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

by Persia Woolley

  Arthur nodded curtly. “Neither of my sisters is welcome at Court,” he said flatly. “They are banished, exiled, forbidden to come to Logres or wherever I may be visiting, and there are to be no exceptions.”

  I had long since given up trying to figure out why Arthur harbored such hatred for Morgause. Whatever she had done following the Great Battle, I thought it should be remembered that she had just been widowed, and grief can make us all say hasty, ill-thought things. I had hoped that time would mellow Arthur’s attitude toward her, particularly since she continued to send her sons to serve us. But it seemed unlikely the rift would ever be healed now that Arthur was lumping both her and the Lady together in one prohibition. Morgan clearly deserved it, but I still wasn’t sure that the Queen of the Orkney Isles did.

  ***

  Lance’s homecoming caused a flurry of excitement and some distress at the Hall that night. Arthur simply reinstated the Breton in his old position at the King’s side without mentioning it to Gawain beforehand.

  I saw a look of surprise and then hurt cross the Orcadian’s face as he found his chair had been moved away from the King’s.

  “Come, now,” I suggested, “no one’s spoken for the seat next to me, and I’d be delighted with your company.”

  The Champion gave me a scathing look, then carefully scanned the Hall. “Thank you anyhow, Your Highness,” he said coldly. “But I see that the Lady Ettard is all alone, and I promised Pelleas I’d look after her until he returned.”

  He picked up a handy goblet of wine and, downing it on the spot, sauntered across the room to where the convent girl sat. I watched him go and saw the sudden radiance that lit Ettard’s face when she realized he intended to join her. Oh, dear, I thought, she’ll never be willing to go live on a steading now.

  It was Cei who sat beside me instead, and when Lancelot introduced the boy he’d found on the Road, the Seneschal looked him over through narrowed eyes. “I’d say he’s never done a day’s work in his life. You can see from his hands; they’re far too well kept for a workaday lad. What do we know of him?”

  When I explained that he didn’t want to go into his past, the Seneschal gave a snort. “Could be a runaway slave escaped from some Middle Eastern merchant—I hear they like young boys.” Cei absently swirled the wine in his goblet and passed it under his nose several times while his eyes continued to appraise the youth. “He’s very pretty…one might almost say effeminate.”

  That hadn’t occurred to me, and I turned to look at the newcomer more closely. He caught my glance and came to stand before me.

  “I appreciate your hospitality, Your Highness,” he said, then nodded to Cei.

  “What would you like to be called?” I asked, realizing he had not given us his name.

  “I for one will call him ‘Beaumains,’ because his hands are so fair,” the Seneschal announced, abruptly leaning forward and taking one in order to examine it. Clasped in Cei’s bejeweled fingers, the boy’s hand looked almost delicate.

  The lad gave a start but didn’t pull back.

  “Have you and the King decided what you should do here at Court?” I inquired.

  Beaumains shook his head, and Cei smiled tightly as he studied the lad’s palm. “I can use him in the kitchen,” the Seneschal decreed as he let go of the boy. “Have you any experience in cooking?”

  “Not much, Sir…but I’m willing to learn.” The lad laughed in an open, friendly response; it was clear he was not going to let Cei’s abrasive style disturb him.

  So it was arranged. Beaumains walked away with a kind of instinctive ease and pleasure that was at total odds with the brooding, secretive Cei and I wondered how long the lad would last in the kitchen. At least I was sure that Cook would see he was treated fairly.

  The evening went comfortably from then on, and after Arthur had gone to sleep I lay wakefully beside him, studying his profile in the moonlight and thinking about Lance’s return.

  The Breton seemed very much at home with Arthur and me together, and the Companions were glad to have him back. For my part, I welcomed the return of Arthur’s enthusiasm and the easy friendship that flowed between the three of us, just as it had in the past.

  Whatever Lance’s feelings were, he seemed to have dealt with them while he was at Warkworth. There was nothing in his manner to indicate that the encounter under the willow had changed anything. One might almost believe the kiss had never happened—and with care it would never be repeated. As long as I had Arthur to focus on, to stand between me and Lancelot, I was comfortable.

  The notes of a wakeful thrush filled the night—rich-throated and exuberant, there is no other bird song so splendid, or so unselfconscious. By its very nature it made me think of Arthur.

  ***

  I looked at my husband one last time and smiled before going to sleep.

  Chapter XXIX

  The Lovers

  With the return of Lance, Arthur’s recuperation was complete, and it wasn’t long before we were all involved in developing plans for the new headquarters at South Cadbury’s hill-fort.

  “It’ll not only be a good headquarters for keeping track of the Saxons,” Arthur mused, “it’s also big enough to hold the entire Court. I’ve been thinking I’d like to put a fine Hall up here on the ridge, and the stables over there…”

  Bedivere and Lance were so engrossed in the sketch Arthur was making, they didn’t notice Dinadan’s arrival at the door. The Cornishman was one of the most easygoing people I knew, but now he was travel-tired and haggard, and an alarming tension radiated from him. Tristan was nowhere to be seen.

  “He cannot stay away from her!” Dinadan exclaimed, his voice full of exasperation. “The new priest lectures him—to no avail. I point out the folly of the thing—to no avail. Even the swineherd has warned him—to no avail. The man is deaf to reason!”

  “Swineherd?” Lance queried.

  Dinadan sighed wearily. “Tristan’s been living with a swineherd in the forest, and he sends the man to Castle Dore to leam when it’s safe to meet Isolde. I swear that Tris thrives on the dangerous part of this mess—even though King Mark has banished him from Court, he still creeps into her garden at night.”

  “Banished?” Arthur’s reaction was one of shock. I thought of Uther and Igraine—perhaps there are some lovers for whom the element of danger is part of the excitement.

  Dinadan gave another nod. “The Lady of the Lake sent Mark a letter saying straight out what everyone else already knew, and the old King flew into an absolute rage—made all kinds of fuss, swearing he’d give the girl over to bandits and brigands for their pleasure, threatening to have Tris executed…At least that made some impression on the lad; that’s when he went to live in the forest.”

  “What happened to Isolde?” I asked.

  “The wiles of women never cease to amaze me!” Dinadan made an apologetic nod in my direction. “Your Highness is one of the more exceptionally honest of the sex I’ve ever met, you understand. Isolde claimed that the accusations were only spiteful rumors started by people who were jealous of Tristan’s standing in his uncle’s Court.”

  To prove herself blameless Mark’s Queen offered to undergo any test her husband might demand. One of Illtud’s pupils, a monk named Samson, had recently come to Castle Dore, breathing fire and brimstone. He convinced Mark to hold a Trial by Ordeal at the bank of a nearby stream, where all could see how the guilt or innocence of the Queen was resolved.

  “I may have reason to question my bride,” Mark declared, “but I have faith that the God of Christ would not let harm come to an innocent party.”

  As the day of the Ordeal approached, Isolde grew pale and tense, weeping through the nights and spending her days railing at her husband for believing more in his God than he did in her. Mark, meanwhile, lived with the misery of doubting both his nephew and his bride.

  ***

  “I do not know which pained him more,” Dinadan said softly. “Tris is the son of Mark’s sister, who died in
childbirth, leaving him to raise the lad as his own. So the idea that Tristan would betray him like this cut doubly deep.” The Cornishman shook his head in bewilderment, sorrowing equally for his friend and his King. “Mark dotes on his wife as though she were the sun in his heaven. He may be grossly selfish and not always an honorable leader, but he’s honest and true in his love for the girl, however misguided it might be.”

  Early on the morning of the trial the Cornish Queen accompanied her husband to the chapel in Lantyne, carrying in outstretched hands a beautiful altar cloth that she had embroidered herself. Slowly and reverently, with downcast eyes and bent head, the Irish beauty walked into the little church and laid her offering on the communion table. There were oohs and ahs from the parishioners, and even the faultfinding priest had to acknowledge that the girl had done a fine bit of handiwork in the service of the Lord.

  During Mass she and Mark sat apart, for the issue of her innocence was still to be proven at the river’s edge and he dared not weaken in his resolve.

  When the praying was over the whole congregation followed the King and his lady as they set out for the stream. On the far side was a forge, and the smith had been ordered to have the coals well banked and cherry red.

  People came from miles around, both Pagan and Christian, to see the outcome of this test, and there was much muttering and craning of necks by those who wanted to watch the nobles.

  ***

  “Tris had gotten us both up in the habits of novices from a monastery,” Dinadan recounted. “You know how he loves to play games and tricks on people…one would have thought this was just another prank, although both his life and Isolde’s would be forfeit should the coals prove her to be false.”

  The two warriors waited in a willow clump beside the brook, and as the royal party approached, Tristan pulled the hood of his habit up over his head. Hitching his robe up to his knees, he edged out into the waterway. Slack-jawed and stooping, he gawked at the King’s party like any country yokel.

  Isolde and Mark were riding in a cart, and when they paused midway in the ford, Tristan moved closer, staring at the portly monarch, mouth open and eyes squinted as though to see him better. It appeared he did not even notice the Queen.

  ***

  Pointing to the fire, King Mark cries out, “There, my dear. If you can honestly swear you have not committed adultery, God will allow you to carry a burning coal from the forge to the river without so much as blistering your hands.”

  The young Queen gasps and casting a stricken look about her, falls from the cart in a faint. Lunging forward, Tristan makes an awkward job of catching her, and lifting her above the water, carries her to the other side of the ford.

  Drenched from the knees down, the novice stands on the bank, stammering stupidly as he looks around for help as to what to do with the Queen. All can see he’s a pious country boy, struck dumb by the nearness of so much royalty.

  Isolde’s eyes flutter, and she begins to moan. Everyone’s attention shifts to the fragile beauty, and having put her on her feet, the novice laboriously wades back across the water to watch the proceedings—unnoticed—from the farther bank.

  In a stentorian voice the new priest commands God to judge this matter, then asks the Queen to swear to her innocence.

  “By the White Christ,” she cries, her voice lifting with conviction, “I swear that the only two men to hold me in their arms have been my husband, Mark, and the novice who carried me across the stream just now.”

  With great dignity she holds out her hand as the smith takes his tongs and carefully lays an ember in the center of her palm.

  ***

  Dinadan shook his head in amazement. “She received it with neither twitch nor wince, and walked to the stream in a kind of stately trance. The coal hissed and sputtered when she dropped it into the water, but there was no sign that she had felt its heat. If I hadn’t heard Tris boasting of their times together, even I would have thought her to be blameless. I swear a beautiful woman can make men believe anything!”

  I snorted and glanced at Arthur and Lance. The High King was watching Dinadan, but Lance’s gaze was far off, and neither noticed my reaction.

  “Where do things stand now?” I asked, getting to my feet and stretching. There had to be some reason why Dinadan had come to us.

  “She’s returned to Mark’s good graces, but he watches her like a hawk, and she’s begun begging Tris to take her away.” Dinadan turned to Arthur. “Can we count on you for sanctuary?”

  “We?” Arthur noted, and Dinadan looked hard at his own hands.

  “I’ve long wanted to become a member of the Round Table,” he said bashfully. “Perhaps if I bring the finest warrior from Cornwall, I will have earned a place in the Fellowship myself?”

  “Of course, my friend.” Arthur laughed. “Both you and Tris have always been welcome, whenever you chose to come.” But he paused and shot Dinadan a more serious look. “What will Mark’s reaction be if she leaves him?”

  “I don’t know. Anger, or sorrow…or maybe relief.”

  “Do you think he’ll come after them?”

  “I’m not sure.” Dinadan rubbed his chin diligently. “It would take a lot for him to mount a war against you, particularly with his best warrior in your camp. But I cannot altogether swear he wouldn’t.”

  Arthur was pacing the room, weighing the probabilities. “Well,” he said at last, “it won’t make any difference in whether I take the lovers in or not, just where we keep them. How would it be, Lance, if they joined you at Warkworth for the summer?”

  “But what about the work at Cadbury?” the Breton exclaimed, obviously surprised.

  Arthur frowned. “I don’t really need you for that—Bedivere can handle it. But I do need someone to give Tris and Isolde a safe haven. And Mark isn’t likely to march an army all the way up to Warkworth just to claim his wife.”

  “True,” Lancelot agreed, though it was clear that he’d prefer to spend the summer with us. “Couldn’t Pelli put them up at the Wrekin?”

  “With that great brood of children he’s produced, and all the warriors and family members that have collected around him? He doesn’t have room,” Arthur answered, then grinned. “Besides, royal guests expect royal accommodations.”

  Dinadan noted that anything would be an improvement over the swineherd’s hut, and he for one thought the whole subject of love was hugely overrated, especially if it interfered with one’s housing arrangements.

  We all laughed at that, and when he left the next day to return to Tristan we assured him we would give the Cornish lovers sanctuary.

  ***

  It was an unusually beautiful spring, and a number of romances began to blossom among our courtiers. Pages and squires stared calf-eyed after flocks of giggling household girls, the newest warriors boasted and strutted before my younger ladies-in-waiting, and even the seasoned Companions responded to the beguilements of the season, though not always with a light heart.

  “Griflet wants us to make our pledge and begin our own family,” Frieda confided one morning as we checked on the newest batch of pups. We had procured another bitch after Cabal’s death, and the kennels were now full of Caesar’s progeny.

  “Sounds very sensible,” I commented, watching the little ones nuzzling blindly for their mother’s teat.

  “But it means I must choose—between my family and him, that is.” A catch in the Saxon girl’s voice reminded me how closely she was tied to her kin. “Oh, M’lady, I love them both. I can’t imagine giving up either one for the other…or why they should demand it. Why can’t loving just be loving, without all kinds of decisions?”

  Why, indeed, I thought, gently commiserating with her.

  Fortunately not all our lovers were caught in conflicts; Ettard, for instance, seemed suddenly very happy.

  “This morning she was singing to herself.” Augusta paused meaningfully. “I tell you, something has changed.”

  I coughed pointedly, and the Roman goss
ip looked down at her lap. At least she’d control her poisonous tongue while I was around.

  “Maybe,” Elaine suggested, “she’s simply excited about her wedding. Didn’t you say she was to marry Pelleas as soon as he comes back? I’ll wager she’s just full of good spirits because of that.”

  The redhead was on her hands and knees retrieving her kitten, and she looked up at me with a grin. I nodded, thinking that while the girl from Carbonek might be every bit as spoiled as Augusta, she at least had a habit of looking on the best side of things rather than the worst.

  The conversation veered to other things: the abundance of lavender blossoms in the garden this year, and what fine sachets they would make when dried; a new recipe for using the ashes of bracken in making soap, and the most recent stories of strange happenings in the Wood of Wirral.

  “I’ve a cousin who lives there,” a new girl from Chester noted, “and she says it’s the Green Man who goes stalking through the Wood at night. That Old God ain’t been seen for generations, you know.” She made the sign against evil, for the Green One was feared and revered by all.

  “What we need is one of the traveling saints to banish the wretched thing,” Vinnie said firmly. “I could write to my friend the Bishop of Carlisle and see if he’s got someone to send down that way.”

  Vinnie had badgered the hierarchy into sending a bishop to refurbish the old church in Carlisle when I was a girl, and to this day she took a proprietary interest in his activities.

  “’T’ain’t wretched,” the Chesterite said quickly, fairly bristling at Vinnie’s assumption that what was non-Christian was evil. “He’s the most ancient one of all, God of the Beasts and Field, who commands the whole of life…excepting maybe what the Goddess controls.”

  “I’ll wager he challenges all comers,” Elaine speculated, her eyes wide with awe. “Just like the great warriors at the river fords of old; ‘Present arms, Sir, or you shall not pass!’” She grabbed her kitten and held it up as the challenger, making us all laugh.