Queen of the Summer Stars

by Persia Woolley

  “Like old times,” I noted, gingerly sitting up to give her a hug of welcome. “Remember the days at Sarum, before the wedding?”

  The doire smiled but hastened to explain that she couldn’t stay long. “Arthur sent me to make sure you’re fully healed before asking you to travel. And I wanted to see for myself how badly you’ve been hurt. Judging from what Brigit tells me, you’ve had excellent care and are making a strong recovery.”

  I nodded, relieved that Arthur was so fully apprised of the situation and touched by his concern.

  Nimue examined me thoroughly and sat down on the bed while I readjusted my clothes. She pronounced me essentially cured—the bleeding and discharge had stopped, the pain had gone. That was no more than I could have deduced, and when she continued to stare at me, I faced her calmly and demanded to know what else there might be.

  The doire took both my hands in her own and looked fully into my eyes as she spoke. “Gwen, if infections like this don’t kill her, they leave a woman barren. It’s unlikely you’ll ever get pregnant again.”

  The words hit like a blunted sword, bruising deeply without breaking the surface. My eyes skittered from one corner of the room to another, not even registering what they looked on, and my voice seemed to have deserted me entirely.

  “Are you certain?” I whispered.

  “No,” she answered, looking down at our hands, “With this sort of thing, one is never certain. I can only tell you what has happened before.”

  For a long minute the numbness that had imprisoned me of late began to waver, then suddenly gave way to a sea-surge howl of fear and anger—fear of Maelgwn, anger at the irony that now, when the hope of motherhood had grown strong again, it should be dealt this final blow. There are reasons why people grow bitter toward the Gods.

  “Does Arthur know?” I asked when my sobbing subsided.

  Nimue shook her head. “I wasn’t sure, not having spoken with Brigit. Besides, I thought you would prefer to tell him yourself.”

  I bit my lip and looked away. At least I was luckier than some, for Arthur was unlikely to berate me for this failure. He’d made it very clear he had no dreams of raising sons or any desire to watch daughters grow and bloom. But I winced at the thought of our coming together again. The idea of bed left me feeling numb and chilled, and while I had no doubt he’d continue to recognize me as his Queen, an inner, nagging voice whispered that he’d see me as unclean, defiled, unworthy. Perhaps that was why he had not come after me himself.

  Nimue’s voice cut across my thoughts. “Arthur received word of your abduction the day after he learned the barbarians were preparing a coordinated assault—Saxons from both the north and south, coming together under Cerdic’s leadership. There was no way the High King could rescue you and stand firm against them at the same time.” She smiled at me gently. “If it’s any consolation, the victory at Mt. Badon was final and complete; Cerdic is dead, and the might of the barbarians is broken. Right now Arthur is rounding up Federates and invaders alike—finishing the job once and for all. It’s a tremendous relief to him to know the Queen’s Champion is at your side; with Lance to look after you, he knows you’re safe.”

  The doire’s explanation allayed some of my fears; one doesn’t ask history to pause while you attend to personal matters. But there was still the question of how my people would view me—how much did they know of the rape, and how would they react to my return?

  “The news of your abduction spread rapidly, Gwen…after all, you are their Queen. Many of them are outraged, and all worry for you, pray for you, demand revenge for you. Arthur himself has been racing around like a madman, popping up in the most unexpected places and riding like a fiend all along the Saxon Shore. That wild-man, Gwyn, keeps up with him, and even manages to calm him down a bit, but many of the people say they are both in danger of becoming demons.

  “Naturally there are some who applaud his behavior, wanting him to take vengeance on all who have harried the Britons in the past. Others say he’s taking out his anger on the Saxons because he dares not go after the man who stole you.” The doire sighed and stood up. “Stories like that spread as quickly as the notion that I lured Merlin into giving me his magic, then used it to dispose of him.”

  I gasped, sorry she’d heard Morgan’s wretched gossip. “Why don’t you refute it?” I asked.

  “And let the whole world know that Merlin is dead and Arthur lacks his protection? No, I promised that would never happen, that as long as Arthur lives the people will believe he is guided by the Mage, even from a distance.” She shrugged slightly with resignation. “So my name is a little sullied; only those who want to think evil of our relationship will believe it.”

  Once more the power and gracefulness of my young friend impressed me, and I put my hand over hers in sympathy; at least between us the truth was known.

  ***

  The next few weeks were quiet and restorative; Brigit stopped in whenever her duties as a nun allowed and continued to sleep each night in my room, just as she had when we were youngsters. If I cried out in dreams, she’d talk me awake and help me wrestle with both fear and grief. Eventually my terror turned to anger where Maelgwn was concerned. In moments of blind hate I imagined him flayed alive, slowly and painfully, in the Saxon manner, or watched as Arthur dismembered him a limb at a time. But I was still haunted by the fever image of Arthur dying in combat and quailed at the idea that it might come about through the defense of my honor. So I put aside that problem and let the growing beauty of the country summer heal my spirit.

  When I was able to leave the bed Vinnie sat with me for hours by the window while we worked on embroidery and in the afternoons shared tea with anyone who’d come. After she’d moved in, Lance had more time to himself, though occasionally he joined us for tea and always came to see me early in the morning while the women were at Mass. Sometimes he brought a flower or reported on the antics of a trio of hedge sparrows that often flitted through the garden, and we laughed and talked about all manner of light-hearted things. Neither of us referred to Maelgwn or to our dash for freedom in that star-scattered night.

  I puzzled over it when he wasn’t there, trying to sort out what had truly happened and what were only fever dreams. It seemed possible my memories were more of Kevin than of Lance, though I’d have sworn the Breton had showered me with such an outpouring of love and tenderness that even in retrospect the wild, sweet joy of it brought tears welling to my eyes.

  Yet once Lance had gotten over his initial distrust of me, there had never been anything in his voice or look that indicated more than a normal devotion to his monarch. And though I watched him closely now, there was no hint that he harbored a personal love only so much danger would lead him to disclose.

  There was no way to ask him about it, for I’d certainly look the fool if I was mistaken, so I put aside those thoughts as well and tried to concentrate on other things.

  “A gift of the season,” Lance said one morning as he handed me the discarded shell of a hedge sparrow’s egg he’d found in the garden.

  I looked down at the little sky-blue cup. The Breton had tucked a bit of green moss inside, and on it rested a single delicate star-petaled blossom of pink purslane. I grinned at him with delight—there was no one who could take my mind off terrors as well as he could.

  “Just got further word from Arthur,” he announced, smiling in return. “He says to tell you he prays daily for your rapid recovery.”

  I laughed at that; Arthur praying for aught but the unity of Britain was tantamount to my preferring to live in Roman houses; perhaps I was not the only one changing, after all.

  “Bedivere’s gone to London,” Lance went on, moving over to the window. “Arthur wants to hold a victory feast there, and has started rebuilding Caesar’s Tower for the occasion.” The lieutenant leaned against the window ledge and casually scanned the hills beyond the garden. Caught in the
shadow play of light and leaves, he looked exactly like Kevin, and I wondered again what had really happened during that night’s ride.

  “There’s been no end of fuss about a skull the workmen found when they were digging around the foundations,” he went on, unaware of my scrutiny. “The druids claim it’s the head of Bran, buried there to protect Britain from invasion—they see the High King’s uncovering it as the worst of heresies. Arthur just shrugs, saying it’s wiser to rely on our own strength of arms to repel invaders than to count on Gods long dead and gone. Unfortunately that doesn’t sit well with the druids.”

  “I guess it wouldn’t.” I grimaced. The Roman Christians are uneasy with us because we don’t condemn the Old Ways or convert to theirs. Now the Pagans were in danger of feeling slighted because of a flip, if practical, remark made out of hand.

  “Not only that, the messenger says Arthur has had the Saxons thrown in chains and irons, and marches them before him as slaves.”

  “Slaves?” The idea brought me up short. My father had never allowed slavery in Rheged, and it hadn’t occurred to me that Arthur might resort to such a thing in Logres.

  “So the messenger claimed.” Lancelot shook his head. “Who knows what’s really happening? With all the atrocities I’ve heard laid at the Saxon doorstep, it may be more wishful thinking on the part of the commoners than an actual policy by Arthur. Still, it’s clear that he’s been acting strangely since your misadventure.”

  I nodded—between insulting the Pagans and chasing all over the countryside enslaving Saxons, it looked as though Arthur was going to get us into no end of trouble if I didn’t return pretty soon.

  “When can we join him?” I asked.

  “How does next week sound?”

  Lance turned to look at me. There was something boyishly eager in his expression, and it dawned on me that he’d been away from Court even longer than I had. Perhaps he missed it, too.

  “Griflet’s supposed to be well enough to join us by week’s end, and Agricola suggested Arthur meet us at his villa near Gloucester…that is,” he added, coming over to my chair and staring down at me, “if you feel up to it.”

  I heard the concern in his voice, saw the care in his eyes. Blue and shimmery as the sea off Cornwall, they sought and held my own with a steady, even gaze.

  “If you’re not ready to go out and face the world yet, I’ll not be trying to force you.”

  I stared back at him, loath to give up the sweet security and peace of these few weeks, hating the idea of facing curious crowds and crude gossip. My knees felt weak at the prospect, and I wanted to cry out, “Not yet, not yet.” But something warned me not to stay here, either.

  “It is time I get on with the business of being Arthur’s wife,” I said firmly, still looking into the depths of Lance’s eyes.

  My words had been chosen as much for my own benefit as his.

  “Very well, M’lady,” he answered, and the smile he gave me was full of love as well as respect.

  ***

  My breath stuck in my throat, and I looked away hastily. It was clear my memory of the rescue was not all fever-inspired.

  Chapter XXIV

  Triumph

  Where’s my wife?”

  Arthur’s voice carried throughout the villa, and I froze, held silent in the grip of a nameless fear.

  I’d ridden down from the convent in the litter, for when Griflet brought Shadow forward so I could mount her, I’d taken one look at the pretty mare and burst into tears. I couldn’t blame her for my cousin’s actions, but neither could I bring myself to ride her again.

  During the journey an unreasoning terror settled over my heart, coloring every thought. By the time we turned up the cypress-lined drive of Agricola’s estate I didn’t know which I dreaded more—finally facing Arthur or not meeting him at all. I was actually relieved to discover he hadn’t arrived yet and set to work unpacking my things with a single-mindedness of purpose, as if by not thinking about it I could avoid the moment entirely.

  Now that he was here, I was petrified.

  “Hie there, girl, have you gone deaf?” he called again, his voice full of summer laughter. Not only was there no hint of reproach, it rang with eagerness, and a wave of relief washed through me.

  Dropping the dress I was holding, I raced down the corridor, straight into his arms.

  We came together in a tumbling hug of welcome that reminded me my ribs had only recently healed. And then he pulled back and was looking down at me, half frowning.

  “Whatever made you go out alone that way? And right into your enemy’s territory?” The teasing in his tone drove all rebuke from the words.

  “I wasn’t alone; there was Griflet and Uwain and a guard of young boys—plus all the women as well. And Penrith’s a fair piece from the Gwynedd border. Whoever taught you geography, anyhow?” I quipped in return.

  Arthur grinned at that and scooped me up in another hug, obviously glad to see me.

  Dinner that night was a family affair, with the closest of Companions and my women from the northern trip. Frieda brought in Caesar, who gave me a welcome that rivaled Arthur’s for sheer exuberance.

  “But where’s Cabal?” I asked, glancing about the room in search of the white wolfhound.

  A look of pain crossed Arthur’s face. “The Saxons got her at Mt. Badon. Saved my life at Winchester, she did—and took two men with her at Badon, but gone now, nonetheless.”

  A pang of regret went through me, and I realized that much had happened to Arthur during this last year that I knew nothing about.

  When the tables were cleared Palomides came forward to present a bouquet of posies and a little speech of welcome on behalf of the Companions. It made for a delightful homecoming, and I was much relieved that no one mentioned my recent misadventure.

  But after dinner, in the privacy of our chamber, a terrible awkwardness came between Arthur and me. He moved slowly and thoughtfully about the room behind me while I sat at my dressing table brushing out my hair. I heard the straw in the mattress rustle when he came to rest on the edge of the bed.

  “Are you all right? Nimue said a long illness…a dreadful illness, if the truth be told. Are you completely well?” Something in his tone was too casual, as though he were struggling not to show how much it mattered.

  I took a deep breath and turned slowly to face him. He had to be told sometime.

  “They say most women who have that kind of sickness die…and if they live, they’re barren for the rest of their lives. It’s possible we won’t have any children at all, now.”

  The words hung on the air like banners gone slack and lifeless.

  “And you’re not pregnant by Maelgwn?”

  “Of course not!” What with being so sick and bleeding so much, I had not even thought of that possibility. “I would tell you if I were,” I affirmed, in case he had any doubt.

  “Good.”

  Arthur leaned back with a sigh, and I went to join him on the bed. The very idea that the man who had stolen the High King’s wife might impregnate her when the King had not implied a further, more personal insult. And it opened an area I had not even thought of, having always assumed it was my lack that kept me from conceiving. I cast a quick glance at my husband, wondering if he’d been blaming himself all this time.

  He put his arm around my shoulder. “I told you before, I’m content enough without children. If you miss raising youngsters, there’s plenty around that could use some looking after—just don’t bring them into our personal life.”

  And that was it. The worst news I could imagine had been delivered and accepted with equanimity. I snuggled in against him gratefully, idly playing with the cord that laced his shirt.

  “Do you know where Maelgwn is now?” he inquired.

  I shook my head and concentrated on the cord. “Must we talk about it? I’d rather j
ust put it all behind us.”

  “It won’t be behind me until the man is dead.” Arthur’s tone was one of cold fury. “I cannot let him live.”

  The lacing tangled under my fingers as I realized that for Arthur it was not just my honor, but his own in jeopardy. I glanced up at his face and saw his features contorted in the death scream of my nightmare. My eyes blinked and the image faded, but panic filled me nonetheless.

  I didn’t want to tell Arthur about the vision, and my mind raced to find an excuse for not confronting Maelgwn. “We can’t afford personal vendettas, can we? Killing Maelgwn could make an enemy of the Cumbri, and with the Irish always threatening, they need to know how highly we respect their allegiance.”

  “And what will they think if I don’t take action? That I can’t take care of my own wife? That I’ve gone cold and uninterested as a husband? Or that you went with him willingly, as rumor would have it?”

  “Arthur, how can you say that!” Shocked, I sat upright and stared at him suspiciously. “What rumor?”

  “Oh, just stories. Of course I didn’t believe them.” He turned away glumly. “But Morgan says there’s a servant woman who claims she saw you all decked out in silk and fancies, playing chess and chiding your cousin for not coming for you sooner.”

  My face went hot with anger and it was all I could do to keep from laying a curse on my sister-in-law on the spot. I could just imagine her hastening to her dear brother’s side in order to fill his head with poison about me.

  “And what else does the Lady of the Lake say?” I tried, without success, to keep the acid out of my voice.

  “That she swore the woman to silence and is doing everything she can to counteract the tale.” Arthur was on his feet again, this time pacing quickly around the room. “She’s also trying to work out some form of apology and reparation where Maelgwn is concerned; perhaps some ritual to take place later…though that isn’t going to carry much weight with most of the northern lairds.”