“There it is, madam!” Ina cried at last. “There, look, next to his heart!”
Almost invisible against Lucan’s black armor, there it was, a small black glove pinned to the sash across his breast. A glove, then—but whose? From the disappointed faces in the gallery, it was easy to see whose it was not. But none of the others was wearing the secret smile of the mistress whose knight was sporting her favor and hers alone.
Guenevere turned to Morgan sitting silently at her side, a dark shape amid the flowerlike finery all around. However many gowns Arthur lavished on her, sooner or later she would appear again in black. Guenevere laughed. “Every woman in the Summer Country would be happy to call Lucan her lord. Why doesn’t the lucky lady want to be known?”
But Morgan did not hear. The noise of the crowd was deafening, and even in the shade of the gallery there was no respite from the heat. Turning her head this way and that, Morgan was fanning herself frenziedly, and her gaze roamed round the viewing gallery like a caged thing. This was Morgan’s first tournament in twenty-odd years, Guenevere thought with a pang of guilt. It must be ordeal enough in itself for a woman so awkward and shy, without having to listen to idle court gossip as well. Enough! She stole another look at Morgan’s blank eyes and pallid face and vowed to say no more.
“TO THE LISTS!” cried the heralds. “All the combatants to the lists!”
On the edge of the field all the kings and knights were massing for the parade, with the lords of the blood royal leading the way.
“Prince Malgaunt!” bellowed the heralds. “The Queen’s kin and Lord of the Summer Country, the Prince Malgaunt!”
Guenevere looked down. A solitary figure in green and gold was galloping down the lists. The rider reined up below the gallery, lifted his visor, and called, “Thanks, gracious Majesty, for your summons here! Your servant Malgaunt offers his devotion to the Queen and King. He wishes only to polish his rusty war skills today.”
Guenevere could not help but smile. For all the fine words, Malgaunt’s face still wore the same dark sardonic grin, and his arrogant carriage had not changed at all. But he bowed to her like the flower of chivalry and doffed his helmet like a perfect knight.
She shook her head. Why had she ever been afraid of this man? “You are dearly welcome, Prince Malgaunt!” she called down. “May the Goddess bless your sword!”
“And Her blessings on you too, my Queen!”
He galloped off down the field. Guenevere nodded, and smiled again to herself. The leopard could never truly change his spots. She only wanted Malgaunt to obey her rule. And simply by being here, he had shown he was ready to do that.
She sat back with a sigh and stole a look at Morgan, still sitting beside her grim and white-faced. She was staring down at Lucan, lost in thought. A pang of raw pity struck Guenevere to the heart. How Morgan must long for a knight to love her as Lucan loved his beloved unknown! But as for that, only time would tell.
CHAPTER 35
“Clear the field for the fray; all noncombatants leave the field!”
“Sir Griflet, Sir Griflet, à l’attaque!” Below them, young Sir Griflet was opening the first joust. Dressed all in red, he charged down the lists to unhorse Sir Sagramore, clad unluckily in green, but Sir Sagramore turned the tables one more time before Sir Griflet won the best of three.
Guenevere looked down on the hot jousting field and watched the fierce flow of action on all sides. Sir Bedivere unhorsed Sir Kay, then Sir Gawain knocked them both down, one after the other. King Pellinore trounced King Phelot, King Bors dismissed him, and King Marhaus forced a submission from King Faramor of the Green. King Ban and King Ursien battled till both could hardly stand, and the stewards declared a joint victory.
Then came the first tourney, when Malgaunt and his knights took on a team of more than twice their number and beat them to the ground. But for Guenevere—and for Maire too, Guenevere fancied as the baby squirmed with excitement and kicked her ribs—the greatest moment came when all the jousts and combats were done and her own knight all in gold rode out at the head of his men to do mock battle with Sir Lucan, the black knight.
“For Arthur!” Guenevere cried. “King Arthur!”
Waving and cheering, she tossed her handkerchief into the ring. A thousand voices took up the cry, cheering Arthur on.
But to many there Sir Lucan was still the Queen’s champion, and in the Summer Country, he could do no wrong.
“Lucan!” howled his admirers. “Sir Lucan for the prize!”
And Lucan flashed his white smile, shook back his red-gold hair, and bowed to the ladies in the viewing stand just as he had the last time Guenevere sat there, when her mother was the lady of his heart. A moment later Lucan had covered his bright hair with his black helmet, and the mock armies of the two leaders were massing for the attack. The two forces drew up at either end of the arena and made ready for the charge.
Guenevere found herself trembling with a sudden fear. Her hands were clammy, and the baby leaped in her belly like a frightened colt. She turned to Morgan and clutched at her for support. “What is it?” she wept. “Something’s happening; what can it be?”
Morgan turned her white face and lost gaze on Guenevere. “Why, Guenevere,” she demanded in her harsh, dry voice, “what are you afraid of? There is nothing to fear.”
As she spoke, the trumpets sounded and the stewards signaled for the contest to begin. Arthur streaked forward at the head of his men like a bolt of lightning, a golden avenger. And bearing down on him with all his knights on his heels was Lucan, the knight in black.
A great wave of sickness clouded Guenevere’s eyes. She saw Arthur prostrate on the ground while Lucan stood beside him, drenched in blood. She saw again the vision she had seen when Arthur and Lucan did battle in the Great Hall, when Lucan challenged Arthur for her hand. Arthur lay unmoving, surrounded by queens all in black, and Lucan’s wounds showed that they had battled to the death.
Help Arthur! And help me, help me now!
She turned to Morgan, choking back a scream. Beside her Morgan’s eyes were closed, and her lean body was rocking rhythmically to and fro. She was hissing and muttering to herself and plaiting her long white fingers in and out, weaving some strange cat’s cradle of the mind. Bless her, bless her! Guenevere cried in her heart. Morgan was praying for Arthur’s safety, raising some goodness to cast around him now.
Guenevere breathed hard and forced herself to be calm. A pregnant woman was always prey to morbid fancies—there was no reason to fear for Arthur’s life. A tournament was a game, nothing more. All this was in sport. The old enemies were friends now, drawn into the circle of Arthur’s peaceful rule. Not a soul here would want to harm the King.
On the field below the teams were spurring forward, furious to engage. The leaders met, and the clash of their swords rang out. A moment later, the two sides met head on. The wild whoops of joy and cries of glee left no doubt that to the combatants, this was not war or death. But nothing could lift the weight of terror that pressed on Guenevere till she could hardly breathe.
Yet Morgan must be right—what was there to fear? Here and there a knight pulled out of the melee and limped off ruefully as he unlaced his helmet and retired from the fray. The worst any man suffered was a tumble from his horse, a bruised fighting arm or broken sword. Guenevere tried desperately to subdue her fears. What was the matter with her, why was she so full of dark imaginings and black dread?
“Domine, veni, proh, superi!…”
Beside her Morgan kept up her incantations, a dew standing out on her forehead as she prayed to keep Arthur safe. Strange words of power mingled with her Latin from the convent, and Guenevere knew she would protect Arthur if she could.
If she could …
Guenevere moaned aloud. There was danger here, she knew it. But what? And where?
And then she saw it, flashing through the air.
In the press behind Arthur, Sir Griflet was struggling to push back one of Lucan’s band who had
driven deep into Arthur’s flank. But Sir Griflet had fought many jousts today, and the great broadsword he was wielding was too heavy for him now. As he swung wildly at his opponent, he lost his grip. His weapon flew from his grasp. Powered by its own force, it described a glittering arc, falling, point down, toward Arthur’s undefended back.
“Alla baal princips noctis, domines tenebrae sint mihi propitii! Venite iam Demogorgon, Gehenna, venite instanter ut moriat!”
Morgan’s mutter rose to a screaming drone. Guenevere felt her head splitting and the darkness coming down.
Then came a low sweet sound on her other side. And there was her mother, smiling through the dark. Her force swept through Guenevere, and she surged to her feet. “Lucan!” she cried at the top of her lungs. “Lucan!”
Lucan did not fail. His sharp ears picked up her cry, and his quick glance saw the danger Arthur was in. As the sword was falling, about to slice through Arthur’s neck, Lucan lunged past him to block its flight and send it spinning to the ground.
Morgan’s frail form slumped in her chair, and she let out a long hissing breath. Ina was at Guenevere’s side, hysterical with fear. “The King! He nearly died! Oh, madam, they must stop the fighting now! Tell them it’s over, order them to call a halt!”
Guenevere shook her head. “No,” she said weakly. “The danger has passed. And the King will be angry if we cheat him of victory now.”
But when the heralds blew their trumpets and the stewards went into a huddle to decide which side had won, Arthur laughed with delight and gave the victory to Sir Lucan and his men. So Lucan stepped forward, laughing too, to collect the gold, armor, and weapons lavished on the winning band.
There was only one shadow on that happy day. Poor Morgan was ill again and had to be helped to her bed, reproaching herself, Guenevere knew, because she could not save Arthur from the falling sword.
Yet the evil had come and been thwarted, and there was nothing more to say. And though they both had seen Arthur’s death, they did not speak of it, and Guenevere knew they never would.
SO THE SUMMER passed. As autumn came, Guenevere dreamed that she saw her daughter walking in a sunlit garden all alone. She saw her mother too, coming forward to take the child by the hand, and in her dream, she watched them walk away. Was this a bad omen, she moaned to Ina, threatening the baby’s life? Or would the small smiling spirit be her mother come again, with her laughing ways, her loving heart, her love of life?
September and October came and went, and Guenevere grew sadder every day. Then another dream of fear came in the night. Chains of iron were binding her belly, closing the gates of life to stop the child from entering the world.
“She will not live!” Guenevere wept in Arthur’s arms. “She has been too long in the womb. She has gone already to the Mother as one of her spirit children, too good for this world!”
“Hush now,” Arthur soothed. But he held her tensely, and she knew that the waiting was hard on him too.
“Or she will be like one of those half-formed creatures born to the inland folk who breed among themselves, a child with a pig’s face and eyes like slits, a lolling tongue and an ever-open mouth!”
“Hush, hush, my love!” Arthur said angrily. He could not bear these moods. “Don’t say such things! This talk could harm the child more than anything else! I will ask Morgan to come and comfort you.”
But Morgan spent all her time in her chamber, and what she did there, no one seemed to know.
“As long as she is happy with us here in Camelot,” Arthur said. And not for the first time, Guenevere had to be content.
EVERY MORNING NOW Arthur rode out before dawn for the last of the hunting before winter closed in. All around Camelot soft glinting mists arose from the morning meadows, and ripe fruit rotted on mossy apple trees. A golden October dragged to an end with Samhain, the feast of the undead that the Christians called Hallowe’en. In Caerleon their churches would be full of dirges as they chanted for their saints.
“As if only Christians lived to be born again,” Ina said with a laugh that morning as she drew back the curtains to let the dawn in.
Guenevere lay back in bed and laughed too, and a pain shot through her womb. “Ina!” she gasped. Ina ran for the midwives as Morgan flew through the door.
“Take heart!” she rasped. “I am here to help you now.”
She gripped Guenevere’s hand. As she did so, a pain like nothing else seized Guenevere’s body and swept her away.
The hours passed in a haze of mounting torment. Day faded into night, and she labored on. As Morgan held her hand, the sharp agony grew stronger, till she was screaming for relief. Hour after hour, Morgan never left her side. No sister could have been more selfless in her love. And all the time the pain was getting worse.
Through the window now they could see the first pale streaks of dawn. Outside the chamber Arthur paced up and down, banished by the midwives from the scene of birth. “As long as Morgan is with her,” he told Ina, “part of me is there too, and Guenevere is not alone.”
But in labor, every woman is alone. And never more so than when she can feel the baby growing weaker as her own strength fades.
“Courage, lady, courage!” Ina moaned, hiding her face in fear.
But Guenevere could see the midwives frowning and shaking their heads.
“I never saw the like,” muttered one of them anxiously. “The pains shake her as a terrier shakes a rat.”
The other mumbled a prayer before she spoke. “Her hard travail came on too fast. And a ragged labor is the worst of all.”
“Why ragged? What do you mean?” Guenevere croaked. They gave her water, but they would not answer her. And still the pains were sweeping her away.
As the hours passed, she sweated to be delivered, wept and prayed. “Goddess, Mother, spare my child!” she moaned. “Let her be born, let her come to life!”
She could feel the pressure of Morgan’s hand urging her on. But the child seemed rooted in her, like a rock or a tree. Was there a power here, against her baby’s life? Realization dawned, and the hopeless tears rained down.
Merlin! Oh, Merlin! Even in his crystal cave, it seemed, the malice of Merlin would not sleep.
“Mother!” she screamed. “Help me, Mother! Save me from my enemy, save me now!” But all she could see were Morgan’s great eyes by the bedside, black pools of grief to drown her and the child—
Drown …
Drown her grief, die, and sleep forever, free of this pain …
Now the baby was suddenly still in her womb, and she felt her pains fade. She was drifting away—dropping slowly into the welcoming black pool—slipping into sleep—free at last—
There was a sudden loud commotion at the door. “Oh, sire, you should not be here!”
Arthur’s voice cut across the protests of the midwives. “I am the King. And I will see the Queen!”
Suddenly he was at her side, his face registering the horror of what he saw.
“Oh, my love, my love!” he murmured brokenly. He turned to Morgan. “You too—you’re exhausted. When did you last eat?”
Morgan hunched her back and shoulders. “You must go,” she said rustily. “This is a place of birth. Men have no right here.”
Arthur shook his head. “No, Morgan. I have come to relieve you, to send you to your bed.”
Morgan leaped to her feet like a cat about to spring. “No!” she hissed. “It is almost over. I will not leave her now!”
Arthur took her by the arms. “I have given orders, Morgan. If one of you has to suffer, the other need not too. Your waiting women are outside to take you to your chamber. And I will take your place here with Guenevere.”
“No!”
“Morgan, yes!”
Morgan glared at Arthur, then rushed from the room. Guenevere felt her heart dissolve in fear. As Arthur leaned over her and stroked her clammy head, she could see her own pain mirrored in his eyes. The midwives have told him, she thought dully, that Maire will not l
ive.
The door of the chamber banged shut behind Morgan. A gust of fresh air rushed in, and Guenevere took in a deep, hungry breath. Her lungs expanded, and she felt as if a weight had gone from her chest. Then her pains began again, angry and strong. She cried out, and the midwives all cried too.
“Help, here!”
“Help the Queen!”
Now it was one mad flurry and a whirl of sudden action where all had seemed dead before. The pangs gripped her and forced her forward and now she was bearing down, bent double like a hag.
“Sire, give us room! You must leave now!”
The midwives hustled Arthur from the chamber.
“She’s coming!” Guenevere cried. “Maire comes!”
With a rending, screaming surge something burst from her womb and tore out through her legs. Her body arched in the one last desperate heave. Then there was nothing but a warm rush of blood and no pain, no pain, no pain.
“Come, little one, come to us! Come to your life in our world! Come!”
The midwives were calling the baby into life. Guenevere lay back on her pillows and sobbed out her heartfelt prayers. Goddess, Mother, praise and thanks. Give your blessing on my daughter; make her long to live, long to reign.
But why the silence at the end of the bed? Where were the midwives’ cries of delight, the joy of welcoming a new princess to the world?
Panic seized Guenevere. The baby was not dead. She could not be. She reared up on her elbow, and the blood ran out between her legs. “Where is my daughter?” she cried in frenzy. “Bring her to me now!”
At the foot of the bed, Ina stood with the midwives clustered around a small gray lifeless form. One deftly thrust her fingers down the child’s throat, and another fiercely pinched the tiny heels and feet. Guenevere whimpered in distress. Ina threw her a glance: Do not fear, madam. This has to be, so that she might live.
And there it was, a strong lusty cry. Wail upon wail of anger filled the air as Maire protested at this rough handling of her royal person. It was the sound of life itself, taking its first breath. A wave of laughter and delight swept the room.
Guenevere, Queen of the Summer Country Page 29
