Queen of the Summer Stars

by Persia Woolley

  ***

  “Saxons!”

  Cei’s warning wakened us just before dawn. “Five of them in the lead—riding up from the Humber, heading directly for us.”

  Arthur leapt up from the blankets, taut as a bowstring as he reached for his mail shirt. There was a rustle of link on link when he slipped it over his head, and I knelt to secure his swordbelt in place. Light from the setting moon streamed through the open tent flap, glinting off the gold and jewels of Excalibur’s hilt, and I prayed the Sacred Sword would even the odds of our four against the five barbarians. Once the baldric was buckled Arthur put his hand on my head.

  “Best you get away from here, lass. I’ll have Lance take you to the main camp.”

  “Nonsense,” I retorted. “I’ve always wanted to be a warrior.”

  I was rummaging among the bedding, pulling Arthur’s green cloak free. I’d made it as a wedding present, and though it hadn’t originally been intended as a war-cape, the necessary padding had been added when it became clear that Arthur would always be in danger.

  “Besides,” I noted, holding up the cape, “I’d rather be with you so I can see what’s happening.”

  “Then by the Gods, stay out of sight; you know how Saxons treat captured women.” Arthur’s voice was curt as he slung the cape over his shoulders. I thought of Ettard’s family and shivered.

  He left without another word as a strange horse neighed nervously in the distance. I held my breath, praying none of our mounts would break the silence that had descended on the camp.

  No doubt Cei was already with the animals, for even the untrained Shadow remained quiet. I climbed into my breeches and tunic and, piling my hair up under a knotted wool cap, crept out of the tent. With my lanky build and plain features I’d been mistaken for a squire more than once—if I didn’t call attention to myself, I could at least see how our fortunes were going.

  To the east the sky was barely lightening while the last of the moonlight struck the clearing slantwise, making dark shadows of our men as they prepared for battle. Each moved with a lean, measured grace, making neither sound nor unnecessary motion. Arthur mounted first, followed by Gawain and Lance—Cei was already astride his warhorse.

  My stomach tightened as hoofbeats marked the approach of the Saxons. They were letting their animals pick out the path, totally unaware of our presence—with any luck they would ride right into camp, and we could capture them without bloodshed.

  Suddenly Shadow let out a ringing whinny, and a string of oaths exploded in the darkness on both sides. The Saxons were just breaking through the screen of trees between us and the path as Cei sent his horse rocketing toward them with savage, silent intent.

  Something hard met something soft, followed by an awful, gurgling sound, and sweat broke out all over my skin.

  In the melee that followed there was no way to tell one man from another. Wrenching moans and the gut-piercing ring of blade on blade echoed through the trees while the smell of blood splattered the air. The horses milled amid screams and curses; a large, unfamiliar animal loomed in front of me, and with sudden terror I realized the circular white shape that floated in the gloom above it was the shield of a barbarian.

  The man yanked his steed aside to avoid getting tangled in the tent ropes just as I broke from them and I heard his oath of surprise as he saw me. I ran headlong for the dark shadow of the giant oak, intending to climb into the safety of its branches—anything to get away from the carnage that now flowed everywhere.

  The invader’s horse came pounding after me, shaking the ground with his hooves as I raced for my life into a soft, dreamy world where everything moved with great deliberation and a hundred thoughts registered with each stride. I wondered why I’d never asked Arthur how he’d gotten that scar on his shoulder, and if Taliesin was progressing well with his music, and what barbarian would get Igraine’s golden torque if I didn’t survive this attack.

  The tree rose before me, but to my horror the lowest branch was well above my reach, and though I jumped for it, I missed and fell, panting, to the ground.

  Cei was howling imprecations and the horse behind me snorted violently, rearing suddenly as I tried to roll out of the way. The rider let out one last, rattling scream and fell from its back. Terrified, the warhorse wheeled away as Cei planted a spear upright through the invader’s chest. The ash pole glimmered palely in the early light.

  Thankfully the fellow was silent, though there were others moaning and writhing in the bloody dawn.

  Then all at once it became very quiet. Cleansing as clear water, an absolute stillness bathed the world while the sun rose on the blood-soaked turf of our camp.

  No one moved for the longest time, though someone was sobbing with a great racking sorrow. Through blinding tears I gazed around the clearing, searching out one after another of our men. Cei was cleaning his spear with long handfuls of grass, his mouth set in grim silence. Gawain hacked viciously at something in the grass and began to caper in a wild, drunken dance of glee and terror, singing and crying as he brandished the head of his enemy by the hair. Lance knelt beside a fallen foe, his hands moving gently over the man’s face, slowly closing the eyelids. It might have been the tender caress of a lover, and I wondered what the Breton felt in such moments of awful triumph.

  Only Arthur was not in sight, and I bolted from my hiding spot, driven by the fear that he’d been killed.

  “Gwen!” His voice came sharply through my panic, and as I turned toward the sound he reached my side, gathering me up in his arms. The momentum of his rush carried us both forward into the center of the clearing.

  “Thank heavens!” he rasped. “I couldn’t find you…I thought…”

  I flung my arms around him and buried my head in his shoulder, hearing the sobs muffle against his cape. The shining exaltation of life triumphant in the face of so much death coursed through us as he carried me into our tent and dropped the flap closed.

  It was then, in the wild, fierce mating that followed, that Arthur spoke his love of me for the first, and almost only, time.

  ***

  “These were guides, sent to meet a small landing party.” Cei gestured wearily toward the five corpses. “The rest surrendered without a fuss. Gawain has them under guard in the main camp.” Arthur’s foster-brother looked drawn and pale in the early light, and he favored one arm.

  “Are you wounded?” I asked, remembering that he had dealt with two of the enemy single-handed.

  “Wrenched, not slashed,” he answered curtly.

  “You’re much to be commended.” I looked directly into Cei’s cold, guarded eyes. “I would not have seen this day’s sun but for your bravery, and I want you to know I appreciate it. Any woman you claim as mate can be proud of your courage.”

  He stared at me without responding, then turned his face away. Evidently it was not a compliment that pleased him, though I had meant only the best by it.

  Arthur was packing up and the Seneschal hastened off to the main camp without even glancing in my direction again.

  ***

  As we neared York the Road filled up with people bringing the mid-summer harvest to a fair. We marched among them, keeping the Saxons prisoners under guard. That motley group included more women and children than men, and most of them were grieving silently for their dead. I suspected we had encountered a clan of immigrants rather than a fierce war party and hoped they wouldn’t all be treated as marauders.

  “Don’t let their appearance fool you,” Urien warned over dinner that night. Since there had been Federates living in or near York for many years, Urien knew their ways well. “The barbarians don’t need special warriors. Oh, they have a few Champions—men called berserkers who make a ritual of warfare and work themselves into a frenzy of bloodlust before battle—but most of their troops come from the land. Every freeman farmer is a trained fighter; at any moment he can put
down his plow and take up his weapon. Not a bad system. Each supports himself and his family, and defends his lands and lord if they are threatened. Much more efficient than this,” he added, gesturing to the British warriors who lounged at the tables of his Hall with nothing else to do.

  “I’ll give your captives a patch of land, and let them shelter with the other Federates if they’ll swear fealty,” the older man suggested as he upended his cup. “They rarely give me any trouble, except for that batch up on the coast causing mischief around Yeaverling—settlements so spread out in that area, one can’t protect them all. But my local Saxons are hardworking and cooperative, and pay their taxes in mead and bread. Here,” he added, pulling off a portion of the loaf in front of him and depositing it on my plate. “Made of a grain they brought with them—grows on the poorest soil—they call it rye.”

  I looked at the dense, grayish stuff and when I took a tentative bite my nose caught the pungent tang even before my tongue did. It had none of the lightness of wheat bread, but I tried it with a slab of cheese and found it pleasant. Between soap and their law and this new sour bread, the barbarians were bringing all sorts of interesting things to Britain.

  Our conversation moved round to news of the west which, according to Urien, had also had a prosperous year.

  “The Irish are coming in droves,” he announced, turning to me. “Your father says they are mainly following Fergus into Strathclyde, though there’s various families in Rheged as well. The one by Morecambe Bay has developed a thriving business in dogs like yours.”

  He nodded toward Caesar and Cabal, and I grinned to myself. Those would be Brigit’s kin, trading away puppies as fast as their wolfhounds could produce them.

  “At least the Irish have ceased raiding.” Urien chucked a bone to his terriers by the hearth-fire. “Maelgwn is holding the north of Wales secure, and there’s little influx except in holy men further south. Saddest news out of Wales is poor old Pellam. That wound of his still won’t heal, and his kingdom is languishing because of it. Horrible business when a monarch is cut down by his own sword.”

  The King of Northumbria made the sign against evil, and we all followed suit. The story of the Fisher King strikes dread in the hearts of all British leaders, for a king who is not whole and healthy brings plague and pestilence upon his land. And when the cause of his disablement is his own weapon, there is little chance that he will recover. For years now Pellam had clung to life, neither sound enough to recover nor brave enough to make the royal sacrifice. The whole ghastly thing echoed of punishment by the Gods, and I wondered why the Lady of the Lake had not gone to his aid.

  “Pellam’s Christian,” Urien observed, “and will have nothing to do with the Old Ways. It’s a wonder he survives at all.”

  The conversation soon drifted round to reminiscences, and Urien’s bard began retelling stories of Arthur’s early exploits in the area, when he had helped Urien drive the barbarians back to the coast. Cador of Cornwall had gained much glory in that campaign, and I turned to watch him and his son, Constantine. The younger warrior was a strapping fellow somewhat older than Arthur and as ruddy and rawboned as his father. But Cador had grown gray and grizzled now—I suspected he looked much as his father, Gorlois, would have when Igraine married him. Between the song of the bard and the look of the man, the bravery of past generations wove into a comforting present.

  ***

  Since so many people had come to the city for the fair, Urien used the occasion to have the leading Federates meet with the group we had captured. They in turn promised Arthur they would stand surety for the newcomers’ loyalty.

  A fine ceremony was held at the center of the Market, where all could witness the High King’s leniency. Arthur gave each captive freedom, along with a bag of barley so they would not be an unfair burden on their sponsors, and everyone seemed pleased with the arrangement.

  That afternoon I prowled through the old Imperial City, exploring what had once been the northern capital of Britain. The huts and shops that have grown up higgledy-piggledy within the fortress are as colorful and exciting as those at Chester. A multitude of alleys and shortcuts wound between them; “snickleways” threading past stalls and arcades, giving onto hidden courts where flowers run riot in the lee of a wall or bakers put fresh scones and pot-pies on their windowsills to cool.

  I paused by a stall at the end of one such meander, my attention caught by a pair of tiny fur slippers. The soft moleskin promised to keep a toddler’s feet warm, and I picked one up, marveling at their smallness.

  “Fit for a royal bairn,” the woman said, carefully drawing a length of linen thread through her block of beeswax. When I looked up, surprised, she grinned. “The whole country knows where you and His Highness are these days, M’lady…and we’re right glad to be hosting you, at that.”

  She carefully threaded the smallest bone bodkin I’d ever seen, then picked up another piece of work and began the painstaking process of stitching the furs together, chatting comfortably. “Between your visit and the fair, it’s a good time for all of us. Every Champion in your party must have come to trade for goods in the Market. In fact,” she added nonchalantly, “I’d be happy to give you the little pair of booties as a thank-you.”

  It was a casual offer, made without innuendo or intent to hurt. From her tone one would guess she’d birthed half a dozen infants such as the one who slept in the cradle nearby and no doubt thought it the most natural thing in the world. A blind, black jealousy swept over me, and I looked away hastily.

  Unfairly or not, I resented the bounty of her womb when mine lay fallow and I had to fight not to lash out at her in pain and anger.

  The baby fretted drowsily, and the woman set the cradle to rocking with her foot, her hands still busy with the pelts. “Once you and the High King settle down, you’ll be raising young’uns of your own. I’d be honored if you’d accept these as a token of our respect.”

  She spoke with the commonsense conviction of any farmwife, as though the idea of my not becoming a mother had never occurred to her. Suddenly my own in-turning misery seemed twisted and warped. I looked at her and smiled, grateful for the vote of confidence. When she handed me the booties I was sure it was a sign of good luck.

  ***

  On the last day of our visit Urien feasted us on the terrace of his Imperial Palace. A pleasant breeze was softening the heat, and I sat back, rested and comfortable, watching a flock of birds that rose, circled, and returned again and again to a spot behind the kitchen. When I finally asked about them it was Uwain, Urien’s son, who answered with a laugh.

  “Pigeons, from the cote. We feed them all year long, and if there are unexpected guests, Cook just nips out and grabs an extra bird for the pot.”

  It seemed a splendid idea, and I stowed it away for future use as Uwain moved off to talk with the rest of the guests. Watching him go, it occurred to me that he would soon become a warrior. As he joined a group of Companions there was laughter and joking, and I smiled when Gawain slung his arm around his younger cousin and gave him a good-natured hug.

  At the end of the meal Tristan came over to speak with Arthur, asking permission to leave our party and go to Morgan’s Sanctuary.

  “There’s something I need to consult her about,” the lanky Cornishman explained. “And Uwain has said he’ll guide me, as he planned to visit his mother anyway.”

  Arthur readily gave his permission, and it was only later that I began to wonder why a Christian knight would seek help from the High Priestess. I asked Arthur if he had any idea, but the contradiction had not occurred to him.

  ***

  So when we left York and headed up Dere Street to the Wall, it was without the Harper. But the more I thought about it, the more peculiar the whole matter seemed, and by the time we reached Corbridge I was distinctly uncomfortable—whatever Tris needed, I suspected the Lady would not give it to him.

  C
hapter XV

  The Stuff of Dreams

  At Corbridge we stayed at the inn of the woman who had made my down comforter. She was bashful about hosting the High King’s party, so I tried to put her at ease after dinner by telling her how much Arthur and I enjoyed the quilt. The woman bobbed her head in pleasure, then asked hopefully if Palomides was with us.

  “He had to stay at Silchester to train the new recruits,” I explained, only then remembering that she had helped him when he was a child.

  “Strange little tyke he was.” She paused in the midst of sweeping the crumbs from the tabletop. “His master claimed he was an Arab, born into slavery. All I knew was the boy was too young to look out for himself when his owner died. So I was relieved that my sister was glad to take him, what with her being without children…’tis a lucky thing when a barren woman finds a child in need of mothering, don’t you think?”

  “You haven’t seen him since then?” I queried, shying from the subject of infertility. “He’s grown into one of the finest horsemen in Britain. In fact, it was Palomides who brought us the use of the stirrup.”

  “Well, fancy that.” The good woman was pleased he had won renown, although it was clear she had no idea what a stirrup was. Perhaps she’d never see the canvas and leather loops we now sew on all our saddles.

  “I often wondered what would happen to the boy,” our hostess went on, carefully adjusting the rush-light in its stand. “Different he was, and not just in skin color. I always felt he was destined for something else—travel, maybe, or the life of a monk.”

  I’d never thought about the Arab’s future, other than to suppose he’d marry. Certainly he had a charming way with the ladies, and it seemed unlikely he’d become a hermit. But he was often quiet and thoughtful when others were laughing boisterously, and perhaps that denoted deeper dreams than the rest of us knew. He was, in that way, much like Lancelot.