Gone.
Lancelot stood stock still.
Gone. Of course.
No wonder she had tried so hard to get rid of him. No wonder she had staged the sudden return to Camelot. She had a tryst; the Queen had a tryst!
One by one the pieces fell into place. He knew about this; it was the way of courtly love. He had seen it in the courts of France often enough. Why did he never think of it before?
Of course a woman like her would have a lover, even though she was married to a king and the best man in the world. An older man it would be, wise and kind, doubtless her secret love for many years. They would have to snatch their illicit hours together when they could. So the Queen would disappear from time to time, and then reappear covered with convincing excuses, while her knights had been hunting for her high and low.
In the wrong place, of course, or how could she enjoy her lover undisturbed? And the King wanted him to join the search for her?
The King.
Deceived, abandoned, betrayed by his wife—
A huge sadness gathered around Lancelot’s heart. He looked at Bedivere. “Where is the King?” he said.
THE SUMMONS CAME when they had almost ceased to care. Guenevere struggled to shake off the lethargy dragging her down. “Quick, Ina, help me brush my dress, smooth my hair.”
“Yes, madam.”
She could see from the mirror how far she was from the way she ought to look. Her gown was creased now with many days’ wear. She would not touch the clothes lining the closet, mocking her fate with their rich splendor. But as Ina settled her coronet over her veil and she felt the smooth green silk of her gown beneath her palms, she straightened her back and held her head up high.
“So, Ina—let me go—”
HE WAS WAITING for her in the Great Hall, after a lowering trudge through miles of dark corridors with never a soul but the guards in sight. As the men on the doors threw them open at her approach, the vast empty space gaped before her like a monstrous cave. She had to force herself not to flinch from the fearsome figure straddling the hearth within.
She knew him at once for her ravisher in the forest, the man who had brought her here. He had the lean, hard frame she had first seen in the saddle, and the look of a leader who rewards disobedience with death. His iron-gray hair sprang back from a peak on his forehead like the crest of a hawk, and a pair of fierce eyes of no color tracked her every move. He wore the short tunic of a warrior, though he was older than most warriors ever lived to be. Half a dozen daggers were thrust through his belt, and he toyed with another as it dangled from his hands. But that was not what made her catch her breath. Around his neck he wore the torque of a Druid of the highest rank.
A cold sweat filmed her palms.
Any knight could be a Druid—Druids were always warriors before they turned to the service of their Gods, and even in old age they fought for what they believed in, and died for it too. But only one Druid had ever been her enemy, and only he could lie behind this evil Druid now.
Merlin.
Who else would attack her here in her own land?
But was Merlin against her still? Would his hate never sleep, not even now she had lost Arthur and buried Amir? Did he want her life too? She looked at the yellow eye-stone in the neck of the Druid’s torque and almost moaned aloud with fear.
The guards propelled her forward down the hall. The stranger fixed her with a cold metallic glance. “I am Tuath, a Druid of these parts,” he said harshly. “You will wonder why you are here, Queen Guenevere.”
He raised a hand. It was horribly maimed from an old sword wound, the thumb and forefinger missing, the rest of it crabbed like a claw. “Will you take some refreshment? I will call for food and wine.”
“Food and wine?” Disbelief and fury gave her the words she needed now. “You dare to insult me with this show of hospitality after all you have done? Where are my knights? I know they were wounded—what have you done with them?”
“They are safe and well cared for. Have no fear for them.”
“I want to see them, to judge for myself! And I demand to be set free at once. You know who I am—you must know the penalty for abducting a queen!”
He gave a mirthless smile. “But it is no offense, Your Majesty, to help and advise a queen.”
She was astounded. “What about?”
He came closer. “For centuries in these islands, we kept the old ways. The Queen would change her consort and take a new King when the time came.” He sighed with a kind of pleasure, and his eyes were brooding with desire. “The youth the Queen discarded was always given to us, and we gave him to the Gods. For three days and nights we hung him on a tree, then we took his manhood with our golden knives. His seed and his sex made a paste to enrich the earth, and his blood ran down to give the new crops life.” He smiled to himself. “Every year we made this rite.”
“Sir, all this—”
But he was oblivious. “Then it became three years, and then seven, before the King had to die. And then queens would spare their consorts’ lives, and permit them to live on in the warrior band.” Suddenly his colorless eyes were boring into her. “And now queens will allow a failing king to live, even when his weakness undermines the land.” He raised his voice. “And it must not be!”
Guenevere gasped. “What are you telling me?”
“Your consort has a weakness in his soul. You saw it first when Merlin was lost to him. Without his Druid, Arthur could not move. Now he has fallen into the same lethargy again. All his desire is changed to feebleness of heart. Your Arthur is not capable of kingship, nor can you rouse him to his strength as a man. And even for a man in all his power”—his eyes were glittering with Druidic ecstasy—“the time comes when the King must die.”
She recoiled in terror. “A curse on you for saying so!”
He was impervious. “Your mother had her chosen ones, and she changed her consort every seven years. You loved your mother, and you claim to honor the Great Mother above all.” His deformed hand flew out like a talon and gripped her wrist. “Yet you defy Her ways! The law of the Goddess is that you must be championed by the worthiest knight. When one fails in his duty, you have the right to find another—that is your sacred trust!”
She tore herself free. “I will not set my husband aside because of the weakness he suffers now. I will be strong for both!”
“Why should you cling to a love that is dead, when you should be faithful to the One from whom we all take life? When any woman lives a half-life without love, she wounds herself. When a queen does so, her whole country becomes a wasteland.”
“Do not speak to me of my country! I will rule my land as I see fit!”
“To do that you need a warrior, lady, not a shadow man!” He gave a hateful laugh and moved in close again. She could smell the incense of his last ritual on his clothes, and above it the sick sour smell of mingled blood and seed. “Answer your own nature! You were not made to be the Christian chattel of a failing man.” He came nearer still. “You are a daughter of the Otherworld. You are free like your mother to do as you choose. All her acts of love and pleasure she took without guilt, and so should you.”
His loathsome claw gripped her wrist again. He was so close to her now that she could reach out and touch his belt. A cold thought came into her mind. If I can get one of his daggers—
“Out! Get out of the way!”
There was a shout at the door, the heavy sound of a mailed fist striking flesh, and the same curse again. “Out of my way, you fool, open the door!”
The double doors burst on their hinges as a band of knights came through. At their head was the last man she ever thought to see.
“Malgaunt!”
She ran to him and threw herself into his arms. “Oh, Malgaunt, thank the Gods you’ve come!” She burst into tears. “I’ve never been so pleased to see you in my life!”
CHAPTER 53
It was the sweetest moment of his life. Oh, Malgaunt! she had cried, and Tha
nk the Gods you’ve come! And she clung to him as her savior, and he had gripped her by the waist and pressed her to him as he had always lusted to …
Now he would know those breasts, that body, those long full flanks he had dreamed of for twenty years. Now she would be his, and all that was hers would be his, and he would be King at last, King of the Summer Country. Malgaunt the King.
Malgaunt grinned in triumph and clasped Guenevere to his chest. “So, Druid,” she heard him rasp, “you have done well, it seems! You’ve brought her round, have you? She’s mine at last?”
“Yours?”
Malgaunt could not contain himself. His savage grin showed an elation she had never seen before. “Yes, Guenevere! My Druid has seen it rising in the stars. You are ripe for a new consort, he says, and all the signs show that you are poised to take another champion and chosen one. So I had everything made ready for you here, and sent Tuath with my knights to bring you from the wood.”
A flash of the old Malgaunt flickered across his face. “You have made me wait a long time for this!” He reached for her again, and the nightmare came to life.
“Malgaunt, no!” She broke, gabbling, from his grasp. “I won’t change Arthur for another man; your Druid is mad even to think of it! I ran to you now because I thought you’d come to rescue me. Just take me back to Camelot, and we’ll forget all this. I’ll never speak of it again, I promise you. Only take me home!”
Malgaunt laughed harshly. “Guenevere, you are home! You are mine now, and this is where you live. I’ve chosen everything for you, had it all done just as you had it in Camelot. Didn’t you see your gowns and jewels, even your own perfume?”
“No!” she whimpered, but he did not hear.
“This is my castle and my estate; you’re in Dolorous Garde. Tuath is my Druid, and he brought you here for me.” He looked across at the Druid, and Tuath gave him a mystical smile. “Mad? Perhaps so. But all he cares about is restoring the old ways. He has forsworn women himself. He longs for the lost days of blood and sacrifice, when queens ruled alone, and he and his kind had the power of death over the finest young men of the tribe. So our purposes came together when I saw my chance with you.”
Tuath’s eyes were on her, like iron on fire. “You are the Throne Woman of the Summer Country. You honor the Goddess when you offer a new man the friendship of your thigh.”
“That will never be!”
The gray voice ground on. “You have no children. Arthur will give you none.” He pointed his clawlike hand. “Prince Malgaunt is of the blood royal of our land. Take him, and make a doubly royal child. Take the Mother’s way to make yourself a mother again.”
Were they both mad? “Never!” Guenevere screamed.
Malgaunt’s hot eyes were devouring her body as they had done all her life. “You have no choice.” He grinned. “You’re as good as dead to the world—and so is your former husband.”
“What?” The hairs were rising on her neck. “My former husband? What do you mean?”
He sounded calm, but she could feel his excitement with every word. “Where do you think I’ve been while you’ve been here? I have led the search for you so thoroughly that all Camelot thinks you’re dead, or lost with the Fair Ones in the hollow hills. And I’ve sent to Arthur to tell him you’ve disappeared. When he returns to look for you, he’ll meet some tragic accident on the way.”
He was crowing with delight. “Then in a while, I’ll find you wandering in the woodland, as if the Fair Ones had set you free. You may have lost your tongue, but you’ll be alive, and all the world will rejoice.” He laughed again at the look on her face. “Believe me, Guenevere, I’ll cut your tongue out, if I have to, if you cross me now. Your hands, too, to stop you telling your story to the world. But you’ll see reason, won’t you?”
Tuath nodded. “Of course she will. And all will understand when the Queen takes her savior Malgaunt as her new consort.”
“Yes!” Malgaunt stared ahead, his eyes dark with dreams. “And then you and I will join the Middle Kingdom to our own land, claiming it in your right as Arthur’s Queen. From there, we can even make ourselves High King and Queen of all these islands, as you and Arthur planned.” He laughed to himself, then looked at her sharply. “And all for one May morning ride!” He reached out to take her in his arms.
“Don’t touch me!” She leaped away and spat in his face.
He brought his hand to his cheek and stared at her in shock. “After all I’ve done for you?”
“All you’ve done for me? Malgaunt, you can’t make me love you. I love—”
Another man, she wanted to say, and choked on the words.
“Arthur?” Malgaunt howled. “You don’t love Arthur! You can’t; he’s finished now!” She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off. “And d’you think I care if you don’t love me, when I’ve wanted you all my life?” A sour smile split his face. “I’ll take you as I find you, Guenevere!”
She knew that panic was sounding in her voice. “If you don’t care for me, think of yourself at least!” He had to hear this; he had to understand. “You are the son of a king, a prince of the blood. You’re a knight of the Round Table, pledged to honor and chivalry. I’ll never love you, Malgaunt. I’d rather cut my throat than come to your bed. If you take me, it’s rape! How does that sit with your honor as a knight?”
“Guenevere!”
The face so close to hers was swelling with rage. Behind the narrow lids, the pupils were black dots, shot with pinpoints of light. She trailed off, panting, afraid of Malgaunt now.
“So! Well, choose how you take me, Guenevere, but take me you must. Your choice is now, tonight!”
“HAIL MARY, MOTHER of God, Queen of Heaven, blessed art Thou among women, for the Lord is with Thee …”
The Abbess Placida’s lips moved through the familiar convent chant as her wimpled head and large body sailed out of her private quarters into the corridor behind. Truly the Lord blesses His chosen women, and now even my lowly self among them, she marveled smugly, praised be His holy Name! To bring such men under the roof of my house! The great days I have envisioned are indeed coming to pass.
“Smartly there, sisters!” she chivied the trio of nuns who were bearing away the remains of the meal. “And hurry along with the cheese, and more wine.”
“Yes, Mother!” Heads down, the novices scurried away like mice. The Abbess smiled indulgently. Ah, the beauty of a well-run house of women, when order and discipline triumphed as it should!
She paused for a moment before returning to her guests. An ugly look passed over her face as past events forced their way painfully into her mind. She shuddered. What a trial You inflicted on me, Lord. What a torment for Your faithful handmaid!
She scowled.
To have had to learn the truth about Sister Ann. To have been forced to undergo the visitation of the King’s officers, investigating the coven that that cursed witch had formed inside this holy house. To have had to interrogate every single nun, and purge the whole convent of the evil that the wicked one had caused.
The Abbess’s fingers twitched at the memory. Her rod had hardly slept in all that time. But she had lain down each night with the sense of duty done. And good had triumphed, driving out the bad. Her tireless efforts had restored the convent to a place of peace again.
The Abbess’s brow cleared. It had all turned out for the best, praise the Lord. The King’s knights had made it clear that the evil was not her fault. Brother John had come hotfoot to confess the nuns and to help restore the right. And now he and the Father Abbot from London were here in person under her roof! That was proof positive of forgiveness of the past.
Such men … such great men …
Mistily the Abbess surveyed the future landscape of her dreams. More money, more of everything was coming from Rome these days, everyone knew that. Monks had been empowered to take on the office of priests, and their tiny flocks were growing every day. There would be bishoprics and archbishoprics and new sees
and dioceses, and Brother John and the Father Abbot were the men to take these roles.
And there could not be a better time for Christ’s work. God was with them; events were in their hands. Witness the business that had brought the two monks here to break their journey and rest overnight. The Abbess cocked an ear to the even hum of conversation from the room behind. She could rely on the server nuns to keep up the flow of food and wine. Time to rejoin the guests.
“You saw her, of course,” the Father Abbot was saying as the Abbess slipped back in. After a good convent dinner, his lean face had lost some of its waxen look. But another satisfaction lit his eyes now.
Brother John gave a bitter smile. “At her so-called Queen-making,” he agreed, “when the harpy screamed at me before all the crowd. A vixen, Father, I promise you. God only knows what King Arthur saw in her!”
The Father Abbot stifled an inward sigh. Would these Britons never understand the ways of men? A monk had to learn to recognize women’s sin. Otherwise he could never know how the daughters of Eve preyed upon men, how they dragged them down to lose their immortal souls. Of course the Queen was a harridan, and like all the women of the Summer Country, a whore besides. Still, they had to get to grips with that too.
“But a woman to be reckoned with, nonetheless?” he prompted Brother John. “After all, she induced King Arthur to marry her at first sight.” He frowned. “Thereby adding another decade to our labors—from the very first, I thought we could win him to us.”
“And we shall, Father!” the Abbess Placida put in.
The Father Abbot pressed on, ignoring her. “And God has shown us that we shall, by these clear signs.” He held up his right hand. “One, that He struck down the pagan queen, the mother of this one. Two, that He has denied a daughter in the line. Three, that He took the life of the one child this queen has had. And four, that He has now caused her to disappear, leaving Arthur to fall into our hands.”
Guenevere, Queen of the Summer Country Page 42