Guenevere, Queen of the Summer Country

by Rosalind Miles

He paused for a cold moment of concern. Would they be there in time? We came as fast as we could, O Lord, he prayed. Give us the chance to profit from Arthur’s loss. For he is ours; he has been ours from the first. He must be ours, if we are to win this land!

  He looked up to see Brother John tracking his every thought. He held the monk’s gaze, and they shared an imperceptible hope. Under the awed eyes of the Abbess, two minds and mouths moved as one: “God grant we win the battle for Arthur’s soul!”

  “DON’T TOUCH ME, Malgaunt! You won’t get away with this. You can’t wear me down by keeping me imprisoned here!”

  “Imprisoned, Guenevere?” Malgaunt was enjoying himself. “What nonsense, my dear! You are Queen of the castle, and you’ll have a new King tonight!”

  “Malgaunt, I never shall—”

  “Oh, you will. Or what about that maid of yours, Ina? You wouldn’t like anything to happen to her, I’m sure.” He turned to the Druid. “Tuath here has sworn off women for life. But there’s a guard room full of men whose appetites are quite to the contrary—”

  “My lord!”

  A breathless page came flying into the room. “Prince Malgaunt, they are calling for you on the battlements. There’s a stranger coming through the forest, flying a white banner, riding a white horse—”

  Guenevere’s blood sang with the beating of her heart. Now all the Gods be praised!

  “THAT WAY! Over there!”

  She could hardly hear the urgent words of the guard. The air on the battlements was as fresh as wine after her long imprisonment, and the evening sun was blinding as they stumbled out. But far off she could see the lone rider spurring across the scrubland, straight and true.

  He rode with his visor down. The armored body, the faceless, ironclad form were that of Arthur when he first came to her. But the lean body lying low in the saddle was not the King.

  Malgaunt’s color faded, and his eyes drained of everything except hate. But his voice was cool enough when he turned to Guenevere. “Sir Lancelot!” he said pleasantly. “What a pity he must die.”

  Guenevere laughed in triumph. “You must be mad, Malgaunt. They’ll know in Camelot that he was coming here.”

  Malgaunt shrugged. “But they won’t know what happened when he fails to return. There are forty arrows trained upon him now. A hundred swords await him in the courtyard below. When he comes, you’ll tell him you’re here of your own choice, or my men will hack him piece by piece to death.”

  To save his life … more lies …

  “Release my knights!” Guenevere cried. “Have them moved to the rooms next to mine, and I’ll send him away and save your wretched life!”

  “My wretched life, is it?”

  For a second she feared that she had said too much. But mastering his rage, Malgaunt turned and, gripping her by the elbow, forced her to descend.

  Down they went and down, at such a pace that she feared Malgaunt meant to throw her down the steps and break her neck. By the time they reached the courtyard, she was trembling with the fury of her desire for revenge.

  On the walkways above, forty archers were aiming at the gate where Lancelot must come in. On the ground a hundred knights lined the walls, ready to greet him at swordpoint. Malgaunt stood on the cobbled yard facing the entrance, his arm resting on Guenevere’s shoulders in a loose embrace, but his mailed hand gripping the spot at the back of her neck where hunters kill rabbits with one brutal squeeze. His Druid Tuath stood guard on her other side, and the eyes of the knights never left their leader’s face as they waited for the sign.

  Oh, Lancelot …

  And there he was; she could see him through the gateway, coming toward her now. She was afraid to breathe in case she shattered into a thousand pieces from the joy of seeing him, having him here again. Lancelot …

  Banner flying, Lancelot galloped over the drawbridge and into the inner court.

  Lancelot, my love …

  The white stallion drew to a snarling halt, froth at its mouth, its flanks stained with blood. His sword drawn, Lancelot faced Malgaunt. He did not look at her.

  “Welcome to Dolorous Garde, Sir Lancelot!” Malgaunt cried with false bonhomie. “The Queen and I are glad to see you—what brings you here?”

  “Prince Malgaunt, I know what you have done!” Lancelot was very pale, transfigured with rage. “I am here to call you a traitor to the Queen, a disgrace to the name of knighthood, and a shame to mankind. I challenge you to single combat now. If you fail, I’ll publish your dishonor the length and breadth of this land!”

  Malgaunt’s hand tightened involuntarily on the back of Guenevere’s neck. He tried a casual laugh. “You challenge me, Sir Lancelot?”

  “My lord,” Tuath said quietly. “I raise my hand, he falls under fifty swords. Kill him. Why should he challenge you?”

  Guenevere felt the hairs tremble on the back of her neck.

  Lancelot stood up in his stirrups and looked around. On all four sides of the courtyard, the lofty walls of the old castle were broken by windows and balconies and galleries everywhere. A palace like Dolorous Garde housed a thousand ears. Malgaunt’s knights and men-at-arms, his servants and maids, his butlers and cooks, his washerwomen and scullery boys, all would be listening now.

  “I call you a coward, Prince Malgaunt!” Lancelot called. “And so will every man, if you fail to answer me! Name your time, place, and weapon, and I will meet you in the field. But I cannot overlook this insult to the Queen!”

  “The Queen, ah, yes!” Malgaunt looked unperturbed, but the cold mail of his glove closed on the back of her neck. “You have not heard what the Queen has to say.”

  “The Queen?” He laughed scornfully. His accent was very strong. “I pay no heed to what the Queen says!”

  She could not draw back now. “Sir Lancelot,” she said coldly. “Why are you angry? What’s the cause of this?”

  “Why am I angry?” Suddenly he was a boy again, raw and confused. “What are you saying, lady? I don’t understand.”

  Guenevere forced her face into a broad smile. “I am here as my kinsman’s guest. He and I are at peace. I can’t imagine what you are doing here.”

  “So!” His eyes flared, and he flushed to the roots of his hair. “You are not here against your will? I thought—”

  He broke off and bit his lip, looking down like a boy in the wrong. Then he stared straight and deep into her eyes. “You swear to me—you promise, Majesty?”

  “Yes, indeed!” She laughed, a hateful sound even to her own ears. “I’m afraid you’ve mistaken the situation, Lancelot.”

  She could hardly bear it.

  He gritted his teeth. “Then you and Prince Malgaunt are in accord?” He turned the heat of his brown eyes on her again. “If I’d known, I would not have—”

  She could not help herself. “You have sworn to be my knight. Do I have to thank you for your good deeds?”

  His color rose again. “No, lady. Forgive my foolish words.”

  The pain now was the worst it had ever been.

  CHAPTER 54

  “Whatever you say, my lady. Good night and good rest to you.”

  Shivering, Sir Bors lay in bed and watched Guenevere’s retreating form. He hugged the blanket tighter to his thin frame, and cursed the fever that racked him from head to foot. He had taken knocks and cuts enough before, the Gods knew. It was a mystery why the damned enchantment of the Druid’s band of knights had left him so weak and trembling and shamefully prone to tears. It had been bad enough in the dark cell where they had been kept. But he had hated being dragged from his bed to new quarters in the Queen’s apartments. He was terrified that being moved would make his wound break out and start bleeding again.

  He eyed Guenevere with a hopeless sense of fate. She was trying to help them, he knew, by getting them out of the grim cells underground and having them housed with her, under her eye. But what if she caught his illness, this wound fever, jail fever, whatever it was?

  She meant well too with her
comforting words: “My lords, your cousin is here—good news, Sir Kay. Sir Lancelot has arrived!” And it was good to know that Lancelot had come, more than good, the best. But the Queen did not look pleased when she told them this. Poor lady, she had not slept for a long while, Bors thought sadly. And the high color in her cheeks, the unnatural brightness of her eye, all suggested that she had a fever already, a disease of her own.

  He looked out of his clean white cot in the clean white chamber and knew that farther down the corridor lay his brothers in arms Sir Kay and Sir Lionel. And he knew too that he only had to call to summon Ina, who had the chamber nearest to the Queen. Only a hallway divided the four of them from the Queen’s chamber on the opposite side of the apartment. Bors shifted his head and tried to ease his aching frame. Well, the Queen must be lying easier than he was, that was for sure. And she would be easier still in the knowledge that her champion Sir Lancelot was here.

  “LEAVE ME, INA.”

  Ina pursed her lips and slipped quietly away. Goddess, Mother, she wondered, what’s wrong with the Queen? Surely she could not be so distressed about her knights? Sir Bors had a fever, it was true, but he was young and healthy; he would shake it off. The others were recovering well from the cuts and blows they had taken in the wood. And Sir Lancelot had arrived to rescue them all!

  Yet the Queen— Watching Guenevere covertly as she turned down the sheets of the lavender-scented bed, Ina could not make it out. After all they had been through, to be crying, shaking, weeping now? From the trembling in her hands, you’d have thought she had a fever too, yet she would not countenance any of Ina’s potions or soothing balms.

  Leave me, Ina, was all that she would say.

  Ina snorted quietly to herself. Leave her here, by the window, in the cold light of the moon, all weeping and alone? The Queen her mother would never have wanted this. Ina gathered her strength to remonstrate. “My lady—” she began forcefully.

  Guenevere’s voice was as distant as the moon. “Leave me, Ina. I’ll call you when I want you. Leave me now.”

  YOU MUST LEAVE ME.

  She had hurt Ina, she knew, with her sharp rebuff. But she could not help it. She could not help anything now.

  For now she felt the force of Merlin’s curse, when Arthur and Malgaunt had fought almost to the death. You will live to regret this, Merlin told Arthur then. For Malgaunt is fated to destroy your peace. He will rob you of your best jewel, and leave a gaudy imitation in its place. All this he will do because you spared his life.

  She had sought to avoid her kinsman’s blood on her marriage bed. She wanted to spare Arthur from it as much as Malgaunt, and turn evil to good to bless their wedding day. But Malgaunt’s malice had already woven its web. Arthur’s peace was destroyed when Malgaunt’s actions brought Lancelot here.

  She had fled like a child from the fear of Lancelot’s love. But the force of fate had drawn him here, and her love for Arthur lay in ruins now.

  Her love had been the jewel in Arthur’s crown. And what was left but an imitation now?

  Alone in the bedchamber, Guenevere sat in the window in grief too deep for tears. He had come for her, Lancelot, her lord, her love, her hope. He had come like the celandines in springtime, like the first soft fall of snow. And she had lied to him and sent him away.

  To save his life.

  But did he know that? Would he ever know?

  So again he had offered his service, and his trust had been abused. Would he ever trust her simplest word again? Why should he? Would she, in his place?

  She rose to her feet, gripped the iron bars of the deep mullioned window, and pressed her burning head against the glass. Below her the garden was drowsing as night fell. The scent of the roses was heavier in the evening air, and the warmth of day was leaving the old stone walls. The candlelight from her window cast its lambent glow into the deepening dark. All the world below her was at peace.

  The iron bars were cold and rough in her grasp. She groaned. She was still a prisoner, even though Malgaunt had drawn off his watchdogs now that Lancelot was here. Yet this barred room was a place of safety, and she had been glad to take refuge here from the courtyard, refusing to join Malgaunt and Lancelot at dinner in the Great Hall.

  But there was no escaping from herself. From this love, this shame, this sickness that she had.

  She moaned aloud.

  Her only hope was that he did not know.

  HIS HEAD POUNDING, Lancelot stumbled out of doors. Dolorous Garde! The place was well named.

  To come to the aid of the Queen in her distress, and then to find she was not in distress at all—to be treated to a smiling rebuke that was worse than any scorn—and then to have to drink and dine with her cousin, that foul slave Malgaunt—Goddess, Mother, this was not the life of chivalry he had dreamed!

  He lifted his face to the moon, letting the cool night air bathe his tormented skin. When he served Queen Aife, she held all her knights in thrall. She was a stern taskmistress, and her knights groaned in her service, she demanded so much of them. But never did they suffer in confusion like this.

  A gasp that was half a sob escaped his lips as he wandered on through the castle grounds. He passed under archways and through gates till he came to a quiet garden enclosed within old stone walls. In the center a great hawthorn sprinkled the grass with stars. He let himself in through the small iron gate and felt safe and alone at last. From the walls the scent of June roses drenched the air. High above the uncaring stars looked down. He tore a rose from a stem and crushed it in his hand. The sharp sweetness of the broken petals stained his clenched fist. He lifted his eyes to the stars, opened his heart, and wept.

  SHE SAW HIM coming, it seemed, from the time before time. First a shadowy figure in the gold and silver light, then the lean shape she loved so desperately. Then the swing of his cloak, the glint of the torque around his neck. And then the dull chestnut sheen of his hair and his long tormented face. And now he stood in the garden beneath her window, his eyes bright with tears, waiting, she was sure, for her call.

  Yet he stood in a silence she did not know how to break. The blood was pounding in her veins, and foolish thoughts ran through her mind. If only there were someone else here to call him instead of me.

  Wildly she fingered the woodland-green silk gown she had not changed from since she’d been captured. If only I’d worn something better; if only I’d known he was on his way. Yet would he notice what she was wearing? Would he care?

  She lifted her eyes to the distant sky. Far away on the horizon a horned moon was shining and all the heavens were burning with pale fire.

  Come …

  From the airy mansions of the moon, from the far regions of the world between the worlds, he was calling her. She could hear the soft insistent whisper of life itself.

  Come …

  She opened the window and whispered. “Lancelot!”

  He started like a stag, his hand unconsciously seeking his sword. Then he stepped into the light from the window and looked up, as pale and cold as stone. “Why did you go?” he began abruptly, staring at her with the hurt eyes of a child. “I am your knight. Why did you send me away; why did you leave Caerleon without a word?”

  “I thought—”

  He turned on her in a rage. “Why did you lie to me? Lie and deceive?” He flew at the wall, and tore at the ivy in despair.

  “I—”

  He was climbing now, surging up the massive old creeper with a fearless grip. “You sent me to the King with a message that was no message at all! You left orders that I was to stay in Caerleon till you returned. You wanted to be parted from me while you were away! Why? Do you have a lover? Another knight?”

  Her temper rose to match his. “If you are my knight, sworn to my love and faith,” she cried, possessed by wild illogic, “why are you here when I ordered you to stay?”

  He had reached the window ledge, almost within her touch, borne up by desire and pain. “Because I thought you were in danger—because I h
ad to know what you meant—because I could not bear it without you!”

  “Oh, Lancelot—”

  He was weeping freely, angrily knocking great tears away. “You may treat your knight badly, but I am still sworn to you. Wherever you go, I must go!” He reached toward her blindly, like a motherless child.

  She could feel her tears rising in answer to his. “How did you find me?”

  He planted his feet in the ivy and gripped the iron bars with both hands. She could hardly bear his open, wounded gaze. “Lady, I would have found you in all the world! When I came to Camelot, they said you were lost in the wood. They told me no one was more distraught than Prince Malgaunt. Yet I knew the Prince was next in line for your throne. And when they said he had a castle beyond the forest, I knew where to come. I knew I would find you here.”

  “You knew? How?” She leaned on the windowsill. His nearness tormented her.

  He shook his head stubbornly, like a child again. “I knew.” He raised his eyes and locked onto her gaze. She knew she was looking into his soul. His purple-brown irises were flecked with hazel and gold, and his face was wet with tears. She lifted her hand to his lips as she had on the night they met, and let it fall again.

  The air was warm, and the tension between them was a thread about to break. His eyes were wide with query, and she answered without words. Furiously he pulled at the bars of the window, till he found one set less firmly than the others in the stone. Then he worked it steadily, twisting it this way and that, till his forehead was damp with sweat, and the iron was dark with what looked like his blood.

  She wanted to laugh, to cry, to dance.

  So this is love—welcome, friend, as cruel as you will be, and as sweet as you may become. Welcome, love.

  May we be granted the peace of loving and not losing, of giving and not resenting, may we let this newborn thing grow and flourish between us, and become what it has to be.

  Now she could feel herself growing into the woman she had dreamed she might become, moving toward the man who was all she wanted in a man. She could hear his breath rasping in his throat as he wrenched the bar out of its mortar at last. He groaned with the exertion, and she could see the rusty metal had torn the skin of his palms. The veins on his forehead were standing out, and his eyes had an Otherworldly gleam, but no man could have looked more beautiful to her now.