Guenevere, Queen of the Summer Country

by Rosalind Miles

  The baby was whisked into a clean white wrap, and Guenevere could see her tiny face being swabbed with a soft cloth. “Clean her up later,” she called weakly but in triumph. “Let me see her now!”

  The three midwives paused in their ministrations and brought them swiftly to an end. Then the leader handed the baby to Ina to bring to Guenevere. If they glanced oddly at Ina, Guenevere did not notice, any more than she noticed the look on Ina’s face as she drew near.

  “Your Majesty,” she began stiffly, “the baby—you should know—” What was she saying? Fear fell on Guenevere, blotting out the light. She reared up like a madwoman. “Give me my daughter!” she screamed wildly. “Give her to me!”

  Without a word Ina leaned forward and laid the swaddled bundle in her arms. Guenevere tore aside the wrappings to greet Arthur’s child.

  And found herself looking into the face of Arthur himself—crumpled, newborn, but Arthur to the life. From the cool gray-blue eyes to the strong fists and soft wisp of shining hair, this was no daughter. It was Arthur’s son.

  CHAPTER 36

  It was a boy.

  The baby was a boy.

  The tiny body was as heavy as lead on her arm. Guenevere turned her face to the wall and the tears fell like rain. Maire, my daughter, where are you, where did you go? Mother, Mother, help me now. I can’t love him. I don’t want this child.

  There was a strange noise at her side, halfway between the cry of a curlew and an old man’s cough. The child was looking at her with wondering love. His eyes were now as blue as the bloom on a mallard’s wing and as bright as the sun on a silver inland sea. Something surged within her that she had never known before. And then she knew what she must call this child.

  “AMIR?” SAID ARTHUR in a doubtful voice, cradling the white bundle uneasily on his great forearm. He was still recovering from the shock of having a boy, and holding the child made him nervous, clumsy, and strange.

  “Amir,” she said drowsily. “It means ‘beloved’ in the old tongue.” The midwives had given her a thick sweet drink to make her sleep until her milk came in. “Amir. Because we love him so.”

  Amir stirred and nodded his downy head.

  “See?” Guenevere crowed. “He already knows his name!”

  “Amir.” Arthur tried again, rolling it around in his mouth. “What about Uther, after my father? Or Leogrance, after yours?”

  Amir’s tiny face puckered, and he looked as if he was going to cry.

  Guenevere shook her head. “Amir,” she repeated. “Beloved. That is his name.”

  “SUCH A BIG BOY!” exulted the midwives. “Such a fine healthy lad!”

  He was the perfect baby, gifted with Arthur’s well-boned sturdy body, bright open face, and loving, tender ways. But from the moment he was born, his blue-gray eyes had an Otherworldly look.

  Morgan saw this as soon as Arthur brought her in. She pounced on the cradle with a frown and hung over it for a long time, staring deep into Amir’s eyes.

  “You are reading his future,” Arthur said with sudden anxiety. “What do you see?”

  “I see him as one of the spirit children, one of the stars in heaven,” Morgan said at last with an odd laugh. “He was born to serve the Great One.” She let out her breath in a long hiss of relief. “She will take him to her.”

  “Of course,” Guenevere agreed smugly, brimming with pride. Already she had decided when Amir should go to Avalon to serve the Goddess and learn the old ways. And of course the Mother would take him to her. Everyone would—who could help loving this child?

  “Come to your aunt, then, little prince.” Morgan reached her long thin arms into the cradle and picked up the baby, muttering under her breath. Amir stared at her wide-eyed, then broke into a piercing scream.

  “Amir!” Arthur frowned angrily.

  “Oh, Amir!” Guenevere could have wept. Morgan had to love this baby, for Arthur’s sake.

  Ina ran to take the baby and soothe his cries. “Take no notice, madam,” she cried out. “All newborns are like this. They have to stretch their lungs!”

  Morgan smiled and slowly nodded her dark head. “It is well.” She turned to Arthur with her rusty laugh. “He has his father’s strength. Before we know it, he’ll be off with you to war.” Her black eyes gleamed.

  “The sooner the better,” Arthur cried, “for a son of mine!”

  What were they talking about? Guenevere felt a sudden thrill of fear. She sank back into the pillows and held out her arms. “Let me have my son.”

  Ina hastened over and Guenevere clasped him to her heart. His high wail stopped instantly, and he nuzzled his small head into her, as warm and sweet as hay.

  “Amir!” She kissed the soft spot on the top of his head.

  At the end of the bed Arthur stood watching, half frowns, half smiles, with great tears in his eyes. And once again Guenevere thought that she had never been so happy in her life.

  THREE DAYS LATER, Morgan told Arthur that it was time for her to leave. She was strong enough now to travel to her own estate. Arthur was distraught. “Don’t go now, Morgan,” he begged, “just when we need you most! Think of Amir. You are his aunt, and he has few enough kin. Stay awhile—at least till he can talk, and say your name!”

  But Morgan’s mind was set, and Arthur always feared to stand against her will. Guenevere saw her off with sadness and waved her away in tears. But when she was gone, she missed her much less than she thought.

  SPRING CAME IN with green buds misting the mountains and lambs calling from every hill. Amir was bigger now and growing so fast, his nurses said, that it would not be long before he could ride and walk. When the Lady’s messenger came from Avalon, Guenevere thought that he brought no more than Nemue’s regular greetings from the Sacred Isle. The little priestess had fallen into the habit of sending news of Merlin to soothe Arthur’s grief. The old man was healing well, Nemue would write, and was surely in the best place with them there. As she read, Guenevere would feel again the call of Avalon and gently revisit the happiness of her past.

  But now her face grew dark and her eyes flared with anger and shock. She turned on the messenger. “Christians on Avalon?”

  The messenger was one of the Lake villagers, small and squinting through a bird’s nest of black hair. He nodded. “Monkish men.”

  Guenevere turned again to the letter in her hand. They asked the Lady for a cell on the Sacred Isle, Nemue had written in her runish hand, to join their prayers to the worship of the Goddess for the peace of the world. Very holy men, it seemed, and so mild and sweet-souled that the Lady was inclined to grant their request.

  Guenevere covered her mouth with her hand. She wanted to be sick. Whatever did it mean?

  The Lady mistrusted the Christians, and with good reason, given what they believed. She even feared that they had designs on the Hallows themselves, hoping to use the regalia of the Goddess for their own ends.

  Yet as one sworn to the Mother, the Lady also lived by the sacred words “Religion should be kindness, all faith should be love.” She would never forbid the worship of others, Guenevere knew. She truly believed that all souls were one in the Mother’s love.

  Perhaps she thought now that sharing and growing together was the way of love. And perhaps she was right. Yet still Guenevere wondered with a lingering dread—Christians on Avalon?

  THE NEXT DAY Arthur came into the nursery as Guenevere was lulling the baby to sleep, and said abruptly, “Guenevere, Amir must be christened before long.”

  The little room was sweet with Amir’s scent and drowsy with the murmur of his gathering dreams. A milky twilight played over the walls, and her hand continued its rhythmic, soothing circles on his tiny back as she forced herself to hear what Arthur said.

  “Christened?” She could not believe it. “Baptized by the rites of the Christians?”

  Arthur nodded. “He’ll rule a Christian country when he’s King—you know the Middle Kingdom gave up the worship of the Old Ones long ago. And there ar
e Christians everywhere now—even in the Summer Country, even here.”

  He could not have said anything to distress her more.

  “Yes, indeed!” Her anger boiled up till it could not be contained. “And they’re on Avalon too, Nemue says! Cells of monks already—they’ll be wanting a church there next!”

  But Arthur was not listening. “It would have to be in Caerleon, of course, not here in Camelot. Amir could be shown to my people there at the same time. Or else I could take him to London and have him baptized in the great church there.”

  I, he said, not we. A chill crept round Guenevere’s heart. This was something that Arthur planned to do alone—to bring her child to an alien faith.

  She struggled with the darkness in her soul. “Baptized by the Christians?”

  “As I was myself, according to Merlin,” Arthur said carefully. “The King my father ordered him to bring me to the Father God, as well as to the Mother, if I was to be High King.”

  The Father God …

  The enemy of the Mother, foe of foes.

  Could she do this? Did Amir have to suffer it?

  Guenevere paced around the chamber, wrestling with her pain.

  Amir would have to rule Christians when he was King, that much was true. And a good ruler should be King to all his people, not just a few. And Arthur was Amir’s father—he had a right to be heard.

  What was she worried about? Whatever Arthur did, Amir would always be hers. As long as she was alive, her son would know the Goddess and learn to keep her ways. A dash of Christian water on his head could make no difference to that.

  Arthur was watching her closely, anxious that they should agree. “He will need godparents,” he said slowly. “Men and women who will care for him as we do. Who would you choose?” He smiled into her eyes. “Who will you have stand up for Amir at his baptism? Name them, and they are yours.”

  Guenevere stared at him.

  Mine?

  A Christian baptism, but godparents of my choice?

  Of course!

  Guenevere laughed aloud. She caught Arthur’s eye and gave a slow comprehending nod.

  Oh, my love, my love …

  How could she have doubted him? As always, he had a plan. A formal baptism to ensure that the Christians would accept Amir. A public declaration to content those who cared about such things. But her choice of godparents, to surround Amir with those who would defend the old faith with their lives, and hold fast to the old ways.

  “Oh, Arthur! Oh, my love!” She grinned at him.

  Arthur beamed with delight. “Who, then?”

  “Godparents? My father for one,” she said without hesitation, “and Lucan for another.”

  “Good choices, both,” Arthur said, still twinkling away.

  “And Malgaunt!”

  Where Malgaunt’s name came from, Guenevere did not know. But her angry kinsman was a man redeemed, her father said. Her former enemy was now devoted to her cause. And Amir was Malgaunt’s own kin. He was a son of the Summer Country, born to rule. Malgaunt would defend that to the last drop of his blood.

  “Malgaunt! Yes indeed, he shall be one,” Arthur agreed. “And for godmothers? I thought I should ask my mother and Morgause.”

  And there’s another, Guenevere thought, who has no cause to love the Christians, and every good reason to adore Amir. “And your sister Morgan. She must be Amir’s godmother, she loves you so.”

  BUT WHEN THE day came, it was Morgan who stood alone at the font with Amir in her arms. Queen Igraine sent a tiny jeweled dagger made of gold, and a boy-sized silver sword. And Queen Morgause sent a heavy silver christening spoon engraved with runes, and a gold bowl bearing the letter A. But Queen Igraine could not travel so far from Cornwall, and Queen Morgause had to stay in the far Orkneys.

  “Since you have all my four sons with you there, my lord King and brother,” she wrote fondly to Arthur, “there is no one here I can entrust with the running of my kingdom—not even my faithful Sir Lamorak, the knight you gave me who is now my right hand.”

  In the end they had fixed on London for the christening, as a way of telling the world that King Arthur had a son.

  “Amir has the rest of his life to get to know the people of the Middle Kingdom, and they him,” Guenevere pointed out. “But if he is christened in London, all the country will hear of him then.”

  “And the Father Abbot is wise; Merlin told me that when I was proclaimed,” Arthur said eagerly. “He is a man of love and peace, not given to the sword.”

  Guenevere laughed. “Why, he sounds almost like one of us! If my son must be christened, I think that London and the Abbot will do very well.”

  Arthur laughed too, and hugged her in his arms. “My love, my Queen, let it be London, as you say!” London.

  Without warning, a great darkness filled her eyes. She saw London town by night, and the proud walls and tall towers falling under a rain of Saxon spears. Below the ramparts, dark shapes were raging through the shadows, huge horned men hacking about them, dealing pain and death.

  She could hear the grunting cries of their ugly tongue, the screams of children spitted on their swords. Blood drowned her sight. She shouted out and clutched Arthur’s arm. “The Saxons!” she cried. “They are coming again; they will take London when you and Amir are there!”

  “The Saxons?”

  Arthur was aghast. “How did you know?”—he paused and checked himself.

  “Know what?”

  “I was going to tell you …”

  A cold hand gripped her gut. Slowly she released her hold on his arm. “Tell me what?”

  “Word has come from Sir Tor,” Arthur said shortly. “I would have told you.”

  “You always told me everything before.” She was shivering now from head to foot.

  Arthur ignored her and pressed on. “The Saxons are raiding again on the east coast. Only a handful, but Sir Tor thinks we should crush them now. I’ll have to raise a war party and drive them back over the sea.” He nodded to himself. “After I’ve taken Amir to London to be christened.”

  “You’ll take him to London?” A violent shudder seized her, and she burst into tears. “The Saxons will be there in London now!

  They’ll kill Amir!”

  Arthur gripped her by the shoulders and shook her forcefully. “For God’s sake, Guenevere, hear me if you can!” he said with furious emphasis. “The Northmen are sea raiders, pirates, water rats! They never venture so far inland for their prey! And they’d never attack a great walled city like London, defended from every tower!”

  She could hardly hear him. Amir—the Saxons—Saxon spears—death—the images swam before her eyes. Then Arthur was roughly shaking her. “Guenevere, it can’t happen!” he said sharply. “Listen to me! I won’t hear another word!”

  He pushed her away. His eyes were as cold and gray as the North Sea. “One day Amir will meet the Saxons in the field, warrior to warrior, man to man. But not till he is trained to face their swords. Until then, you have nothing to fear.”

  SHE COULD NOT argue. But oh, it was cruel to let Amir go! They rode out in glory, Arthur at the head of all his knights, Amir behind him in his nurse’s arms. Behind them rode Gawain, Kay, Lucan, and Bedivere, denoted by Arthur the four knights of the Prince’s guard, each showing in his face the pride of this special task.

  It was a mighty train, worthy of a great king and his son. A cloud of dust followed the tramping feet, and the rising sun burnished their helmets with fire. But when they had gone, the world was an empty place.

  The days that followed were worse than she had dreamed. Life without Amir was no life at all. Each dawn she woke with a hollow in her heart that turned to black emptiness as the day wore on. Fear for her child dogged her by night and day, though she knew the journey to London was as safe as any in the land.

  But she had to trust her husband. And young as Amir was, she must not smother him.

  “He will be a fine king one day, won’t he?” she pleaded wit
h Ina. “And a great warrior. Say he will!”

  “Who, Prince Amir?” Ina responded stoutly. “With or without my say-so, he will be the most famous king of all these islands after King Arthur, bless his little heart!”

  NOW SHE SPENT all her days and half her nights in the tower of Camelot, where a lifetime ago she had watched for Malgaunt until dawn drove her weeping with cold to bed. And from her high aerie she saw at last the sight her heart was hungering for, the glint of the sun on a thousand glittering spears.

  Arthur’s great train was surging over the hill.

  “Ina, Ina,” she cried, straining to see through a mist of joyful tears, “they are back from London. Can you see Amir?”

  Ina craned out through the window and caught her breath. “There, madam, in the front, riding with the King!”

  And there he was, just as Ina said. Perched on the pommel of Arthur’s saddle, supported by his father’s great body and secured by his strong arm, Amir was riding too, crowing with delight. Guenevere looked at Amir at the head of the band of knights, back from his first great adventure, and knew what she had to do.

  CHAPTER 37

  How long had she been dreaming of this?

  Since the wedding day?

  Before.

  But the last dream came when Arthur was away. She passed in sleep to Avalon and came to Merlin, at peace in his crystal cell. The old man seemed to be dreaming too, lying at his full length on a couch, with a ring of candles like stars around his head and all his ancient books of magic by his side.

  Why did you raise your powers against Amir? she wanted to say. Why did you bind my womb and keep him imprisoned there till he nearly died? But he opened his eyes and looked straight at her. And it came to her: All that is past now.

  Merlin’s eyes were calm and golden, not the feverish yellow that they had been before. “You have dreamed of giving the Round Table to Arthur, for the love you have of him,” he murmured in a voice like the wind in the trees. “Do so, for it is right. He has proved worthy, and his knights are the finest to be seen. But remember to make a seat for the boy who is to come. He will be the son of the most peerless knight in the world, and he is destined for the highest adventure of all. Call his seat the Siege Perilous, for he will face many dangers and defy them all. In his time he too will be the best knight in the world, and when he comes, the Table will be complete.”