Queen of the Summer Stars: Book Two of the Guinevere Trilogy

by Persia Woolley

  Every word of comfort I could think of slid past her, deflected by the hugeness of her grief; in the face of such anguish they all sounded inept and stupid.

  “Is it Tristan?” I inquired at last, thinking perhaps they had had a lovers’ quarrel. “Has he hurt you?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, then hastily, “No. That is, not in the usual way. Oh Your Highness, I cannot tell you how awful it is to love like this. Sometimes I think I cannot face another day with him—yet I cannot live without him. People sneer, and snicker, and call me foul for having betrayed my King, and maybe they are right. Maybe I am the whore they say, dishonoring family and country as well as the bed of my lord. I don’t know anymore…I don’t know…”

  She lapsed into tears again, sobbing with a heartbroken wretchedness.

  It was her cousin, Branwen, who brought the tea things, quietly setting them up on the table by the window and withdrawing discreetly to the far side of the curtain. Silently I blessed her loyalty, knowing she would guard the entrance like a mastiff and allow no one to disturb her mistress.

  When Isolde’s sobbing subsided I handed her a cup of tea, and for a few minutes we sipped the warm liquid in silence.

  “You know Tristan and I are fated to be lovers for all time, don’t you?” she asked finally, her voice full of despair and resignation. “My mother is a very powerful sorceress, and she was worried that I might not enjoy my life with King Mark. So as a wedding present she made a potion that would insure neither of us would have any interest in anyone else, ever. Tristan and I drank it on the boat, by mistake, before I even reached Cornwall, and now we’re destined…fated…to love each other more than life itself.”

  The beautiful girl looked down into her lap, the very picture of royal tragedy. Her story was so obviously self-serving, I felt no compassion until she added, softly, “I did not ask it to be this way, and would undo it, if I could.”

  Her lament was sincere, and her pain undeniable, so I gave her what comfort I could. By the time she had finished her tea she was at least past the crying fit and went back to her own chambers with some composure.

  ***

  There are those who say nothing happens in our lives by accident, and the visit with Isolde gave me pause for reflection; as Arthur’s Queen I could not afford to fall into the trap that held Isolde. So I spent the rest of the afternoon preparing to tell Lancelot that this morning’s encounter must never happen again.

  At least, that was my intention before I went down to the feast.

  Chapter XXVI

  Morgan

  But where did he go to?”

  The very notion that Lancelot would leave without even saying good-bye stunned me, and I froze on the spot.

  We were midway across the center of the Round Table, and there was a sudden eddy of confusion as pages and serving children had to swerve around us, their arms laden with trenchers and tureens for the table.

  “I think he’s heading for the steading I gave him, the one up at Warkworth,” Arthur said, reaching for my elbow.

  “But he didn’t mention leaving when we spoke this morning,” I protested.

  “I guess he’d only just decided.” By now Arthur was tugging me out of the way. “He said he’s been thinking about it ever since he brought you back from the convent—wants to spend more time at that Garden of his.”

  We’d reached our seats, and after motioning for Gawain to move his chair into Lance’s place, Arthur turned to see who else had arrived.

  “But why?” I asked, still struggling to understand what was happening. “Why should he leave?”

  “I didn’t ask—didn’t think it any of my business.”

  Arthur turned back to Gawain and I stared into empty space. Dagonet appeared out of nowhere and greeted us with a deep bow that turned into an elaborate petting of Caesar as he tried to coax a smile from me. It was exactly what a jester should do, providing the audience with a diversion and giving me time to compose my public face. I smiled appreciatively at his efforts.

  Yet for all my outward calm, chaos raged inside. The kiss in the Park this morning had been an accident, a mistake—a longing for something too dangerous to pursue. The more I thought about it, the more I knew it was true. But now he was gone, before I had a chance to tell him it mustn’t happen again.

  Drat you, Lancelot, I thought, grabbing up my wine goblet the moment it was filled.

  The Hall was stuffy because the breeze from the river refused to rise. I found myself kicking Caesar in the ribs when he tried to rest his chin on my foot, and I downed my wine each time the glass was refilled. It was Dinadan’s turn to sit beside me, and I was relieved that the Cornishman didn’t notice my growing tipsiness. Perhaps at Isolde’s Court he’d grown used to peculiar behavior in Celtic Queens.

  Bedivere took up his harp following the meal, and a great rush of drunken affection for the whole of the Court swept over me. Wonderful people, really, those who had been with us since the beginning…Bedivere and Cei, Pelli and Lamorak, Nimue and Griflet, and all the others who were at the core of our Fellowship. Solid friends…the kind you could rely on, could understand…forthright sorts, who spoke up about their feelings. Nothing hidden and mysterious there…you always knew where you stood with them…even Morgan, if you overlooked her arrogance and occasional bad temper.

  I stared into my empty wine cup, waiting for the server to refill it, and tried to remember what Igraine had said about her daughter. Something about her conviction that the Old Ways must be followed or the world was doomed. No, that sounded more Christian than Pagan…but then, there was something of the same crusading zeal in both, if I could just sort them out.

  “Her Majesty, the Lady of the Lake.”

  The deep voice of Morgan’s dwarf echoed around the Hall, and I lifted my nodding head to peer blearily at the figure in the center of the Round Table, thinking I must have slipped into a dream.

  It was indeed Morgan’s lieutenant, and as he stepped to one side the Queen of Northumbria swept into the heart of the circle.

  “We bid you well come, Sister,” Arthur called out, rising to greet her. “I’m delighted you could join us after all.”

  “Blessings on you,” the High Priestess intoned as she turned to include the rest of the Fellowship. “It is always a pleasure to be part of your company, particularly when I bring you word directly from the Goddess.”

  The Hall had grown silent when an unexpected hiccup escaped me. Morgan ignored it, concentrating instead on her brother as she sent her voice floating out over the audience.

  “As we all know, the Old Ways decree that a man whose wife is stolen must seek redress for that insult before his honor can be restored. It is a law made in the Beginning, and no husband can ignore it, unless the wife was complicit in the escapade.”

  “Now wait a minute.” I started to object, but my tongue was thick and unmanageable, and the words slurred together in a groan. My knees wouldn’t work when I tried to rise and Dinadan steadied me as I swayed, drunkenly, halfway out of my chair.

  Morgan ignored me completely, playing to the crowd and carrying them along on that magnificent voice that swooped and soared, dipped and purred from point to point.

  “How much more necessary is such action if the man is High King, and the woman is the people’s Queen? Normally the rapist’s life would be forfeit—but what if the Queen begs he be spared, claiming it is out of family loyalty? Even if a loving husband accepts such an excuse, how is he as King going to overcome the stigma of lost manhood? These were the questions I brought to the Goddess, seeking Her guidance, begging Her wisdom, for I cannot allow this fine young monarch to endanger the whole future of Britain by ignoring the ancient laws.”

  Morgan’s innuendos snapped the tether of what self-restraint I had left. “Balderdash!” I exploded, planting my hands on the table and pushing myself upright.

  The Lady of the Lake turned to stare directly at me, her silence drawing more attention than any gesture could have. I
stared back at her fox face, hypnotized by those green eyes that burned both hot and cold until I was spinning in wave after wave of dizziness and without a word crumpled back into my seat.

  “You see, even your Queen appreciates the difficulties,” Morgan said as Vinnie and Ettard and Dinadan all leaned over me. I closed my eyes and swung slowly into reeling, head-spinning darkness.

  ***

  Morning came hot and sticky and still, and after a horrified peek at the sunlight, I burrowed under the pillow again.

  “You must wake up, Your Highness,” Ettard was saying. “The King wants to see you before he leaves.”

  My head hurt and my mouth tasted vile, but I nodded at the girl, wondering where on earth Arthur was off to when we had a city full of guests.

  By the time I had swung my feet over the edge of the bed, my husband was standing before me. I blinked up at him balefully and he laughed. “Maybe you’d better stick to cider from now on,” he teased, sitting down next to me on the bed. “Thought I’d like to say good-bye before I go, just in case.”

  “Just in case what?” I asked, waving Ettard out the door and turning to stare at him. He was fully garbed in battle gear and wore the Goddess cape, though how he could stand its weight in this heat, I didn’t know. “What’s this all about?”

  “I thought you’d passed out before Morgan explained about Maelgwn and the ritual.”

  It seemed that my cousin had had an attack of conscience and, having repented his sins, sought forgiveness from Illtud’s protégé, Gildas. That young monk had arranged for Maelgwn to go live in a monastery, which put him well beyond the reach of Arthur’s vengeance.

  But before he went to hide behind his suddenly espoused Christianity, the Lady of the Lake was able to elicit an apology from him to Arthur. In it Maelgwn agreed to relinquish part of the Welsh Marches to us and give over that great black dog, Dormarth, in reparation for having “hosted” me at his hunting lodge.

  “It’s a splendid animal,” Arthur concluded. “Since Cabal’s death I need a new war-dog, and this one is fully trained. Quite a prize, actually.”

  I shuddered at the idea of having the creature in my own house but put my loathing aside as I queried what apology Maelgwn would make to me.

  “Morgan pointed out how eloquently you pled for your cousin’s life, and that by accepting this treaty I will be honoring your wishes as well. It restores my prestige without having to kill him.”

  Arthur’s answer sent a flash of anger through me. This arrangement neither made amends for what I had suffered nor dispelled the implication that I had complied with Maelgwn. And far from having pleaded for his life, I would have preferred to see him publicly punished, providing it didn’t pose a danger to Arthur. All of that had been left out, naturally.

  Like all her strategies, it was very clever and hard to rebut. I sighed wearily. At this point I wasn’t up to fighting her and Arthur was already talking about something else.

  “Once the ritual is over, it will finally be behind us.”

  “What ritual?” I asked suspiciously.

  “Morgan has devised a ceremonial combat to celebrate my victory over both opponents—Maelgwn and the Saxons. She says it will symbolically fulfill Merlin’s prophecy about the Red Dragon conquering the White Dragon.”

  My head was throbbing as I tried to think what we would need for such an event—maybe a feast, maybe not. But if it was a ritual, we’d have to accommodate all the Round Table guests; maybe hold it in the arena. “When is all this supposed to take place?” I queried.

  “We’re leaving for Windsor Forest as soon as possible.” Arthur gave me a wry grin. “Morgan’s arranged for the druids of the Sacred Grove to officiate—says it’s important that the Pagans see the Old Gods have forgiven my sacrilege in digging up Bran’s head.”

  “But Windsor Forest is the better part of a day’s ride from here,” I exclaimed, aghast at the notion of my head trying to tolerate even an hour on horseback.

  “There’s only a few people to attend; all men, ail carefully picked. Bedivere and Gawain will stay here with you, and I’ll take Bors and Geraint, Griflet and Pelleas with me to the Grove.”

  “I don’t like it, Arthur,” I said, getting to my feet too quickly. “It doesn’t sound like any ritual I’ve ever heard of, and why should it be done so far away instead of right here where the people can participate?”

  “It’s new, I tell you, and it’s only symbolic.” Arthur’s voice was starting to show the testiness that always comes up whenever we talk about Morgan. “The armor, the masks—even the swords will be ceremonial rather than real.”

  My skepticism must have been obvious, for he went on brusquely, “For goodness’ sake, Gwen, what harm can there be in it? And don’t start casting suspicion on Morgan again—she won’t be anywhere near. Women are forbidden at this rite.”

  “Where will she be?” A ripple of apprehension slipped down my spine.

  “Why, right here, helping you prepare the feast we’ll have when we get back.”

  “Oh, jolly,” I grumbled, turning my back to the window and wondering if a cold compress would help my head.

  “Well, you might wish me luck,” Arthur concluded, coming to stand hopefully in front of me.

  I looked up at him, wondering how he could tell me there was no danger on one hand and ask for luck on the other. The contradiction seemed suddenly very dear, and I stood up and wrapped both arms around him.

  “Do you have to leave just now?” I asked, slipping my knee between his legs and sliding the length of my thigh along his.

  “Enough, wench!” He laughed, walloping me on the rump, then stood back to grin down at me. “That’s no way to cure a hangover.”

  I nodded gingerly, muttering that I knew there was some reason I wasn’t fond of wine. Arthur turned in the doorway and made the Roman “thumbs up” sign.

  I answered in return, and then he was gone.

  Tiptoeing to the window, I closed the curtain, then drank half a pitcher of water and crawled back to bed, hoping further sleep would get rid of both my hangover and the nagging suspicion that something wasn’t right.

  But the heat was oppressive and I was plagued with jumbled dreams of danger and desertion. Finally I decided to get up and face the day, even if it did include my sister-in-law.

  ***

  Morgan was sitting in the inner court, a richly dyed fleece at her feet and the spindle twirling beside her as she spun. She greeted me with all the graciousness of a proud hostess, as though this were, in fact, her own Court. I sat down on a chunk of broken masonry and took a sip of the skullcap tea that Cook had said would help my headache.

  “Such an elegant hue,” the High Priestess noted, admiring the perfectly even thread she had just created. “The whelk shells from the beaches of Northumbria provide the best purple dye, don’t you think?”

  I nodded silently, wondering how this woman who had tried to have me killed last time we met could sit here so calmly under my roof. Perhaps in her monumental arrogance she assumed I would never call her to account for past actions. Or maybe she was confident that what Igraine used to call “good manners” would keep me from doing something reckless.

  It seemed unfair that the people with manners must put up with the often unconscionable behavior of those without. Thus are gentlefolk made helpless by their ethics, I thought glumly.

  “The men will be starving when they come back tomorrow night,” Morgan mused, her eyes beginning to shine. “I promised there would be a fine feast, a truly sumptuous banquet for the victorious King. You don’t mind if I arrange something a little special, do you?”

  “Not if Cei doesn’t,” I murmured, trying to imagine how the High Priestess and Seneschal would get on in the kitchen. The implication that our usual fare was dull would surely rub Cei the wrong way, as he took great pride in his culinary prowess. I smiled to myself, wishing I could be an invisible presence when these two met over the menu.

  “I didn’t see La
ncelot,” she continued, her pleasant attitude never flagging. “Isn’t he here these days?”

  “No,” I whispered, concentrating on the potted plants along the edge of the patio. I’d have to tell Lynette I’m not fond of fleshy primroses—field poppies are more my style.

  “Lancelot was one of my most devoted students; remarkably talented, and so sensitive. Don’t you find him so?”

  “I suppose,” I replied as my tea went down the wrong way, making me cough and sputter violently.

  The Lady continued to spin her web, watching me all the while. “I thought you two might get along.”

  My uneasiness was mounting, in spite of the tea. It made me cross and testy, so I found some excuse to leave my sister-in-law and went in search of Nimue.

  Merlin’s mistress had taken over the bower under the willow, where Lance and I had last met, and as I waited for her to return, disquieting memories of that kiss fluttered all around me. Confused, I went back to the Palace and retired to my room.

  ***

  “No, I don’t want anything more,” I snapped when Enid came to get my dinner tray, then apologized and asked her to sit down. “What do you know of this ceremony Arthur’s to take part in?”

  “Very little, Your Highness. It doesn’t sound like anything I’ve ever heard of, but Geraint promised that he’d keep a sharp eye out for trouble, in case the King needs protection. And Geraint doesn’t miss much,” she added. “Never saw such a man for picking up a nuance.”

  I mulled over her answer, both relieved and alarmed that others were also uneasy. My headache was gone, but the apprehension remained. “And Morgan? How has she spent the day?”

  “The Imperious One?” Enid snorted derisively. “Came into the kitchen like a whirlwind, and is preparing the most pretentious meal you’ve ever seen—more fit for a coronation than a welcome home. At first I thought Cei would put her in her place, but the man seems to be in awe of her. Have you ever noticed that he won’t cross his equals or betters, particularly if they are men, but is a terrible martinet to those under him? Personally I don’t understand it.”