ireland, King Phelot of the Lakes, the King of Sorluse and King Faramor of the Green, and many more, fearless jousters all.

  And how could they leave out Malgaunt? He was always one of the best swords in the Summer Country, King Leogrance said, and Guenevere knew it was true. So Malgaunt was invited, and Guenevere did not know whether to be pleased or perturbed when he sent word he would accept.

  All Arthur’s knights were summoned from Caerleon to try their skill. Only Sir Lamorak was too far away at the court of Queen Morgause. King Pellinore did his best to hide his grief that he would not see his son.

  “The French kings can be with us from across the sea faster than a rider from the north,” he said somberly. “It must be eight hundred miles to the Orkneys, and more.” It was cold comfort to him, Guenevere knew, that Queen Morgause never failed to praise Lamorak to King Arthur, how much his service pleased her, how devoted he was.

  Arthur threw himself into the preparations for the tournament as if it were another war campaign. There would be jousting and single combat between knights on foot, he said, but the centerpiece must be the mock battle between the two armies of the day, when he led his knights to champion his lady against all challengers.

  “I will lead the Queen’s knights,” he said, gravely pacing to and fro as Guenevere rested on a daybed in the solarium, basking in the sun, “and Gawain must lead the opposing party.”

  “Why Gawain?” Guenevere laughed. “Surely you want the best opponent for the best sport? Lucan is a far better jouster than Gawain. And besides—”

  She looked at the court ladies clustered in brightly colored groups, standing around the long chamber li
ke banks of summer flowers. The ladies of Camelot had been taking a keen interest in Lucan from the moment he returned. Already, Ina said, there was a rumor that he favored one here above all, but so many were claiming the honor that no one knew who it was.

  Guenevere laughed again. “Besides, Gawain has no lady of his own to fight for, as you will champion me. In Camelot, Lucan can flaunt the favor of a hundred women, they all love him so. And the knight who opposes you should have a lady, by the rules of chivalry, to champion in the lists.”

  Arthur’s eyes lit up. “Of course!” He turned his head. “Lucan!” he called to the knot of knights standing by.

  Gawain hurried up. “My lord, Sir Lucan is not here.”

  “Where is he?”

  Gawain seemed reluctant to answer. “I do not know, my lord. He was here a while ago. I will search him out myself.”

  A little later, Lucan strode swiftly in. “I was sent for, my lord, by a lady—I could not refuse. I beg your forgiveness.”

  Arthur roared with laughter and slapped his shoulder. “No apologies, man! That’s why I sent for you. Whoever your lady is, you must defend her at our tournament. You are to command the opposing band of knights to do battle with mine.”

  Lucan’s eyes flashed. He nodded slowly to himself. Then he turned and looked Arthur in the eye. “Your lady is the fairest in the world,” he said simply, with a bow to Guenevere. “But when the day ends, the world will also know the fame of mine.”

  BUT WHO SHE was, it seemed, they were not to know. For when the day came and the combatants turned out, there was no doubt whose favor Arthur wore. Clad in gold armor, he wore high on his sleeve a rosette in blue and gold, the colors of Guenevere’s gown. As he galloped up beneath the viewing gallery where she sat among the ladies, all the world could see whose knight he was.

  But when Lucan came into the arena armed all in black, there was no sign of a lady’s favor anywhere. Whom had Lucan chosen to defend? The sun beat down, heightening the feverish expectation of the crowd. Every female head in the gallery craned to see.