His two companions were also clad as knights of the road, equipped with equal finery but little of his grace. Neither of them spoke, but the ease between them showed the understanding they shared. They were alike enough to be brothers, but their leader looked like no man on earth. His bright brown eyes burned in the twilight, and the lift of his head had an Otherworldly air. Guenevere stepped forward into the clearing and faced him without a word.
“Ahhh …”
His sigh was like a breath from heaven, and she heard herself sighing too. His eyes never left her face as he fell to one knee. “Who are you?” he cried.
Who am I? What should she say to him? His voice called to her from the world between the worlds. Now she was crowned with starlight, walking the air, moving among the spheres. She was the lady of the forest, the spirit of love, the Queen of May.
“Surely I know you, lady?” he said in tones of wonder. His light accent gave music to his words. “Where did we meet before?” He broke off and gave a self-conscious laugh. “Or else I dreamed a blessed dream of a lady like you. There is no shame in that.”
He had a knightly air of pure chivalry, the frank bearing of a noble nature free from stain and sin. A light shone in his face as he looked at her.
“You are the lady of Camelot, Queen Guenevere. I have come to serve you, to offer you my sword.” He raised his handsome head. “I am—”
There was a whirlwind from heaven, and she felt the strong eternal surge of life itself. His voice was calling to her from the time before time. She heard the crying of the waves on the shore and the weeping of the wind in the trees. She saw stretching ahead long days of beauty and breathless nights of bliss.
“Hush.”
It was all she could do not to say “Hush, my love.” She placed her finger on his lips. “I know who you are.”
CHAPTER 47
His mouth was long and full, and there were little lights at the corners where his lips lifted into a smile. The groove in his upper lip felt sweet to her touch, and the light pricking of his soft stubble stung her fingertips. The closeness of him throbbed like a love potion through her veins. As she drew her hand away, a tremor passed between them. He gasped. “Majesty, I—”
His face had the raw, sharp-angled look of a boy, and there was something tender and trusting in his air. But his eyes had looked out on other worlds than this, and he had not learned in one short life all the power and grace that shone out of him now. He knelt before her in his woodland green and gold, and she could hear his spirit calling above the cry of the nightingale.
A laugh of ecstasy gurgled in her throat. “You do not need to tell me who you are, Sir Lancelot.”
He bowed his head, and his glossy brown hair swung down past his neck. “Your servant, my lady.” He lifted his eyes. She was pierced by a violent pain. “I am your knight,” he said with simple certainty. “I have come to lay my sword before you, and to offer you my service in the eyes of all the world.”
A poisonous thought struck her like a blow. “Arthur sent for you,” she cried furiously, “after I told him not to! I told him I would choose my own knights!”
His eyes flared. “And so you shall, if that is what you want!” He leaped to his feet. “But you must know that the King did not send for me!” His head lifted with that Otherworldly air she was already learning to know. “I follow the life of chivalry. It is written that a knight must serve a peerless lady, the best in the world.” He turned his golden gaze full on her face. “I chose you.”
He laughed like a boy, and his bright brown eyes lit up. “Madame, I beg you, do not look surprised! I studied with Aife, the warrior queen of the north. At night round the fire she told us stories of Battle Raven to fire our blood.”
“The Queen’s mother—?” Ina breathed.
He nodded. “Queen Aife prophesied that the daughter’s fame would be greater than the mother’s, and outlast them both.”
Guenevere frowned. “And did your queen tell you how this would come about?”
Now he looked like a boy again, raw and confused. “She could not see so far. When she called you up in her seeing mirror and I stood beside her to look into the future, she had no sight of what was to be.”
He drew himself up with unself-conscious pride. “But do you doubt what I say? It is the word of a queen.” She could feel his temper stir. “In all the years I served under her, Queen Aife never spoke anything but the truth!”
Guenevere could not help herself. “You were lucky, then, to learn from a woman who never told a lie.”
And she was lucky, she thought a second later, that he did not hear the jealousy in her voice. All the tense planes and angles in his face softened as he gave her his first smile. “Truly, madame, I was!”
WHAT COULD SHE say? He knelt to kiss her hand, and his two companions knelt at the same time. She trembled at his touch, and tried to suppress it, but she saw that he was trembling too.
He rose to his feet. “These are my cousins, Bors and Lionel,” he said awkwardly, “the sons of King Bors, my father’s brother—I think you know him?”
Bors, the older brother, was short, neat, and self-contained, with watchful eyes and his father’s thoughtful air. Lionel, kneeling beside him, was taller and more unguarded, his ardent gaze fixed on Guenevere.
“Enchanté, Majesté,” the two young men muttered as one, and the sound of their accent bound them to her heart. She loved them at once for sounding like her lord.
For already Sir Lancelot was “my lord” to her. She loved him, and there was no turning back.
YET HOW CAN I say that; how can I even think it? she asked herself madly as Lancelot set her on his horse and led her back. He was showing her simple courtesy, that was all. He had helped her to mount with the chivalry any knight would have shown any lady, let alone a queen. She had only just met him, and he was a stranger to her, just another young man.
How young?
Too young to love with any dignity.
Love a man so much younger?—no, Goddess, Mother, spare me that!
THE SWEET MISTS of evening rose as the party threaded its way through the trees, across the deep meadowland skirting the forest, and back to the town. Slowly her heart revived.
In front of her Lancelot was talking quietly to his horse as they walked along. But his heart was crying Fool!, and he cursed himself every step of the way. Aife herself told him that no woman likes to hear another praised. How could he have stupidly sung her praises to another queen, still less a queen like Guenevere!
Gods above, fool again! he accused himself furiously. There is no queen like Guenevere! He knew as if he had known her all his life that this queen, this wondrous woman, would never be easy to serve, nor to impress. He saw again her huge eyes floating behind their silver veil like moons in a cloud, and his soul burned to relieve the sorrow in their depths.
Her fragrance, sweet and Eastern, played on his senses till his only thought was to be with her all his life, breathing her sweetness like a flower. Yet all he could do was make her jealous of the queen he had left! Gods above, he groaned to himself, what hope is there for a blind fool like me? She’ll hate me soon, if she doesn’t already now!
RIDING HIGH UP behind him on the horse’s back, Guenevere could see the growing signs of tension, and her heart misgave. He had come all this way to seek her out, and she could do nothing, say nothing, but show him her ugly jealousy, the jealousy of another woman, which was always hateful to men. Things had to change; she had to do better than this! She must be courteous toward him then, kind but distant, and put all this madness quite out of her head.
So that was it. Who was he then, after all? No more than any other young man, she decided, looking down on him as he led her along. She let her eyes play over the bend of his neck under the bright hair as brown as a hazelnut. She watched the hard young hand gripping the horse’s bridle, and the taut back and shoulders turned toward her now.
And as she looked, she was lost in love again.
The dew of night was falling on them now. The warm smell of the horse enveloped her, and the rustling sounds of every little creature of the night came with unnatural clarity to her ears. And still her thoughts went madly to and fro.
I love him.
Love?
No, this is not love, it’s madness, it has to be. Women who lose a child often go mad, it’s well known.
And love?
It’s disgusting, ridiculous, even to think of it!
Yes, think if you can, Guenevere, use your mind! You’re a married woman, married to a man who can still move your heart. Arthur was your first love, the dream of your girlhood, and the father of your child. You turned against him, and still you found it in your heart to turn back to him again, when all feeling lay in ruins and there was no breath of hope.
Love? That is love, not some madness born on a night in summer when the fireflies dance in a stranger’s eyes, when the mist weaves its silver ribbons through the trees, and every blade of grass breathes the hope of love anew. And you are a queen married to a king, married to a people and a land …
The thought of Arthur brought on a pain so acute she felt herself tearing inside. How could she think of love for Lancelot?
She could not—she did not, and that was the end.
But overhead the stars leaped and danced in the sky, the dark suns sang in their spheres, and the moon soared over the horizon like a bird. Go, child, she could hear the voice of the Mother breathing in the soft whisper of the grass, in the sigh of the wind in the trees, venture, and you will find.
They slipped back into the palace, the spirit of the woodland clinging around them still. Behind Guenevere walked Sir Bors leading Ina on his horse, with Sir Lionel alongside leading his horse too, refusing in chivalry to ride if his comrades were on foot.
The chamberlain was waiting in a state of high anxiety. “The King has called for you, madam, a hundred times!” he blurted out. “And not a soul knew where you had gone!”
“Forgive me, sir,” she began. “I was delayed encountering Sir Lancelot.”
But already the chamberlain had seen who she was with. “Sir Lancelot? Oh, my lady, there is nothing to forgive!” He turned to the nearest groom, standing gaping with awe, and boxed his ears. “It’s Sir Lancelot, you numbskull, jump to it! Sir Lancelot, is there anything you require?”
Everyone loved him, she saw with joy and pain. She watched in wonderment as the grooms danced round him in glee, bursting to hold his horse or simply to be near him. She had not known that he commanded such acclaim.
But then, she knew nothing now. Nothing was as it was before. When they reached the Queen’s apartments Ina set her back against the door, her eyes wide, her mouth huge with wonder and delight. “Ooooohhhhh, madam! Tell me! What—?”
“Ina, please—not a word …”
Guenevere held up her hand and sent Ina away. She was lost in a strange landscape of new dreams, and she could not have voiced a single one of them now.
BUT EVEN THE best dreams vanish with the light of day. The next morning she lay alone in bed as dawn stole over the ceiling and across the walls and watched her hopes and fancies fade away.
What had possessed her?
A spring night in the woodland, a wandering knight, was that all it took?
A sad and lonely woman, a handsome young man, a story as old as the hills—what must he think?
She clutched her stomach, sick with disgust, mocking her own pain. He was a knight-errant; all he wanted was honor and renown. A true knight always sought the lady he could not have. If he married, he had to give up the life of errantry and deeds of arms, and stay at home with his wife. So the rules of chivalry decreed that the queen of a knight’s heart should be a woman he could never possess.
She grinned, and hugged a pillow to her stomach to hold down the rising pain. Why, he’d told her as much himself, if only she’d listened to him. I follow the life of chivalry, he’d said. It is written that a knight must serve the best lady in the world.
And he was only a boy; it was natural that he was playing by the rules. He already knew she was married—everyone knew that. For him there would always be safety in another man’s wife, especially one married to a king, as long as they played the courtly game of love.
AND PLAY THEY did. He was the perfect knight. At dawn he sent a page to her door to ask how the Queen had slept.
“And Sir Lancelot swears,” piped the boy gravely, “that tonight he will not lay down his head, nor think to close his eyes, till I bring him word that you are safely in repose.”
“Thank you, sir.” She rewarded the page richly, and sent him away. She wanted to weep; she wanted to kill herself. Even at the height of their love, Arthur had never said or done such things.
“Such devotion, madam!” Ina sighed adoringly.
Guenevere’s eyes flared. “Oh, Ina, it doesn’t mean a thing! This is pure chivalry. It’s a game, nothing more.” The sight of Ina’s face annoyed her even more. “Don’t forget where he comes from! He must have learned these tricks in the courts of France.” Then another thought struck her, colder and crueller than all. “And you must know that I’m not the one who matters here. He’s trying to please the Queen only because he wants to prosper with the King!”
BUT ARTHUR NEEDED no prompting to love Lancelot. He leaped staring from his chair as she led Lancelot into the King’s apartments. “God bless you!” he wept. “You are your father come back to me again!”
Was he? Perhaps he was a little like King Ban, Guenevere thought, the bright eyes as bold as a kestrel’s below the tumbling of chestnut hair, the smile that lit his whole being, not just his eyes. But then she knew that Arthur was wrong, and she was wrong to believe what he said. Because then and always, Lancelot was himself.
NOT TO ARTHUR, though. The next morning she found him roaming round her chamber when she returned from her early-morning ride. What are you doing in my apartments, she thought coldly. What makes you think you can invite yourself here?
“Lancelot—he’s myself, don’t you see that, Guenevere?” he began abruptly, running his hand through his hair. With a jolt she noticed strands of gray she’d never seen before. When had she last looked at Arthur with the eyes of a loving wife?
She took a breath. “See what?”
“What they say.” Arthur’s voice was lifeless, dull, devoid of hope.
“What do they say?” She was already losing interest. Oh, Arthur, tell me if you want to, and if you don’t, who cares?
Arthur stood still and clutched his head in his hands. “He’s myself come back to reproach me—he’s all I was, all I ever used to be.”
“Arthur, men of your age often see their former selves in younger men—”
“No, it’s more than that!” Arthur groaned. “It’s his untainted soul; it shines out of him! And I—oh, God, Guenevere, what am I?”
YET ARTHUR SHONE in Lancelot’s eyes too. That evening, for the first time since Amir died, Arthur called for dinner in the Great Hall. As they mounted the dais that night and sat on their golden thrones, as they feasted guests and strangers by the light of a thousand torches, she could see their glory reflected in Lancelot’s gaze. And as he looked at Arthur with eyes of adoration, so Arthur revived, and life crept back into him, inch by painful inch.
In the body of the hall Lancelot moved among the courtiers, bowing shyly to ladies and attending courteously to lords. With men he was as proud as a stag in a glen, yet always civil too. But when he spoke to women, even the oldest matron without a tooth in her head, Guenevere had to turn away and bite her lip in pain. The misty glances that followed him from every female eye, and even from old men and boys not old enough to fight, tortured her with a rage she could not explain.
But not all those in the Great Hall welcomed Lancelot. From her throne on the dais she could see that the loyal Gawain rejoiced in Arthur’s joy. But she saw Agravain’s stony glare turned on Lancelot in silent calculation, and the flame of his
inner darkness seemed to burn higher when Lancelot passed by.
Soon Agravain’s harsh cawing voice was disturbing the evening’s peace. “The King loves the new knight better than our brother now. So much for loyalty, when a newcomer can blind him to the claims of true and faithful men!”
“Oh, come, brother!”
“Surely not!”
Neither Gaheris nor Gareth wanted to hear such a thing. But their troubled looks showed that the idea had taken hold. Frigid with rage, Guenevere called them up to her throne with a furious wave of her hand. “The King is not a child, to find a new friend and ignore the old,” she said icily, staring at Agravain. “He will never forget true and loyal service—nor hesitate to punish the opposite.”
Agravain stared her out. “As you say, Majesty.”
In the warm summer evening Guenevere’s skin crawled. What was it about Agravain? In the black depths of Agravain’s cold gaze could she see another loveless scrutiny, another mask of hate?
Morgan.
Yes.
It had to come, she knew it. She had let herself bury Morgan in her mind, because her soul was frantic for respite from the pain. But Morgan was gone, not lost, and sometime she would return.
NOW THE HALL was full of light as a thousand candles shone like stars and a hundred torches leaped flaming up the walls. Outside the windows the pale midsummer night clothed the palace towers in radiance, and a silver moon swam in the golden sky.
But when the lone rider galloped madly into the courtyard below, she knew that the darkness was near. And when they were called to the Council Chamber and Sir Yvain, King Ursien’s oldest son, stood before them shaking from head to foot, she knew what he would say.
Guenevere, Queen of the Summer Country Page 38