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

by Persia Woolley

  I nodded slowly, thinking there was much about Cei that nobody understood.

  “Where is the High Priestess now—do you know?”

  Enid shook her head but volunteered to go find out. I balked at that; it’s one thing to ask what your guests have been doing and quite another to spy on them. So the matter was dropped.

  During the predawn darkness Ettard slipped into my room and shook me into wakefulness.

  “Come quick, Your Highness,” she begged. “The Lady is prowling through the Palace, casting powders and spells all about her. She’s surely up to no good, and Vinnie says you must do something at once.”

  “Where is she now?” I asked as I felt for my slippers and wondered what on earth possessed my sister-in-law.

  “She was last seen going into King Urien’s quarters,” the girl whispered, and I groaned aloud.

  “For goodness’ sake, Morgan has a right to join her husband in bed.” The idea of being wakened for something as common as that made me wonder if all my women had gone daft.

  “But she was muttering curses, and looking all about furtive-like,” Ettard persisted. “And it’s not like you and the High King, who always end up together…”

  Ettard’s voice trailed off as I turned to stare at her; I would have thought that servants and courtiers had better things to do than keep track of when Arthur and I retire to our separate chambers and how long we stayed there.

  “Well, I’m not about to interrupt the royal pair from Northumbria,” I said flatly, remembering all too well Morgan’s reaction when I had inadvertently come upon her and Accolon. “And I’d suggest you go back to sleep and let our guests do likewise.”

  But the last word was barely out of my mouth when a terrible howling filled the building. Wild and keening, it careened through the halls like the screams of a banshee, making the hair on my nape stand up. Grabbing the lantern from Ettard’s hand, I ran toward the sound.

  Shadows went leaping over the walls and ceiling of the hallway as the door to Urien’s rooms burst open and a ranting, wild-eyed Morgan was wrestled through it by Uwain. One or both of them had hold of Urien’s sword, and when it clattered to the floor her son suddenly let go of the Priestess and took a step back, gasping and shaking uncontrollably.

  The boy stared at the weapon, a look of horror slowly engulfing him. I saw the flash of recognition slide from mind to heart, then twist into the gut as his face crumpled in disbelief and tears began streaming down his cheeks. Yet though he opened his mouth, no sound came out…the hideous keening we were hearing emanated entirely from his mother.

  The cries that spewed from her throat were barely human. She stood with feet apart, arms taut at her sides, hands balled into fists. Her face was contorted hideously and lifted to the Gods, but whether in anger or fear, it was hard to tell.

  Guards and household members were running in from all over the Palace, pushing and milling among themselves as they stared at the High Priestess. Gradually, like the dawning of the sun, Morgan realized that she was not alone. The return of reason muzzled her frenzy until she stood still as the henge stone at Mayburgh.

  Her green gaze flickered around the hallway, and she began to whimper. “Where’s Urien?”

  Every head turned to stare at the King of Northumbria.

  Nightshirted and barefoot, he stood in the doorway to his room. His face was going from white shock to red rage as his gaze moved from the sword to the High Priestess.

  “I’m right here, no thanks to you. Try to kill me with my own weapon, will you?”

  The anger behind his words swelled slowly from doubled-up fist to full expletive as he called her every name he could think of for this worst of treacheries.

  “No, no, M’lord,” Morgan cried, reaching out to him in supplication. “Truly it is not what you think. Have I ever harmed you, in all the years of our marriage? I have naught but respect for Your Lordship, as our son can tell you…M’lord, it was a nightmare, a sleepwalking, a case of possession by one of those Christian demons.”

  Her words came more and more swiftly, a garble of explanation and defense until, in a single motion, Urien stepped across the hall, lifted his sword from the floor, and turned to face her.

  Morgan’s eyes flared wide, and she threw herself against her son, hands clawing at his shoulders, head buried against the young man’s chest. “Uwain, save me…stop his madness, tell him I am innocent. By the life I bore in you, I swear I did not know what I was doing…I was but dreaming and then woke to find you grappling with me at M’lord’s bedside…Tell him, son…tell him!”

  The boy put one arm around her, revulsion and desire to believe her doing battle across his face. His Adam’s apple bobbed convulsively as he tried to swallow, and his eyes pleaded with his father. “What she says is so, Sire…”

  “Phawww, you puling pup! What do you know of women and their machinations? Conniving, vicious, embittered wasp, she has no love for anyone but herself and the acolytes of her precious Goddess!”

  As he was speaking Urien brought the tip of the blade to a point just under Morgan’s chin, and everyone froze. The silence grew long and brittle while the King of Northumbria debated what to do.

  At last, with a curse, he lowered his sword.

  “Good thing for you we’re guests at Arthur’s Court,” he spat at his wife. “If we were home, I would deal with your treason in one stroke.”

  A little sigh of relief escaped the crowd, and the wronged husband glanced over at me. “Get her out of my sight,” he commanded, then paused. “I’d suggest you hold her over until Arthur returns and learns what she has done.”

  I nodded silently and ordered Morgan to be sedated and bound.

  Urien disappeared behind his door, and Morgan swooned in Uwain’s arms, moaning incoherently. Her son carried her back to her room and coaxed her into drinking the sleeping draft, and the two of us sat beside the bed as the High Priestess lapsed into a deep sleep.

  “How did it happen?” I asked, trying to keep my voice gentle, for the boy was still deeply shaken.

  “Strange thing,” he said slowly, looking constantly at his mother, not at me. “That dwarf of hers came and woke me, all upset and agitated; said some sort of spell had been put on her, and she was walking in her sleep. Said he feared for her life…But when I got to my father’s room, it was he who was about to die. She was by the bed, the royal sword held high in both hands, with its point aimed directly at his heart. I think I must have screamed, or maybe it was she who screamed when I leaped at her…I can’t recall. I just know I could see the blood welling up out of him, could see her dripping with the stain of his death, could see her grinning…grinning, M’lady…she was grinning…”

  The lad began to cry silently as the horrible scene replayed itself before his eyes. No child should be caught in a war between parents, so I rose and putting my hands on his temples, let him lean against me as his shoulders shook with sobs. I couldn’t change what had happened, but I could hold him safe and protected while the torrent of disbelief and despair poured from him.

  At last, when Uwain had cried himself out, I bound Morgan’s hands and feet to the bedposts and led the boy out of the room. A bevy of white-robed devotees kept vigil by the door, but I saw no reason to drive them away; it was clear the Lady wasn’t going to go anywhere until after Arthur returned.

  The sun was well risen by now. I went to the kitchen and between us Cei and I pared down Morgan’s intended feast to a more manageable meal.

  “Can’t think what had got into that vixen,” the Seneschal said, gesturing to the range of silver and fancy dishes she had ordered brought out of the cupboards. “She kept talking about the victorious King, as though this were an ordeal Arthur must survive rather than simply a ceremony he was performing.”

  Despite the heat, Cei’s words sent a cold fear through me. The Seneschal had voiced exactly the danger I had felt but been unable to name.

  “Any word from the men?” I asked quickly.

&nb
sp; “No, and not likely, either.” Cei scowled. “The mock battle was to take place at sunrise, and I’ll warrant they’ll be returning with the same speed as a messenger might. Peculiar business, though…very peculiar.”

  I nodded, and when the plans had been made ready for the day, I went to my chamber for a nap—we’d all been up since well before sunrise.

  On the way I stopped to check on Morgan, who slept surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting. The room had been darkened with drapes and the heat was as thick as the silence that greeted me. One might think the High Priestess had died.

  Most of the white-robed acolytes ignored my presence, though I paused to peer more closely at one of the women who reminded me of the matron at Maelgwn’s. When she looked up and nodded civilly, I decided she was not the same.

  Summer thunder rumbled across the sky, but it was no more likely to cool the air than a cuckoo is to raise the offspring it lays in another bird’s nest. Staring out the window, I found nothing but the pale blue of a hot summer day and a cluster of clouds too far off on the horizon to promise much relief.

  I stretched out on my bed, weary and cranky and full of oppressive gloom.

  ***

  If only I’d wake to find Arthur returned, hale and happy and full of his usual energy…

  Chapter XXVII

  The Ordeal

  Now see here, you heathen, you can’t go in there!”

  Vinnie’s indignant cry brought me awake as a flash of lightning lit the storm-dark room. A white-robed figure burst through the door along with a clap of thunder, followed by the matron’s compact form.

  “Your Highness, I must speak with you in private,” the druid croaked, panting heavily. I jumped to my feet and after looking closely at the person hidden beneath the hood, motioned for Vinnie to withdraw and turned to face Nimue.

  The mistress of disguises slipped back her hood and sank down on the edge of the bed. “He’s alive, but just barely. It was a trap, only no one realized it until he was wounded.”

  Her words came out in a jumble and I sagged down next to her, my mind going numb as I realized she was speaking of Arthur. Beyond the window the storm clouds began spitting fire and sheets of lightning clashed in the sky like Merlin’s dragons battling for the destiny of Britain. Gradually Nimue regained her breath, and the story unfolded.

  “I was uneasy about this new ceremony, so when Arthur’s party left I followed them, unseen. They turned into the dark woods of Windsor beyond the chalk ridge that overlooks the river, and made camp beneath an enormous oak—by the time I got there the men had put down their shields and settled in a circle.”

  Nimue watched as the Champions’ shields were hung amid the branches of that spreading tree. They swayed in the moonlight like a crop of sinister fruit—and well out of reach. Then the Master of Druids collected all swords and daggers because the most ancient of Goddesses cannot be approached by anyone wearing iron. Only then could the ritual begin.

  “They held a ceremony that night,” the doire sighed, “keeping Arthur and his men up all through the dark with prayers and chants of purification. No food for anyone, but a dozen different potions for the High King. It’s a wonder they didn’t just poison him outright!”

  Nimue stayed hidden in the shadows, trying to follow what was happening. Shortly before sunrise Arthur was taken aside and the witnesses made their way to the Sacred Grove, passing through woods grown dense with beech and elm, holly and yew. Gnarled oaks hung over the path, their rough bark showing the twisted faces of spirits imprisoned long ago.

  The Grove encircled a clearing in which stood a single, waist-high stone. Old as time, it had served as an altar for untold Gods—sides caked with the blood of ancient rites, top worn to a cradle from centuries of heads being laid there in the final act of sacrifice.

  But grisly as the altar was, it was the tall wooden column beside it that made Nimue shudder. The post was solid and firmly rooted and so big around that two men could barely encompass it. The wood was old and weathered to a silver gray except where it too had been stained with dripping blood.

  “Niches had been carved in it—niches to hold skulls. There must have been half a dozen in all, the upper ones filled with the toothless remains of long-ago victims.” Nimue’s voice dropped to a whisper, and I shivered, for as a child I had come across Morgan worshiping at such a shrine, using a goblet made from a skull.

  “The bottom spaces held a pair of recently severed heads, bedecked with ribbons and dried flowers. The flesh had rotted from the bone, but judging by the long blond hair, they were probably Saxons. It was the middle niche that caught my attention, however—it stood empty, save for an ivy wreath waiting to crown its occupant. For a symbolic rite, it seemed excessive.”

  In the gloom Nimue mixed silently with the men. As long as she stayed away from the actual druids she could pass for just another acolyte, and when the ceremony started she moved to the edge of the clearing where she could see everything unhindered.

  “There was much chanting and clapping beforehand, but as the first ray of the sun struck the stone altar a hush fell on the gathering. It felt as though Death had come to watch the ordeal,” she said, her words shaping the picture before my eyes.

  The opponents emerged from the shadows of the woodland in absolute silence. Each wore a special set of armor, complete with helmets that served as masks so that one couldn’t tell who was fighting whom. Arthur’s was black with a red crest and a picture of the Red Dragon worked on the cheek flaps, and the same insignia was worked on the black bull-hide shield. His opponent was covered with identical armor, though his crest and dragons were white in color. Both swords, which were the shape and length of Excalibur, had been covered with some kind of sap and smeared with soot. Like all the rest of the armor, they appeared to be identical.

  The two men met at the altar, each bowing formally to the other. The warrior Morgan had found to be the Unknown Opponent was a little younger and not as adroit as Arthur—but close enough a match to be the image of the High King three years ago.

  “As the ritual battle began, a druid came to stand next to me,” Nimue continued. “He peered under my hood just long enough to determine who I was…and for me to recognize Cathbad, the druid who was your tutor when you were a child in Rheged.”

  I caught my breath; ever since Cathbad had gone to live and work with the Lady, I’d wondered where his loyalty lay.

  “His hood was up, and under cover of the cowling he whispered, ‘Beware the real Excalibur.’” Nimue looked into my face with an anguished frown. “Gwen, I didn’t know what he meant, or if he was to be trusted…and he vanished as silently as he had appeared. I dared not interrupt the rite without knowing more, so I turned my attention back to the combatants, keeping a close eye on the swords.”

  ***

  Like dancers the two men move about the altar—thrust, parry…feint, sidestep…lunge. Graceful and elegant, mirrors of each other, self fighting self.

  The stage broadens—beyond the altar, across the greensward, back slowly toward the column with its haunting of heads. Avoid the altar—dance around it, keep it always in mind as the pace quickens.

  Time enough—the point is made, and Arthur is weary after his nightlong vigil. Yet the Unknown draws the contest out, makes no move to surrender, refuses to capitulate. Impatient, Arthur brings his sword around full sweep, knocking the Opponent off balance…and the blade of the ceremonial sword snaps.

  The Unknown rushes forward in a frenzy. Blood everywhere, running down Arthur’s arms and legs, oozing from under his armor in a dozen places.

  Aghast, the Companions reach for swords that are not there; Geraint swears at the memory of weapons collected the night before. Arthur’s men look quickly from one to another, uncertain if they should charge across the sacred ground to the King’s aid.

  The deadly Opponent is driving Arthur back, relentlessly. The King crouches, pivots, attempts to spin away. Bumping into the unyielding stone of the altar, he tri
ps, struggles for his balance, and falls backward across the sacrificial table. Death rises above him, the blade poised for the final stroke.

  Out of nowhere and everywhere comes the sound—a whispered growl, a growing roar that rushes finally into the high, piercing howl of the Morrigan—the battle-cry issues from Nimue’s mouth. Unnerved, the Opponent pauses, looking around warily for the War Goddess, in that moment of distraction the High King wraps both fists around the pommel of his broken weapon and smashes it directly into the face of his adversary.

  Stunned, the Unknown goes down, his weapon dropping from his hand. Arthur lunges for it, feels it fly to his grasp like a trusted friend returned at last—the High King recognizes the heft and weight of Excalibur coming home to his hand.

  Blind rage rips through him as Arthur turns to savage his Opponent.

  ***

  “It was all over within minutes,” Nimue concluded. “When the Unknown refused to surrender, the High King smote him at the base of the neck and opened a fatal gash.”

  “Who was it?” I cried.

  “Morgan’s lover, Accolon. She had promised to make him High King once he killed Arthur.”

  I groaned aloud, and Nimue nodded grimly.

  “Accolon confessed everything as he lay dying, begging forgiveness from his King. Arthur let out an anguished wail and slumped unconscious beside the dying Gaul. I threw off my disguise and calling up Arthur’s men, raced across the field as both the druids and Accolon’s followers disappeared into the woods.

  “There was nothing to be done for the Opponent—his fate was sealed when he let Morgan seduce him with her dreams of power. I gave Arthur all my attention, for though he had no shattered bones, he had lost a great deal of blood…from wounds inflicted by his own sword.”