“You swore your service to me before all our knights, when I took the throne on the night my mother was struck down. To the death, I believe—if my memory serves me right.” Guenevere moved in for the kill. “So if I want a champion, you are already mine.”
“But I thought—now you are Queen—”
Lucan’s dismay was so comical that Guenevere had to smile. “Now I am Queen, I must do the best I can. Good night, my lord.”
“Ha? So!” Lucan took his dismissal with good grace. “Then I bid you good night, my lady, and a good dawn tomorrow, on your day of days.” He laughed. “And Lucan’s sword is still at your command!”
Guenevere raised her hand and gave him a warm farewell. “Good night, Sir Lucan—and a good dawn to you, too.”
MALGAUNT …
The Christians …
So—both of them working against me now …
There was a sharp footfall, and a tall rigid figure came thrusting through the door. “So, daughter, why the summons? I had gone to Malgaunt’s tent to take a cup of wine.”
She stared at her father’s frowning face. “You were with Malgaunt?”
“You should be glad I was.” Striding over to the wine mulling on the brazier, King Leogrance gave a short angry laugh. “Don’t you know that Merlin and his mob will have reached Caerleon by now? And when Lot’s six kings beat them bloody and send them running for their lives, where d’you think they’ll come!” He took a swig of wine. “If this would-be King of theirs lands on our doorstep, what will you do?”
The same sneer again: You are nothing without a man; the same unanswerable demand: You must take a champion—Guenevere’s soul shriveled with impotent rage.
King Leogrance reached for more wine. “You cannot rule alone,” he said stubbornly. “Your mother was a warrior, battle-trained. She was descended from our Queens who fought against the Romans. One of her foremothers laid all England waste. But you have seen no blood.” He smirked. A glint of former triumphs lit his eye. “And your mother had a champion when she came to the throne. I was the greatest fighter of my day. You must have a champion too.”
“But why?” Guenevere cried out. “All I do tomorrow is to claim the Mother-right!”
“Daughter, when war looms as it does now, the people will want a war leader before they’ll make you Queen! You’ll need a champion to win their acclaim. And when you do, take him for life, and forget the old ways.”
Guenevere gasped. “Forget the old ways of the Mother herself? But our women have had the right of thigh-friendship since time out of mind! It is the freedom of the Mother to give love where She chooses.”
“The Christians do not permit it.”
“The Christians?” She was blazing with anger. “By what right do they dictate our customs now?”
“Malgaunt says we must work with them. He sees the boy Arthur as powerful in their hands.”
Guenevere could not bear it. “Malgaunt says!” she cried. “Who is he to say? He wants to take my throne!” She was weeping with passion now. “Father, you must stand for me! You must be my champion, and defend the Mother-right!”
“Now Guenevere …”
Leogrance was playing with his goblet, staring into the wine. He tried not to meet her eye. “Listen to me!” he said heartily. “Malgaunt’s your kinsman; you have nothing to fear from him. And he’s right: you need a champion.” His voice hardened. “But the man who fights for you by day should lie with you by night. You need a partner of bed as well as sword.” He looked away. “My day is done. Follow the rising star. Heed Malgaunt now, for he will have his way.”
“Oh, Father …”
She saw it all now, the whole story, in his rigid carriage and shifting eyes. The years spent watching and waiting in the shadow of a queen, a lifetime in second place.
Always in second place—like Malgaunt.
Her father and Malgaunt …
The two in council tonight …
Guenevere raised her head and managed a fair smile. “Thank you, Father, for your help and advice. And now good night, for I must go to bed.”
AS HE LEFT, the great bonfires on the hillside above made the night as bright as day. The air was sweet with wood smoke and the first warm breath of spring. Under a full-bellied moon, April was ripening into May as hope and expectation filled the air.
Other soft sounds and sighs came trembling through the dark. A great yearning gripped her, as sharp as any pain. At Beltain, her nurse told her, all the doors of the Otherworld were opened wide for love.
And as the barriers dissolved between the worlds, the Otherwordly Ones themselves came to the revels, to partner who they would. Many a girl went to the fires and encountered a dark stranger, a man of no country, tall and unspeaking, shining in the night. Many a man found himself taken by the woman of his dreams, strange, lovely, and silent, and afterward would search the length and breadth of the land for her in vain.
All were here to celebrate the life the Goddess gives, to add their vigor to the struggle of the earth. As these lovers were doing now, from the soft laughs and cries and moaning in the dark.
Goddess, Mother … Why am I alone?
The night wind was rising, and with it her hopes. And there he was, in the very heart of her hope, the long shadow of his slender frame, the clever, bony hands, slate blue eyes, and hard, questioning stare—
She drew a shuddering sigh, and sent a messenger speeding through the night.
Goddess, Mother, tell me, will he come?
CHAPTER 11
The line of monks plodded on into the dusk. At the head of the column the leader surveyed the sky, anxiously snuffling at the damp air like a lost child. If they could bring Brother John to shelter by nightfall, he would thank God on his knees; he would kiss the threshold as they entered it. After what they had suffered, another night out of doors would be too much to bear, even for His sake.
No, that was wrong—a good Christian bore all suffering joyfully and turned it to the praise of the Lord. The Lord must be praised. Praised be the Lord. He closed his eyes, and his lips mumbled a prayer.
Praise the Lord that the good soul in the village had parted with her donkey to help them on their way. They’d have taken days to get here if they’d had to carry Brother John themselves. It was bad enough getting him away when the pagan soldiers had finished with him. And of course, he wouldn’t rest where they found shelter; he had to push on, being Brother John.
But the Lord’s mother, the Blessed Mary, had inspired the old donkey woman’s heart with compassion for their beaten brother and his sore injuries. And tonight, God willing, they would reach the convent where Brother John was Father Confessor. There the good nuns would receive them with the love and the kindness of the Blessed Mary again. Praise be to Mary, from whom all blessings flow.
Salve, Mater, salve, Regina, his tired heart sang. Hail, Mary, Mother of God, Queen of Heaven, Mother of us all. The first notes of the familiar chant fell from his lips, and the brothers took it up.
Salve, Mater, salve …
At the back of the column, snatches of the great hymn to the Blessed Mother reached Brother John as he swayed on the back of the donkey, clutching the pommel of the saddle with broken hands. His mind, clouded by pain, seized with a terrible fervor on the well-loved name, and his swollen mouth struggled to shape a prayer. “Hail, Mary, who has brought me to this hour! As Thy Son had His Calvary, so I had mine. May I not be spared the whips and thorns that scored His precious flesh—”
“God be praised! In the valley, look, there’s a light!” The voice of the leading monk betrayed something like a sob. “It’s the convent! We’ll make shelter tonight!”
Brother Peter had broken his vow of silence, John noted dispassionately, and he must be scourged for that when the time came. But for the moment, things were well enough.
He thought again. No, they were better than that. Careless of his pulped cheek and split lips, his bleeding back and the agony in his flanks, John raised a sm
ile. He had fulfilled the task he had been ordered to do. He had sown the seed of doubt, he had sent forth the necessary falsehood to fight for the truth. Contentedly he turned his battered face up to the heavens, and began his prayers again. “Hail, Great Mother of God, Mother of us all …”
IN THE CONVENT of the Holy Mother, the Abbess Placida prided herself on living in devout accordance with her name. But the Holy Mother herself could hardly have listened to the story of Brother John without distress.
“So you fell among the heathen, did you, Father?” she murmured, settling her large moist eyes on him sorrowfully.
Brother John adjusted his aching bones and felt that the state of his injuries excused him from any reply. Thanks to the attentions of the pagan band, it would be weeks, rather than days, before he could move without pain.
But from the daybed in the cloister where he lay, he could see the sunny convent garden spread out before him sweet with herbs and flowers. Yellow tansy and blue banks of lavender, white chamomile and nodding foxgloves romped away in the shelter of the high stone walls. On the paths between the flower beds, white-robed novices fluttered to and fro like doves as they tended the plants.
It was a sight to soothe any pain of body or soul. And he was blessed in his attendant, for the clever hands attending to his hurts had a rare skill. She cared, did Sister Ann. He did not need to look up at the pain in her huge black eyes, the tension in the lean, black-clad body hunched over him, to tell him how much she felt his sufferings.
“God have mercy!” The Abbess stared with horror at Brother John’s varicolored wounds as Sister Ann parted his robe to expose his shoulder and chest. “Pagans and heathens! And their warlord must be a devil, to send armed men against a brother of the cloth!” Then her Christian propriety got the better of her. “May the Lord forgive them,” she murmured piously.
Brother John gave an unexpected laugh. “Oh, He will—for indeed they do His work. He used them for His ends. Our mission was to warn their Princess Guenevere that she has no right to call herself a queen. When we strike at their so-called Mother-right, we make way for our God!”
The Abbess nodded, concealing her awe at the marvelous workings of Brother John’s mind. Their Father Confessor could be a bishop soon, even an archbishop in time, she thought with pride, a great man like him.
Her simple fancy soared and took flight. Even the sainted Augustine, the first archbishop in this heathen land, austere as he was, had recognized the role of sisters in the church. When Brother John ascended to Canterbury, perhaps there might even be a place there at his side for a woman of proven authority and spiritual grace—
“Well, the Lord be praised, if this creature is not made Queen!” Her plump face sharpened. “So may He put down all the daughters of unrighteousness! But what will become of her? Perhaps this young woman of yours would be grateful for a good home here with us?”
Brother John’s mind roamed back to the last confrontation on the Hill of Stones. That sword-swinging harridan a nun? Lord, give me strength, Brother John cried in his heart. “She will marry her kinsman,” he said heartily. “And serve the will of God just as well in submission to her husband as she would do in silence and service here.”
Brother John smiled. With Guenevere’s dismissal still scalding his ears, it was good to know that she would be punished for her shrewish tongue. A virago like her would take some beating before she would be tamed. But by the look of him, her kinsman Malgaunt would not shrink from such a task.
Still, it was a pity that the girl would not come here. John looked at the Abbess with sardonic eyes. For all her piety, her soft wet spaniel’s gaze, John knew she ruled the convent with a rod, and loved her work. Every one of her novices was whipped and whipped again, her buttocks soundly belabored for the sake of her immortal soul. They entered the convent as hopeful brides of Christ. But to the Abbess they were all sin-laden daughters of Eve, tainted with the Fall that had brought Christ’s death.
He glanced up at Sister Ann, still patiently tending his wounds. Her long white face, pale and remote, was the picture of sainted sisterhood. Yet she too would have been forced to kneel before the Abbess, confess her sins, and bare herself for the rod.
A sudden evil possessed him before he was aware, and a tantalizing image flickered across his mind. Through veils of scented darkness he saw the long body of Sister Ann naked and dancing, her high sharp breasts pointed straight at him, her belly quivering, her hips writhing in an ecstasy of desire. Later he was to scourge himself mercilessly for this one lapse in a lifetime of blameless dealing with women and girls. But a more immediate punishment was at hand.
“Aagh!” Brother John screamed, and raised his fingers to his neck. Fresh blood was seeping from a cut in his neck, where Sister Ann’s probe had jabbed deep into the already mangled flesh.
“Father, forgive me!” Sister Ann wept, her eyes dark with distress. “I did not mean to hurt you; it was an accident!”
“What are you doing, Sister?” The Abbess rose in fury to her feet. “That’s enough, leave us, get out!” She watched the nun hurrying off with a resentful glare. “What’s to be done with her? I sometimes wonder about God’s purpose for Sister Ann.”
Why are even Christian women prone to jealousy? Brother John wondered for the thousandth time. He debated with himself whether or not to tell the Abbess what he had heard. Here in this holy place, would she need to know? Yet strange events had a way of breaking in on quiet lives.
He inclined his head. “Yet He has favored that sister with good fortune now—or bad, perhaps, as it may turn out.”
“Good news for Sister Ann?” The Abbess took it as a personal affront.
“You have not heard recently from London then, I think? Nor from the Middle Kingdom?”
Furious, the Abbess shook her head.
“A young man called Arthur lays claim to King Uther’s crown. With the backing of Merlin, he styles himself King of the Middle Kingdom, and he may succeed.”
“And if he does?”
“King Lot will make cruel war. And the terror may sweep through the rest of these islands too.”
A flash of clarity seized the Abbess, who knew that her house of women was more vulnerable than she cared to think. “But already the Saxons fall like sea wolves on our shores. And on top of this, you say all the kingdoms will be fighting each other now?” Her wimple trembled with the horror of it all. “We will pray to God. He will ensure that this Arthur fails in his monstrous claim!”
John shook his head. How obtuse this woman was! He began again. “But Sister Ann—”
The Abbess froze him with a dignified regard. “Forgive me, Brother—but what has this to do with Sister Ann?”
“Nothing, perhaps. But if he wins—”
Brother John paused, beginning to think again. Was it wise to tell the Abbess how a victory for King Arthur would affect Sister Ann? After all, it might never come to pass. The new King would have much to deal with if he ever won the throne—would his rule ever reach out as far as this quiet convent, where the reverend sisters lived so blamelessly in the worship of God?
Already the Abbess had a reason to hate Arthur for the danger he posed to her. And she needed no more encouragement to punish Sister Ann, even if the nun had now outgrown the whip. No, let the story come here by itself. And if it did not, well, who would be any the worse?
“SO, BOY, King Arthur now!”
Standing in the courtyard of Caerleon, Arthur heard the words of Merlin echoing inside his mind, and smiled and shook his head. Nothing had prepared him for the glory that would be his when the ancient citadel fell into his hands. If I had a queen now, he caught himself thinking, this would truly be a castle fit for a king.
Like boys on a lark, he and Kay, Gawain, and Bedivere explored Caerleon from top to bottom when the six kings rode out. Trunks of fine garments showed that Lot’s faithful vassals had come with a whole summer of frolics and feasts in mind. From the magnificent suits of armor, much of their ti
me would have been spent in jousting, or on the tournament field. And their leisure hours too had been well provided for. The Queen’s apartments were far from queenly now, reeking of whorish scents and littered with bright trinkets and gaudy shoes and clothes. But in the right hands, they would soon be fine again. And once more the odd refrain went through Arthur’s head: If I had a queen—a woman to help me now …
One like Guenevere of the Summer Country, tall and beautiful and unafraid. But she was already betrothed, Merlin had said. If only she were free, their two countries could be joined as one to make a dazzling kingdom for them both. How firm was this betrothal, he wondered suddenly. He must ask Merlin as soon as he returned.
And where was Merlin? All he wanted was for Merlin to share this precious hour of triumph, and Merlin was not here. Yet he had to believe—
“My lord!”
It was one of the castle servants, falling to his knees. “Rise, sir,” said Arthur courteously. “What is your errand?”
“A message from Merlin, sire, left at the gatehouse by an old beggar man.”
Arthur took the proffered scroll. “Where is he now, the beggar?”
“We put him in the gatehouse and gave him food. But when we looked again, he was gone.”
Arthur nodded bleakly and opened the scroll. Merlin’s wild writing capered before his eyes.
You have done well, sir King. I knew you would. Boy no more, eh, but truly King Arthur now! I shall soon be back to raise a cup to your victory. For now I have gone to seek alliance with the Summer Country, to secure peace on our borders there. I shall be back before you know that I have gone.
But beware for yourself, my son, while I am away. Beware the darkness that is coming, that awaits us all. Make good your army, set your lookouts, and never let your guard sleep on the watch. Prepare for an attack. For the darkness is descending, it comes without a doubt. I feel it, though I know not when it comes.
MERLIN THE BARD
Silently Arthur passed the scroll to his companion knights.
Kay gave his sharp laugh. “So he’s off to the Summer Country, is he, making peace for us there?”
Guenevere, Queen of the Summer Country Page 9