In the years after Father Baldwin came to live with us, we passed more than one wintery evening remembering the days of glory…laughing over this adventure, smiling gently at that. Sometimes I tried to make sense of it, to find the shadow of a God’s hand, or trace the moira through it all: Gawain pursuing honor until it became an all-consuming obsession; Lancelot questing for a God forever beyond reach; Galahad dedicated to his Grail while Arthur was salvaging some semblance of civilization from the dark threat of chaos and anarchy. And me—busy from dawn to dusk, living and laughing and loving every moment of it.
No doubt there is a pattern there, someplace, though I’ve never been able to say what it was. Of those that could be called the tragic aspects, the only ones I truly understand are Morgan’s little-girl heartbreak and the aching betrayal Mordred found in his father’s coldness.
One year Taliesin stopped to visit on his way north to become bard to Maelgwn’s son, Rhun. It seems my cousin left the monastery as soon as he learned Arthur was no longer on the High Throne, and returned to rule Gwynedd, where he went back to being a despot. But when the plague swept the land, he sought to avoid the disease by having himself walled up inside a small country chapel with a year’s supply of food. Unfortunately the servants, who were supposed to wait outside until the pestilence was gone, took sick and died, and when his food ran out, there was no one to unbrick the doors and windows. Thus, ironically, he who had kidnapped me and kept me prisoner died as one himself. Perhaps there is some justice out there after all.
When he left, Taliesin gave me a tract written by the monk, Gildas. Writing in the most dreadful Latin, he scathes all Britons with his acid tongue and claims the Saxon victories are God’s punishment for our non-Christian ways. But nowhere does he mention Arthur—or me. Petty, spiteful little man…did he think he could expunge us from history by pretending we didn’t exist?
If so, he’s wrong. There was a beekeeper came last night, asking room in the guest house in return for a comb of his thick, sweet treasure. For all that he was unlettered, he had a way with words, so after dinner we stayed on listening to his stories, while the fire flared up and the room grew warm and golden, almost like the Hall at Camelot.
There is, he said, a wild man who lives alone in the Caledonian Woods, making poems and magic and talking with a striped pig. Merlin, it is—Merlin come back, Merlin the King’s Enchanter, weaving his spells all over again. He didn’t die, the man said…didn’t die any more than Arthur did. Why, everyone knows Morgan le Fey healed the Pendragon’s wounds, and now he slumbers in a cave, waiting to return when Britain needs him most.
And if any proof is needed, one has only to go to South Cadbury, where the ruins of fabled Camelot stand. The locals, Saxon and Briton alike, will tell you that on any night when the wind has scoured the stars from the sky, ’tis Arthur and Gwyn of Neath who come riding out of the hollow hill, leading the Wild Hunt on their great black horses.
“It’s him,” the beekeeper swore. “King Arthur himself, with all the finest Champions of his Fellowship, racing to join the Queen who waits for them in the meadow, with May-flowers in her hair and joy in her heart.”
The beekeeper didn’t notice an old, old lady sitting in the granny-nook, smiling at his words. Why should he? I’ve become no more than the shadow of a time long gone.
But I heard the tale, and knew that Merlin’s promise that we would live forever was a true-spoke prophecy. The people need us, and they will not let us die. Because of them, Camelot still lives, where a Sorcerer’s dream became reality, and the Fellowship of the Round Table flowered. Camelot, where men of honor strive for noble causes, and a just king rules in a land of wonder…where love lasts forever, and I still watch Arthur and Lancelot come tramping across the courtyard from their morning rounds, heads bent in consultation…splendid men they were, for splendid times…
So I smile, knowing the truth of it, loving the humans at the heart of the myth.
Yes, it was magnificent, and no, it was never easy…yet, still in all…I’d do it all over again, tomorrow.
An excerpt from
Queen of the Summer Stars
I, Guinevere, wife of King Arthur and High Queen of Britain, dashed around the corner of the chicken coop, arms flying, war whoop filling my throat. The children of the Court were ranged behind me, shouting gleefully as a half-grown piglet skittered across the inner courtyard of the Mansion. The paving stones were slippery from a morning shower and the squealing shoat skidded into the kitchen doorstep before careening off toward the garden.
“Not again!” I howled, throwing myself on the creature just as a stranger stepped through the door.
With a flurry of bunched muscles and flailing trotters the porker squirted out of my grasp, leaving me red-faced and breathless. Brushing my hair out of my eyes, I looked up to find a small, mud-spattered priest staring down at me in astonishment.
“Your Highness?”
I grinned at the tentative greeting and scrambled back to my feet. Heaven knows what he expected of his High King’s wife, but I was what he got.
Reading Group Guide
1. How is this version of Camelot different from presentations you have encountered before? What do you like best and least in each approach?
2. What would you have done differently had you been in Gwen’s place? Why?
3. Just before she died, Gwen’s mother told her, “Once you see what must be done, you just do it,” an admonition that shapes Gwen’s actions throughout her life. Is there one such guiding principle in your philosophy, and where (or who) did it come from? Do you like it or dislike it? Have you passed it on to your children?
4. What most surprised you about the lifestyles portrayed in this book?
5. Have you been in any of Gwen’s situations in your own life—been unable to have children of your own, become a stepparent, tried to mitigate between the warring factions of your family or loved two people at once? How did (or would) you handle it differently from Gwen?
6. Would you like to be a ruling monarch?
7. Why do you think the story of Camelot has lasted these fifteen centuries? What are the themes that touch you most?
8. Persia deliberately made her Guinevere homely, though Arthur’s queen has generally been described as beautiful. Did this difference affect your reaction to her?
About the Author
Persia Woolley is the author of the Guinevere Trilogy: Child of the Northern Spring, Queen of the Summer Stars, and Guinevere, the Legend in Autumn. Persia has had a career in journalism and television, and she has also written three nonfiction books. She presently lives near the northern California coast with her son and is currently working on an annotated version of her Guineveres for the use of students and scholars in the field.
Guinevere, the Legend in Autumn: Book Three of the Guinevere Trilogy Page 48