Queen of the Summer Stars

by Persia Woolley

  But Morgause narrowed her eyes and leaning across the table, thrust her face into mine.

  “So you never guessed? And he never mentioned it! But then, why should he…few people brag about incest.”

  Drops of spittle stung my skin as she flung the word at me. She was cold sober now, her faculties drawn into focus by the power of contempt and scorn. There was no question of insanity in the cold, hard eyes that stared at me in triumph. Her voice went very soft, and I began to tremble.

  “Oh, yes, my dear…incest. Carnal knowledge of his sister. I’ll wager you never thought of that, much less pictured it; the boy-King begging, groveling, slobbering at my feet…the whelp of Uther rolling on the floor, panting with the heat of his bursting cock, moaning to lick my breasts, my fingers, any part of me he could touch…while I prodded him with my toe.”

  Her face loomed before me, leering and twisted into a lewd grimace. I clapped my hands to my ears and, leaping to my feet, fled from the tent.

  Bedivere was waiting just outside. I crumpled against him, fighting down nausea and disgust.

  “She claims…that Mordred…”

  My voice deserted me, and Bedivere supplied the words I could not say.

  “Is Arthur’s son?”

  Nodding mutely, I pulled away from him in order to see his face. But instead of outrage at such a lie, I found resignation, and my stomach twisted into a knot. Turning from the lieutenant’s arms, I bolted for the horses and sent Shadow galloping back down the trail before Bedivere had finished untying his own.

  I raced into the hard gray wind, wishing it could scour the very flesh from my bones, cleanse my world of the slime that crawled over everything—Arthur, our marriage, the fact that I had loved him so long and patiently with so little response…no wonder, if his heart had been given over to Morgause all those years ago. Even her name brought bile to my lips, and when the nausea grew too strong I slowed Shadow to a walk and turned off the Road beside the ruins of an old temple. Slipping from the saddle, I fell to my knees, vomiting until I had no more strength to rise and simply crawled away into the grass.

  It was there Bedivere found me, racked by dry heaves and too miserable to care about anything but death. He hauled me to my feet and, wrapping me in the warmth of his leather cape, sat beside me on the cracked steps of the temple.

  “Why, Bedivere? Why did he bother with this marriage if he already had a family in the north?”

  “Family?” The lieutenant grabbed my chin and lifted my face to look into his own. “Ye Gods, the presence of a child doesn’t by itself make a family, Gwen…particularly when it came into being through the hatred of a mother who saw it only as a chance for revenge. Surely after all these years you know Arthur holds no love for Morgause, so don’t go tormenting yourself with such ideas. That Mordred is his son is unfortunately too true—it is the great heartbreak of Arthur’s life. But he has never thought of them as family…and heaven knows he had no notion of fatherhood at the time. I was with him that night, I know what happened.”

  I stared up at Bedivere, seeing compassion and sorrow in his craggy features, and thought of all the years we’d shared together since he’d come to Rheged to take me south for the wedding. Loyal, honest, and steady as he was, I was desperately glad he was here with me now.

  “Tell me about it,” I whispered.

  “Are you sure you want to hear? Wouldn’t it be better just to accept the boy’s presence and not…go into details?”

  I shook my head violently. “I must know. I can face anything as long as I understand what it is…you know that.”

  There was a long silence while he searched my face, and finally with a sigh, he looked off into the trees and began.

  “Well, you’ve got to remember the situation. The whole of Britain was racked by civil war and many sided with the northern kings who didn’t want to accept Uther’s son. It took all of Merlin’s skill and the help of Brittany’s King Ban to turn the tide. And in the end, King Lot was dead and Urien conquered.

  “Once the Great Battle had been won, Arthur had to be accepted as High King. A boy…ah, Gwen, we were all boys back then. Barely old enough to be blooded, much less leaders of the country…”

  ***

  Numb from the gore-spattered sight of carnage, with echoes of death screams twanging their nerves, the sobbing aftermath of war poured from victor and vanquished alike. In the midst of the tumult Uther’s son stands silently on the field, accepting Urien’s surrender in the blood-soaked mud, afterward helping the older man rise from his knees. Slinging an arm around him, in the exhaustion of victory the boy calls him “Uncle.”

  Some say it is a shrewd political move by Merlin’s puppet—others see it as the human gesture of a great leader yet to come. The term would never be used again, but voiced this once it binds up many wounds.

  In York the nobles paused in their preparations for flight, gaping at the news their King is forgiven. Panic in the face of ravagement revolves slowly on its axis—turns, spins, wheels into joyful welcome. Hoards of silver treasure are hastily recovered from their hiding places, the dust of packing straw barely wiped off before food for the feast is piled within. Tables groan with the weight of repast, courtiers swing between fear of a trick and the wild giddiness of reprieve.

  In her chambers Lot’s widow narrows her eyes at the news that her half-brother is now High King. Raised separate and apart from his Orcadian relatives, there is no familial tie, no blood loyalty to assure the future for her and her sons…at least, not yet.

  The mingled armies marched across the bridge at York into the waiting arms of revelry. The youngsters from Sir Ector’s Court whirl from bathhouse to banquet—toasted, feted, petted, sated. Young Cei cannot resist sampling every delicacy; stationing himself at the most sumptuous table, he makes his first discovery of gastronomic delights.

  Merlin hurries from conversation to conversation, mending fences, playing diplomat; had he but played chaperon to his fledgling King, the history of Britain might well have been different.

  Morgause is indisposed and stays sequestered in her rooms, unwilling to meet the new High King except on her own terms.

  Arthur rode on a crest of exhilaration with Bedivere always at his side until, stumbling through the throng-packed halls on their way to bed, a note is pressed into Arthur’s hand, “Come quickly,” it pleads, though there is no signature. The new King shrugs and telling Bedivere he’ll rejoin him shortly, disappears in the wake of Morgause’s servant.

  Bedivere notes how long his foster-brother is gone and grows concerned. As the night wanes he goes in search of Arthur, padding through silent halls with only a rushlight to guide him. There are people asleep everywhere—on couches, under tables, sprawled on beds or curled in corners. But none are Arthur, and the one wakeful servant Bedivere finds has no idea where the High King is or who would have sent for him. At last the lieutenant returned to the royal chamber, telling himself there was nothing to fear from the revelers.

  Hung over and groggy, the boy-King made it back in time to prepare for the oath swearing. As Bedivere helps him dress, Arthur marvels at the reception he is receiving…to say nothing of the insatiable appetite of a beautiful, painted woman who has a strawberry birthmark on her cheek. All night long she’d flirted, taunted, teased and roused him to passion over and over again—frequently chuckling about nothing at all. The young Pendragon shakes his head in amazement, wondering aloud to Bedivere how city women could be so different from country girls.

  ***

  Bedivere’s voice had grown hard and cold. He took out his flask of Irish brew and, removing the cap, offered it to me. The strong, dark liquid scalded my throat, and I coughed and sputtered while he took a long drink himself before going on with his story.

  “He had absolutely no idea who she was, Gwen. Young, naïve, unused to thinking that others might mean him harm…his very innocence l
eft him open to her scheming.”

  I thought of my own early blunders as a monarch and how easily they had been turned against me. Then, as now, innocence and lack of knowledge had led me into cunning traps.

  “When did he find out?” I inquired, determined not to be ambushed by ignorance again.

  “At the oath swearing.” Bedivere sighed. “The very day that assured his reign also cast a pall over it. I saw the darkness descend.”

  ***

  Color and pageantry filled the Hall, splendid enough to be sung of by the bards for generations to come. On the dais, Arthur sits in Urien’s chair with the loyal client Kings ranged on the steps below him. Soberly the rebels come forward, kneeling to put their hands between their sovereign’s palms and swear fealty to the Pendragon. Arthur speaks graciously to each, quietly, privately, forging a personal alliance for the future. He is tired and worn with exhaustion but already solidifying his Kingship.

  Only when the royal women approach does he lose his composure. Bedivere hears him catch his breath, sees him go pale as death. Before him stand his sisters: the petite Morgan, dark and feral, and next to her a beautiful woman with a strawberry mark on her cheek. Tawny, smiling Morgause, newly widowed, just bedded.

  Merlin was standing well to the side, lest anyone accuse him of prompting his protégé in what to say or do. Smelling danger, the Mage tenses—probes the air, seeks the source as Morgause carefully makes her face blank.

  “We throw ourselves on your mercy, my children and I,” she murmurs silkily. “And pray you will remember I am your oldest sister, so it is the sons of my loins who stand closest to your throne—until you beget one of your own.”

  The new King’s knuckles whitened as the implication strikes home. The rest of the world would assume she was speaking of Gawain and his brothers, but Arthur and Bedivere both knew the deeper, more terrible implication.

  ***

  “Merlin guessed immediately,” Bedivere concluded. “Before the day was out he’d sent the Queen of Orkney packing back to her islands—but there was no way to erase the small, smug smile she took with her. She guarded the growth of that child with every precaution, even missing Arthur’s King Making at the Black Lake for fear of the travel involved. But she made sure we knew as soon as the infant was delivered alive. Her message was cryptic—promising she would raise the boy to become ‘a sword at his father’s side.’ Exactly what she meant has never been clear.”

  The lieutenant fell into a sad silence while I mulled over the story.

  “Who else knows about Mordred?” I finally asked, bracing myself in case I was the only one ignorant of the truth.

  “Only Arthur and myself, and Merlin, of course…But unless the Magician told Nimue, that is all.” Bedivere smiled bitterly. “In that one night’s work she laid her mark on Arthur for the rest of his days. I think he despaired of ever having a normal life…until he found in you all the openness and honesty his sisters lacked…It was the first thing that attracted him to you.”

  I let the comment pass, remembering instead his reaction to the loss of our child at Stirling. No wonder he didn’t worry about having more, with a son already hidden away up north!

  My shock was turning to anger and I stood up abruptly. “It’s time to go home,” I announced.

  “Yes, I suppose. At least now you understand the shadow that lies over Arthur. It began long before he met you, Gwen.” Bedivere got slowly to his feet. “He has regretted it from the moment he learned of its nature, and rued the existence of the boy since Morgause first gloated over the possibility. Try to remember that, and not be too severe in your judgment.”

  I heard the words but found no solace in them, and we continued on our way in silence.

  We were so absorbed in our own thoughts, a trio of horsemen almost ran us down before we were aware of their approach.

  They loomed out of the shadow of oncoming night on great galloping warhorses and passed too fast for me to note their badges. Perhaps they were the spirits of the Wild Hunt, doomed to ride their nightmarish nags across the dark heavens in search of unprotected souls. The notion sent a chill down my spine, and I made the sign against evil just in case.

  ***

  But the Gods paid no heed, for more devastation lay ahead.

  Chapter XXXVI

  Mordred

  Too shaken to make an appearance at the Hall that evening, I went to my chamber and sent Lynette to find Nimue. The doire entered silently and came to sit down next to me.

  “Did Merlin ever warn you about Mordred?” I asked.

  “Not specifically…only that there was treachery in Morgause, and it could extend to her youngest son. It must be something pretty grim to make you look like this,” she added, sliding her arm around my shoulder.

  Sitting quite still, dry-eyed and empty, I told her the entire tale from Arthur’s victorious entry into York through my discovery of Mordred’s parentage.

  “It is as grotesque as any of those stories about the old Greeks,” she whispered.

  “And ironic beyond belief,” I noted savagely. “To have spent all those years desperately trying to give Arthur a child when in fact he already had one by her…”

  My own bitterness threatened to choke me and I leapt to my feet, beginning to pace around the room like an animal in a trap, fuming helplessly. Nimue sat silent, letting me spew forth the hurt and anger.

  “At least it clears away any doubts I had about leaving,” I concluded. “I’ll go back to Rheged, and decide about the future with Lance from there.”

  “And Arthur?” she asked softly.

  “Arthur can stay inside his nice safe shell of silence. He had no thought about what sort of wretchedness I’ve gone through—why should I care about his feelings now? Let him go talk to his precious dogs if he doesn’t like it.”

  “So you haven’t spoken with him yet—about Mordred or Lance?”

  I shook my head vehemently. “What is there to say? He chose to leave me naked, to let me blunder into that awful truth without any warning…the least he could have done was tell me, Nimue. Surely you can see that, instead of a wife confided in and trusted, I was a wife betrayed right from the start!”

  “Good heavens, Gwen,” the doire exclaimed, “you’re not going to call something that took place years before you married adulterous, are you?”

  “Of course not,” I snapped. “It isn’t that he slept with Morgause, or even that she is his sister, dreadful as that is. What he did before we met is between him and his Gods—and the other people involved. But he didn’t tell me! I can handle anything, as long as I know what it is…but not to be told, not to be trusted in something as major as this…Nimue, if only I had known, I’d never have been at the mercy of that woman today. I was undermined by my own partner’s silence, and that I can’t forgive.”

  “Of course you can.”

  The doire’s words stopped me in my tracks.

  “It’s your pride that’s hurt, Gwen…your pride.”

  “When pride is the only thing you can count on, you guard it jealously,” I shot back, remembering the thousands of times I’d put aside my own needs to stand with dignity before my people. Like Ragnell, pride was the only armor I had.

  “If you wanted to, you’d swallow this hurt and find a way to piece together the future. You just don’t want to, and the least you should do is admit it.”

  I stared at Nimue in silence, suddenly so exhausted it didn’t matter if she was right or not. Unable to put one coherent thought after another, I crawled into bed and pulled the covers up over my head. All I wanted was to go to sleep and wake up far away, preferably in the safety of Lance’s arms.

  But it was Lynette who woke me to a dull gray sunrise and Bedivere’s asking—begging—that I see Arthur.

  I clutched the covers under my chin and stared at the wall while the lieutenant waited for
my answer. Finally, with a sigh, I agreed to the meeting. It had to be faced sometime, so I rose and put on my robe, then sat by the window to wait for my husband.

  The man who stood in the doorway had aged a decade in one night’s time. Gray, haggard, eyes bloodshot and cheeks stubbled, Arthur paused on the threshold as if asking permission to come into the room. Without a word I nodded and he closed the door, then leaned back against it.

  “Bedivere told me what happened,” he ventured. “I…I don’t know what to say…”

  “That seems to have been a problem for some time,” I lashed out, waiting for him to advance into the room.

  But he neither moved nor spoke. Instead he stared at me, face impassive, eyes miserable. As the silence lengthened I got to my feet and began to pace, trying to stir up enough energy for both of us. Someone had to break this impasse, and when I did, the words burst forth in a torrent.

  “Why, Arthur? Why by all that’s holy didn’t you tell me?”

  He watched me mutely, head turning as I made my rounds, hands hanging limp at his sides. I wanted him to move, to stomp across the room, to begin pacing—anything to leave behind this sad, empty husk of the man I had loved. Desperate for both of us, I tried to goad him into action with words.

  “Did you think it would stay a secret forever? Did you think that woman would just let time pass and no one would ever find out? Or maybe it didn’t matter to you that one day I would walk into the truth and have no defenses at all against her? Didn’t you think? Didn’t you care?”

  “It was because I cared so much,” he said softly, a spark of life finding voice somewhere deep in the hollow cavity of him. “I’ve dreaded this moment from the first time we spoke of Morgause, back before you became my wife. At first I hoped it would never come, that you’d never hear of it. Then later, when I started to believe you might understand, I cared too much to risk bringing it to light.”

  As though the words gave him a kind of impetus, he began to move. Slowly, woodenly, he advanced across the room toward the window. I sank down on the bed now that he was at least in motion.