Guenevere, Queen of the Summer Country

by Rosalind Miles

  “So, Guenevere.” The Lady rose to her commanding height. “Both of your questions are answered now. You are not to see Amir. The Mother has made him one of the star children in the sky, and which he is, you will never know. To love them all will be your duty now.”

  “But I saw him—in the rain, in the woods—”

  The Lady shook her head. “The figure you saw was your husband, not your son,” she said gently. “You were watching Arthur all along. You did not see Amir. And that answers your second request. It is a sign that you cannot be one of us here on Avalon. You have not been granted the power to see into the Beyond, not even to reach the one you love most.”

  Grief overwhelmed her now. “Why not?”

  “Oh, Guenevere.” The Lady smiled her oldest, saddest smile. “It shows that you are wedded to the here and now. Your mind is chained to the man you thought you had cast off. Each time you thought you saw Amir in the oak water, it was Arthur that you saw.”

  “Tell me why!”

  “Because he is still your husband. He is the man written on your heart, till your heart writes him out.”

  “But I hate him! He killed Amir! Arthur is dead to me!”

  The Lady paused. “He is dead indeed if you choose to punish him with your hate. It is death for a king to lose his closeness with the queen he has married, for she is the sovereignty of the land. And the end comes for Arthur when he loses you.”

  Oh, Arthur, Arthur …

  “But why is he mourning Amir among the Christians?” Guenevere cried wildly. “And Morgan—? What is she doing there?”

  “What you saw happened a good while ago,” the Lady said very quietly. “Arthur turned to the Christians when you left him alone. He fell into a sickness of the soul, and Gawain and the others were beside themselves with despair. So they rode to beg Morgan to come and care for him. She was ready for them, as you saw, and she went back with them.” She paused. “You have been absent here for many months, Guenevere. And Morgan has been with him all the time.”

  Guenevere was not listening. “But why should she offer Christian consolation in Arthur’s hour of need? She has no reason to love the Christians, after what they did to her!”

  The Lady spread her hands. “The Christians’ is the only faith she knows.” She paused. “And she loves Arthur. She is offering him the only solace that he has.”

  Oh, Arthur, Arthur …

  No one to comfort him, lying on the cold stone floor …

  No one to love him, nowhere for him to turn …

  “Oh, Arthur, oh, my love,” she wept. “What are you going through, all on your own?” A great sob crept up and racked her unawares.

  The Lady’s face was a mask of sorrow now. “All suffer, all alike,” she said heavily. “And all alone. Nemue has told you that the Christians are here with us too. We have a cell of them now on Avalon, holy men, I thought, who would join their prayers to ours.”

  She took a breath, and paced about the room. “Well, our brothers in love have grown strong, even impudent. The first two were gentle, trusting souls. But then others came to join them, a different kind. Not content with their own simple cell, they wish to worship in our holy places now. They have even asked to use the sacred Hallows in their rituals.”

  “The Hallows of the Goddess?” Guenevere gasped in disbelief.

  “I have refused, of course,” the Lady said, her musical voice hitting its strongest note. “But who knows how long it will be before they ask again—and how long before asking gives way to demanding, and demanding to taking by force?” She passed her hand over her eyes.

  “The thought of it clouds my sight. Since they have been on Avalon, I do not see as well as I did before.” She made a troubled gesture toward the bowl. “This vision of Arthur is the last thing I saw, a good while ago now.”

  Guenevere shook her head. The Lady sat brooding, then stirred and drew herself up.

  “But that is no concern of yours, dear Guenevere. You have seen Arthur wandering in the darkness of his soul. Can you find it in yours to return to him again?”

  “Oh, Lady, need you ask?” Guenevere struggled to her feet, cursing her weakness through her flowing tears. “We shall be gone as soon as horses can be prepared. And with luck, we’ll reach Caerleon before the dawn of another day!”

  HOUR AFTER HOUR as they rode, the same thoughts ran like mice between her tormented mind and her overburdened heart.

  Arthur, Arthur, oh, my love …

  How wrong it was, how cruel of me to leave you so!

  I blamed you for Amir’s death, and wanted you to suffer too. I wanted to cut you out of my life, never to see or hear of you again. If I had loved you truly, I would have thought of your grief, your pain, and tried to reach out to you. Well, it is not too late. I will be a true wife to you again, and we will comfort each other for the loss we have had.

  I thought there would never be another child, never another Amir. But maybe we can still have the daughter we both dreamed of, and even sons too. The Lady told me, Never is the word I must not say.

  Oh, my love, my love, let us see.

  Let us try.

  I will try.

  Let us try.

  THEY RODE THROUGH the night at full tilt, Ina and Guenevere and their troop of men. Her riding legs had gone after so many weeks in bed, and in the end she had to be tied to the saddle, but her horse was surefooted, and she knew she would not fall.

  A blazing fire of love warmed her all through the night.

  Home.

  They were going home.

  GODDESS, MOTHER, THANKS …

  Ina could have wept with joy. Blessed be the Goddess; the Queen had come to herself again. All her prayers, all her tears, all her care through these long weary months were rewarded now that the Queen had forgiven the King.

  In between her prayers, she wanted to sing and dance. “Think of it, madam. What a surprise for them to see us back!” she called out exultantly to Guenevere, who was pale and incandescent at her side. “But above all for the King! How happy he will be!”

  AT THE FERRY they crossed the Severn Water with all the swiftness of a dream. Guenevere felt herself borne up by enchanted hands as they pressed on, never stopping all through the night.

  They came to Caerleon at last, at the darkest hour, when even the gatekeepers were asleep. There was no sound in the sleeping castle as they slipped through the gatehouse, past the astonished guard, and hurried indoors.

  “It’s almost dawn, my lady, it won’t be long till you can wake the King,” Ina said excitedly as they hastened up the stairs. “Will you rest in the Queen’s apartments till then? Shall I command hot water for a bath?”

  “Neither!” Guenevere cried. She was weak and trembling, but she felt like a girl again creeping up on her lover in a game of blind man’s buff. Gods above, she was only just beginning to realize how much she had missed Arthur all these cruel months!

  She sped along the sleeping corridors in a frenzy of love.

  Oh, Arthur, Arthur …

  Both of them had forgotten kissing, she thought. Now she would surprise him as he slept, and wake him with both her hands over his eyes and a sweet kiss on his mouth. We have been so long without kisses, without love for months, ever since I left.

  They turned into the corridor to the royal apartments. Guenevere laughed with joy to see the faces of the guards outside Arthur’s door. Shock seemed to hold them rooted to the ground, and then one began to gibber as if he had lost his mind. The other stumbled forward and made a wild attempt to bar her approach.

  “Don’t you know me, guardsman?” she cried. “Do you forbid the Queen access to the King?”

  “No, Majesty, no!” the wretch stuttered, turning an ugly red. “But I beg of you, let me go first, let me wake the King—”

  His face was bulging, and tears stood in his eyes. What was wrong with the man? Behind her his fellow was muttering madly in Ina’s ear. What had come over them all?

  She took a step forwa
rd. “Let me pass.”

  Suddenly she felt Ina’s hand pulling her back. “Don’t go in, lady!” she cried. “The guard says—the King is—he’s sick, did you say, soldier? There may be infection here.”

  “Aye, madam, the plague, yes!”

  “Who knows?” gabbled the other, staring at the ground. And why was he too sweating like a pig?

  Guenevere brushed them aside. “The King will receive the Queen,” she said firmly, “at any hour of the day or night.” She laughed in pure delight. She could feel love stirring in her heart for the first time since Amir died. “He will rejoice that his wife has come safely home.”

  She reached for the heavy double doors and hurried through into the outer chamber where they had so often sat. And then she heard a sound, a low groaning from the bedchamber beyond, and Arthur calling, calling someone’s name.

  Oh, my love, my love!

  Poor darling love, are you having nightmares, crying out in your sleep for me?

  They were outside the bedroom and the sounds were louder now, and shorter and sharper too, rhythmic groans and cries. Now she could hear the accelerating pulse of grunts and the sharp intake of breath.

  What—?

  She raced forward and threw open the door.

  Ahead of her stood the King’s eight-postered bed of state, its huge canopy glowing with red and white, its gold swags and tassels gleaming in the light of the candle at the head. On the bed with his back toward them, surrounded by tumbled bedding, knelt Arthur, as naked as the day. As she watched he dropped forward, and sank and rose, and plunged again, his back and flanks straining in the act of love.

  She could not look away. Her eyes were scalded by the sight of him, by his manly beauty, the wide shoulders and narrow waist, the well-made hips and tight buttocks clenching and relaxing with every groan and thrust. And beneath him on the bed she could see the body of a woman, and two long white female arms thrown back as Arthur’s hard brown hands pinioned her and held her spread-eagled in the time-honored posture of submission to a man. She could hear her too, hissing, “Arthur, yes, yesss, Arthur! Arthur, yesss!” like a cat in heat.

  “Arthur!”

  Her scream came from the bottom of her lungs. Arthur’s head snapped back. His eyes froze in shock as his mouth opened in an answering scream.

  But Guenevere’s scream went on. For as he pulled back, she saw his partner in the bed. She lay there naked too, as naked as a needle, her breasts exposed, her mulberry nipples staring at Guenevere like savage eyes. Slowly her lips parted in a knowing grin. “Well, Guenevere?” she seemed to be saying with her taunting gaze. “What now?”

  And Guenevere could not stop screaming her name.

  CHAPTER 43

  “Morgan!”

  The woman in the bed uncoiled her long lithe body like a snake. Stretching her arms, she arched her hips and writhed from side to side. Her black hair spilled across the pillow and down over her white shoulders, and she glared and glittered with evil beyond compare.

  Arthur’s whole body sagged, and he stumbled like a drunk from the bed. She rolled luxuriously in the space he left, spreading her knees and flashing her gaping sex. Her black eyes and red mouth, her purple nipples and the livid lips between her legs all stared at Guenevere. And still Guenevere was screaming, screaming out her name.

  “Morgan! Morgan! Morgan!”

  “My lady, don’t—don’t take on so! You’ll make yourself ill again!”

  Ina tried to take Guenevere by the arm, weeping with fear. Morgan’s gaze flickered over both of them, then returned to Guenevere. She lay back on the pillow and calmly tortured her with her gaze. Ina was right, Guenevere told herself madly, she must be calm. She had to be as cool as Morgan, or she would go mad.

  Arthur was still standing by the bed. His face was flushed, and there was no spark of recognition in his eyes. His hands were twitching at the blanket he had fumbled up round his loins.

  Goddess, Mother, what has she done to him?

  A shaft of memory stabbed Guenevere like a knife. She saw another man standing like this by a bed, raw and exposed. She saw Merlin caught in the same attitude of shame, beside this same woman, with the same look of terror on his face.

  “Arthur!” she cried to him from her soul. “Arthur, speak to her, tell her to go!”

  “Go where?” said Arthur oddly, cocking his head to one side. “She lives here now. Guenevere went away.”

  Ye Gods, was he mad too?

  She ran to him and struck him in the face. “Arthur, I am Guenevere! I am your wife, and this whore of yours must go!”

  “Morgan?” He gave a small wild laugh. “You can’t mean Morgan. She’s my sister; she’s not a whore. She told me that in all the old faiths, as far back as the land of Egypt, brothers and sisters ruled together for the good of the land. They became Gods, and shared the finest love.”

  “Love?” Guenevere screamed. “Arthur, she doesn’t love you—she hates you, can’t you see? She is punishing you for what your father did to her mother and to her. This is her revenge—and Merlin was the first!”

  “Merlin, yesss!”

  There was an animal hissing from the bed. Guenevere shook her head and tried to blot it out. “She trapped Merlin and destroyed his life just as he ruined hers. And with Merlin out of the way, you were next!”

  Try as she could, she could not stop herself from glancing at Morgan now. Morgan smiled an ancient, evil smile. Her midnight eyes were saying Yes, and you were next.

  She lay there taunting Guenevere, laughing at her humiliation and her shame. Guenevere raised her fists and bore down on the bed. “Get out!” she screamed. “Get out!”

  “Arthur, help me!” Morgan wailed, cowering down in the bed.

  He came from behind, gripped Guenevere by the arms, and dragged her away. She called frantically to Ina at the door. “Run, Ina, run for Gawain and the others, say the Queen’s life is in danger!”

  Morgan leaned forward and fixed Ina with a glare. “Don’t move!” she hissed. She raised a finger and pointed, muttering under her breath.

  Ina’s eyes bulged with fear, but she turned and ran.

  “So, Morgan!” Guenevere cried viciously. “Now we shall see who is Queen here!”

  Morgan sat up swiftly and reached for a robe. Blue silk, with sleeves like harebells, Guenevere noted dully, fit for a queen. Arthur had given it to her after Amir was born. Was there anything of hers Morgan had not had?

  Like a man in a dream, Arthur took a robe and covered himself too. He moved as if he did not know where he was. Had she drugged him, had she enchanted him, what?

  Guenevere reached out to him. “Arthur, listen to me!”

  Arthur shook his head. “Are you really Guenevere?” He sounded like a child.

  “Of course I am!”

  Morgan snickered softly in the bed.

  “You came back once before,” he said wonderingly, trying to touch her hair. “You came in the night, and told me you would never come back to me again.”

  What was he saying? Guenevere beat his hand away and clutched at her head. Had her spirit left her body on Avalon, and come here to curse Arthur with the hatred she felt then? Or was it an apparition he had seen, some magic made by Morgan to bring Arthur into her power?

  She grabbed Arthur by the arm. “Arthur, I never came to you at night! She must have told you that. And you believed her—because you wanted her!”

  She could hardly speak for the stabbing in her heart. The tears were streaming down. “Arthur, why? Why did you do this? You killed Amir. Did you have to kill me too?”

  Arthur started violently. “Don’t say that!” he howled. He pointed to Morgan. “She never talked about him! She helped me to forget!”

  She helped him to forget.

  Guenevere looked at the figure on the bed. Her skin was white against the deep blue of the robe, and her huge black eyes were fixed on Arthur, drinking him in. With her raven hair tumbled down around her shoulders, her slender body still carel
essly displayed, and her long bare legs, she was a prize for any man alive.

  Guenevere laughed savagely. And she had wondered how Morgan enchanted him? With no more than the oldest power of all, she thought with bitter grief. The trick of leading a man by what lies between his legs.

  And she had been forced to see it, watch her own husband stripped and degraded in the act of lust! Loathing for Morgan rose like vomit in her throat. She clutched her stomach and tried to hold it down. “For the last time, Arthur,” she cried to him, “tell her to go!”

  But he stood there wavering, torn between them both. He could not choose. Something died in the depths of Guenevere’s heart. And she knew that like Amir, it would never come again.

  “MY LORD!”

  “Save the Queen!”

  From far off came the sound of pounding feet. Gawain, Kay, Lucan, and Bedivere burst through the door with their swords drawn, their faces halfway between sleep and wild alarm, their clothes thrown on in the heat of flight.

  “What’s happening, my lady?” Gawain cried. In the next moment, all four of them caught sight of Morgan in the bed.

  Dear Gods! thought Kay in blind horror. He looked at Arthur in wild disbelief. Then the next thought came with a dull recognition of something seen and not observed, observed and only partly understood. Why am I not surprised?

  The King’s sister! shot through three other heads at once. Morgan was hastily swinging her long legs to the floor and dragging her robe around her nakedness, but there could be no mistaking what she was doing there. Gawain flushed crimson and recoiled. Bedivere covered his face and turned away. And Lucan was staring at Morgan as if the sight of her scalded his eyes.

  “Get her out! She has no right to be here; get her out of my sight!” Weeping, Guenevere pointed to Morgan.

  Why did they all stand there like men of stone? Why did they look at Arthur, and not at her?

  “What are you waiting for?” she screamed. “I ordered you to get this woman out!—now—at once!”

  Kay turned to Arthur. “Sire!” he begged furiously. “Tell us what to do!”

  “Lucan!” Guenevere moaned. “You are the Queen’s knight. Do my bidding now!”