Guenevere, Queen of the Summer Country

by Rosalind Miles

  IN THE HEART of every woodland lies a peace not to be found elsewhere in the world. The two small mares forged calmly along the winding paths. Guenevere and Ina passed into the cool shelter of the leaf-laden trees with their three knights in the rear. No one spoke or dreamed of disturbing the peace. The great oaks were silent, the tall gray beeches murmured and kept their own counsel, and only the silver birches whispered softly and giggled to one another like the silly things they were.

  Underfoot, the soft moldering loam of the forest floor released its rich earthy scent with every step of the horses’ hooves. The summer smell of mingled life and decay rose to Guenevere’s hungering soul, and for the first time since Amir’s death the thought I might live came to her like a prayer. She could feel it now, stirring like a seed, thrusting up a soft green shoot, fearfully trying its tender head above the ground.

  I might live …

  Deeper they went, deeper into the wood. May blossom is always at its best around the edge of the forest, she told her knights, where it enjoys the sun and rain. Busy matrons, girls who had been unlucky in love, and women without hope of a love of their own would run down to the verge, seize an armful for good fortune, then hurry back again. But serving the Goddess truly called for a ride into the heart of the woodland, to the sacred grove. There lay the place given over to the Mother, where the Druids came at midwinter with silver sickles to gather the golden boughs. There she and Ina would make their devotions for May Day.

  On the outskirts of the woodland the doves slumbered sweetly in the midday heat, their heads tucked under their wings. As they went deeper under the leafy canopy, the rays of the sun found it harder to pierce the quivering air. Farther still, and the undergrowth grew thicker between the trees, great clumps of bracken and furze dense enough to hide an army in. The wood was dark and still and green now, all the trees silent and slumbering. The horses slowed their pace as they moved through this enchanted shadowland under the forest roof.

  Ahead lay a circle of gold, the clearing of the Goddess. The sun poured its dancing beams down into the glade, dazzling their eyes. In a trance they passed out of the shade of the forest. The great trunks of the trees, the solid shapes of the bushes, everything shimmered and dissolved in the molten air. Guenevere loosened her veil and turned her face up to the kiss of the sun like the warmth of a mother’s love. She had come home to the Mother, home to Her unfailing love.

  All around lay the stillness of perfect peace. The horses stood without moving, like woodland creatures themselves. Guenevere sat drinking in the copper-colored air. Never had the forest been so sweet to her, so gorgeous in its Maytime array. Her heart cracked open with a stab of pain, and her being stirred with a new force of life. She saw Arthur, her mother, Amir, and for the first time felt their love as a blessing, not as a loss. Her mind, her soul were greening like the land in spring, bringing life again. Seated on the patient mare, she shook from head to foot. She caught Ina’s tender, inquiring look of love, and knew that her face was wet with tears.

  Goddess, Mother, take my thanks, hear my prayer …

  PERHAPS SHE DID not see them because joy was blinding her. Perhaps she did not hear them because her ears were filled by the old May song of her girlhood, the Mother’s blessing on all who came to Her, weaving in and out of her thoughts through the still air. She could not stop weeping now, and the healing waters flowed. Closing her eyes, she saw through a burst of golden fire the great circle of earthly love. And she was part of it. She was old in grief, but not in body, and her body was ripe for love.

  “My lady, beware! Save yourself, beware!”

  It was Bors, bellowing madly as he drove his horse past them into the dark forest ahead. Ina gave a hideous scream of shock. Guenevere started as if waking from a trance.

  “Ina, what—?”

  But Ina could only point, her eyes bulging with fear.

  CHAPTER 51

  In the shadows stood a troop of mounted men. Their dark shapes melted into the gloom under the trees. They were as still and silent as the living forest, but they were all armed and helmeted, men of metal without human faces, men of death.

  For a second Guenevere yielded to a wild hope that they were one of the fairy troops that haunted the woodland, a lost band of knights enchanted by the Queen of the Fair Ones and never seen in the flesh again. Then she saw the ears of the leader’s stallion twitch, saw his master’s iron hand close silently on the reins to keep him still, and she knew they were real and dangerously alive.

  “My lady, go!” Bellowing his war cry, Sir Bors rode straight at the men, with Sir Kay and Sir Lionel fast behind. “Save yourself! Escape!”

  “Ina, d’you hear him? Ride!” With a furious scream, Guenevere yanked her pony’s head around, rose in the stirrups, and leaned forward along the short neck. “Go! Go!” she hissed madly into the milk-white furry ears. “Go, girl! Go for your life—and mine!”

  Behind her she could hear the clash of swords as her three knights took on the stranger troop. Above the brawl rose the sound of Ina’s voice as she urged her own mare on, and Guenevere knew that if one of the ponies led the way, the other would not be far behind.

  “Go! Go!”

  The little mares tried; she knew they tried. Two sets of short white legs reached for their longest stride; eight pairs of hooves drummed on the woodland path as the fearful ponies strained their every nerve. But with a gathering dread Guenevere heard again the words of the head groom in Camelot as they left: No turn of speed about either of these two; where you’re going you’ll only need an ambler …

  Behind them now came the sound of horses that could outrun theirs at an easy cantering pace. And above the soft thud of the pursuing hooves came a worse sound, the low chuckle of the leader as he bore down on his prey.

  HE LET THEM run for long enough, Guenevere knew, to make sure that the exhausted ponies could not escape again. Then, as the mares flagged, the men caught and surrounded them. “Who are you? And how dare you do this?”

  Beside her Ina was snuffling in mortal dread. But Guenevere’s anger overrode her fear. “I order you to let us go, do you hear! What do you think you stand to gain from this?”

  The only answer was the leader’s muffled laugh as he signaled his knights to force them back along the track. At the sacred grove they came upon the rest of the troop, silently guarding the three companion knights. Surrounded by faceless assailants, a dull-eyed Sir Bors was swaying in his saddle, bleeding freely from a cut on his head, and Sir Lionel’s sword arm was dangling by his side. Sir Kay raised his bleeding hands as Guenevere approached, and she saw that they were bound. Her heart revolted with pity, fear, and grief.

  Each of her beaten knights was tied to his horse and led along. The leader turned his back on the light shining in the sacred grove, and struck off into dark paths never trodden before. The people of Camelot did not venture past the grove at the heart of the forest to the land that lay on the other side.

  Where were they going?

  Where was he taking them?

  And who was he anyway, the helmeted leader, the man with no face?

  He drove them till their horses were dropping their heads and chafing their bits with blood. All around them the sweet day faded into an angry evening, the sky weeping yellow and red like an old wound. But by the time the night birds were roosting in the trees, they came out of the forest and down onto a plain.

  Gaunt against the twilight, a black castle stood on the hilltop ahead. Squat and square, it crouched like a toad on the mountain. The knights hastened forward over the rough scrubland, making for the shadowy portcullis across the dark, stagnant moat. Still without speaking, they galloped across the black threshold, and the doors slammed behind them like the gates of hell.

  Within the courtyard, sullen-faced grooms and frightened maids leaped to attend them. Tossing his reins carelessly to the nearest lad, the leader vaulted from his horse and crossed the courtyard to Guenevere. Without ceremony he seized her by the waist and
swung her to the ground. Beside her Ina was suffering the same rough treatment. Across the yard she could see her three wounded knights being dragged from their mounts.

  “Where are you taking my knights?” she raged. “They are injured; they have to be with me, so that I can tend to them!” But she might have saved her breath. With a mocking bow, the faceless leader handed them over to an armed guard and waved them away.

  She and Ina found themselves hustled up a massive flight of stairs lit by a long window that cast a greenish light on the shadowy realms above. Halfway up the staircase branched, both sets of gleaming oak steps leading to dark corridors hung with banners, swords, and shields. Whoever their kidnapper was, Guenevere saw, he followed the knightly way of life. Yet what true knight would so outrage all the canons of chivalry?

  At last they reached what looked like a set of guest chambers, behind a stout oak door. A bevy of silent women bowed them in. Guenevere fell on the first of them. “Tell me at once, who is the leader here?”

  Not a word.

  “What is happening to my knights?”

  Not a sign.

  Goddess, Mother, is this rogue knight attended by deaf-mutes?

  “I demand to speak to your lord! Tell him I await him instantly!”

  As if they had not heard, the women curtsied and withdrew, leaving the knights on guard.

  “Outside, sirs!” cried Guenevere peremptorily, driving them before her from the room. “If you must guard us, have the courtesy to do so outside the door!”

  The heavy studded oak slammed behind the men with a sound like doom. Ina turned to Guenevere and clutched frantically at her arm. “Oh, my lady!” She was weeping without control. “What is this place? Why have they brought us here?”

  “Ina, I don’t know.” She tried to make light of her fears. “Let’s see what we can find out, now we’re here.”

  They were in a spacious apartment finely paneled with golden oak. High mullioned windows reached up to a ceiling swagged in molded fruit and flowers. The walls were hung with richly colored tapestries, and there were enough candleholders to make the night as bright as day. Great bowls of tumbling musk roses brightened every table and sweetened the air. But one note was discordant with all the rest. The lofty windows were set with iron bars.

  Guenevere hurried to the window to look out. Below lay a garden surrounded by old stone walls, cascading with roses whose sunny freedom mocked their imprisonment. A stout and ancient ivy growing right up to their window offered a brief spurt of hope. But they would have to break the iron bars to escape from their cage.

  “Madam, look!”

  Ina waved a trembling hand. Through a small archway, a passage led to a whitewashed corridor. To the left were several clean, welcoming sleeping cells comfortably fitted out for a queen’s attendants, or the knights of her train. But to the right lay a royal suite, and beyond it a queenly bedchamber with a massive bed.

  Ohhhh …

  Guenevere could not help herself. The coverlet was pure white and gold, and the cool linen smelled chastely of lavender. But like a ship in full sail, the bed was hung with tapestries depicting amorous scenes of love.

  Guenevere could not look. Hunger for Lancelot struck her like a blow. Tears scalded her eyes. She drifted to the window and gripped the iron bars, staring out of her prison to the clear night sky.

  “Madam, here.”

  Fearfully Ina drew her toward the back wall. Behind the bed was a small inner door.

  The room within was fitted out for a queen, with closets of gowns and headdresses, wraps and robes and veils. The dressing table was a replica of the one in the Queen’s apartments at Camelot, laden with boxes and pots and jars. With a dread she could not explain, Guenevere opened one of the boxes and brought it to her nose. It was patchouli, the sweet seductive scent from Byzantium that her mother had favored, and that she too loved so much.

  Ina was weeping again. “Why, lady, why?”

  The outer door rattled. A great key turned to lock them in. Guenevere fell into Ina’s arms and wept at last.

  THE AUDIENCE CHAMBER at Camelot was cool and welcoming after the heat of the day. With Guenevere away it was rarely used, and the cluster of men striding in disturbed its serenity now. “Where is he?” demanded Malgaunt tensely. He turned on the nearest guard. “Well, don’t hang around, man. Bring the fellow in.”

  This cursed deafness—Leogrance cupped his hand to his ear, and followed the proceedings as closely as he could. But the head groom’s report left nothing to misunderstand. The Queen had gone Maying with her maid and her knights, and had not returned.

  Malgaunt’s face flushed. “I knew I should have gone with her!” he cried. “I warned her of the dangers in the wood!”

  “Guenevere lost?” said Leogrance stupidly. He could not take it in. “She can’t be, not here in Camelot!”

  “She’s not in Camelot, she’s in the greenwood now! Where others have been lost, time out of mind,” snapped Malgaunt furiously. “Well, she started from here, so we know where to begin—”

  “We must raise a search,” Leogrance said in the same stupefied tone. Guenevere gone? It simply did not make sense.

  “The horses are ready, sir,” the head groom put in. “And every man in Camelot will turn out to search for the Queen.”

  But it won’t come to that, was the unspoken thought in every mind. Between the Fair Ones and the wild ones, there’s no room in the woodland for lost women roaming by themselves. If we don’t find her soon, we’ll be looking for her bones.

  Yet a search must be mounted, and fast, despite the fading light. Malgaunt faced the men. “Hurry!” he ordered. “To horse!”

  CHAPTER 52

  Like Camelot, the castle was as old as time itself. Outside, the summer sun played over roses and marigolds and honeysuckle in full bloom. But imprisoned inside the thick, entombing walls, they might have been dead and moldering underground.

  “Who is he, lady?” Ina asked in a dull voice. “What does he want with us?”

  “Never fear, girl,” Guenevere said. “We shall be rescued; they’ll be here for us soon!” But she did not believe her own bold words.

  When they did not return, Malgaunt and her father would search the forest, and then give them up for lost. Whole troops of knights had been swallowed up in that woodland, and many a careless traveler had perished without a trace.

  Too many in Camelot would readily believe that the Fair Ones had enchanted them and led them astray. And if the searchers from Camelot could not find them, who else would know or care?

  Arthur? He was far away, fighting shadows of his own.

  Lancelot?

  She clutched her stomach and hugged herself with pain.

  The searchers would not find them because they would not know where to look. To know that, they’d have to know who had taken them away.

  Guenevere herself returned again and again to this. If it had happened in the Middle Kingdom, yes, she could have understood it. Arthur’s land still had all too many rogue knights who would take women at will, steal wards from their guardians, and ravish rich widows on their own estates. But not here—not in the Summer Country, not in Camelot. And what kind of abductor would keep them in doubt as to their fate? Was he holding them to ransom? Would he throw them to the guardroom for a night’s sport for the men?

  “What does he want?” Ina sobbed. Guenevere’s voice was calm. “Ina, don’t torment yourself; who knows what he wants?” But she could not silence the inner voice that said He knows. And you do too. He wants you.

  “GOOD! WELL DONE! You went well today!”

  Leaning forward, Lancelot caressed his horse’s neck as he cantered gently up from the field outside the camp. Strange how even a halfhearted passage of arms could lift a wretched mood. And with Arthur’s war party at the peak of excitement now, he was never short of opponents who also wanted exercise.

  Reluctantly his hurt mind returned again to Guenevere. She had treated him badly, and deliberatel
y too; he was in no doubt of that. To send him away to Arthur on a fool’s errand had been bad enough. But then to fly off to Camelot as if the hounds of hell were on her heels—there was only one conclusion to be drawn.

  She could not bear him. She found him so offensive that she had to send him away. He could not imagine what he had done wrong. But that was the only explanation; it had to be.

  He forced back a sigh. Well, at least it had not made him treat others as badly as she had treated him. The young whore Gawain gave him had slept in his tent that night, as she knew she had to; there was no way out for her. But she had slept there chastely, and alone. The next day he had sent her to Caerleon with a hundred crowns. With a dowry like that, a girl could choose any man. Or she could keep herself tidily on it for a long while. When she left, she had smiled at him—an unpracticed smile, still timid and untrusting, but it had changed her young face. He nodded bitterly. What would it take to make his lady smile? What could put the bloom back on Guenevere’s face?

  Could she really hate him enough to send him away? She had not looked at him with eyes of hate. And her last words to him were “Adieu, fair sweet friend.” Surely that meant something more than courtly flattery?

  He groaned. Gods above, what to do? This morning he had to decide, go or stay.

  Stay.

  Go.

  Might as well pick a daisy and let the petals decide! he thought savagely. She loves me, she loves me not …

  He rode on moodily toward the horse enclosure, a makeshift corral under the shade of a tree. As he dismounted and threw the reins to a groom, Sir Bedivere ran up. He was moving his head oddly from side to side, as if to shake some dreadful news from his ears. “The Queen—” was all he could force through his stuttering lips. He tried again. “Lancelot, the King is crying for you—the Queen’s gone—”