Guenevere, Queen of the Summer Country

by Rosalind Miles

  He heaved himself up, and was through the remaining bars, over the casement, and into the room in one sinuous move. As he came toward her she saw that his hands were red with blood.

  She leaned in to him and reached up to touch his face. The skin of his temple was damp to her fingertips. The hollow by his eyes seemed to have been waiting for her caress, and she wanted to trace the shape of his cheekbones till the day she died.

  Her hand found the back of his neck, and he shuddered but did not pull back. Gently, slowly, she drew his face down to hers and laid her finger in the groove of his lips. He seized her hand and pressed it to his mouth. Then he grasped her like a man starving, folded her in his arms, and kissed her for the first time.

  Outside the window the moon shone down on groves of white hawthorn and on roses with silver leaves, making their branches sing. The pale fragrance of apple blossom was in the air. She kissed his mouth hungrily, and felt his hunger rise. She kissed him again; she was starving for him. Oh, my love, my love …

  He gasped and stepped back, only to crush her to him tighter than before. “The glory of the spring shines in you alone, and the splendor of the stars lives in your eyes!” he moaned. “You are the woman of the dream; you are the love I have longed for all my life. But you are married; you are the wife of the King! Oh, lady, lady, what does it mean?”

  “Hush,” she said. “Hush, my love.”

  She kissed the welling blood from his hand and drew him toward the bed.

  CHAPTER 55

  They stood by the bed and kissed like people famished for each other since time began. His kisses were hard and hungry like a boy’s, and she could feel his passion building with every breath. Trembling, she took his face between her hands. The soft stubble of his chin pricked her fingers, but the skin was as smooth as satin on his temples, and in the tender hollow of his throat. She wanted to weep as she threaded her fingers through his hair. The back of his neck was as soft as down, and he trembled at her touch. She wrapped her arms around him, and he clasped her to him so fiercely that he lifted her off her feet. “Ah, lady!” he whispered. “Is this a dream?”

  Sighing, he buried his face in her neck. His lips made a path of kisses around her throat. Inside her gown her skin was pricking for his touch. He brought his hand to her breast, and her body caught fire.

  She reached up to her headdress and cast the gold circlet and veil to the ground. As she raised her face to his, her hair fell down like rain. Gasping, he explored her mouth, and she savored his long full lips, his strong, insistent tongue. Then he lifted her, and swung her onto the bed.

  Kneeling astride, he deftly untied the fastenings of her gown. A blistering shaft of remembrance shot through her mind: Arthur fumbled my buttons the first time he came to me. Then he pushed back the green silk to her navel, till she was as naked as a lily in its sheath of leaves. She lifted her arms to his neck, her eyes met his gaze, and she thought of Arthur no more.

  As the gown slipped down and she lay bare to him, Lancelot made a soundless cry in the back of his throat. His eyes grew bright with tears. Her breasts were white and full, her nipples rosy and sweet as kisses in the night, and already craving for his touch. In her body, in her eyes, in every distracted movement and light moan, he could feel her love and need calling out to his own. The sound of his own name dimly reached his ears. She was crooning it almost to herself, lifting her arms to him, wrapping them around his neck.

  She was aching for him now, crying out under her breath. He reached out in wonder and stroked the top of her breast. Her nipples tensed in answer to his caress. She reached for his fingers and crushed them against her breast till she groaned in pain. Then she drew him down beside her on the bed, and took him in her arms.

  Gently she stroked his back, his sides, and the lean, tense curve of his flanks. Then her hand found the opening of his shirt and her fingers brushed his breast. He started violently, leaped to his feet, and unbuckled his heavy leather belt, tore off his tunic and shirt, and kicked off his breeches and boots.

  Naked, he was white and golden like a god. A silver dewdrop glinted on the top of his sex. Gilded by the gold and silver dusk, he was a being from the Otherworld. He leaned over, and peeled away the last remnant of her modesty, drawing the green gown down over her hips. Then he slipped down beside her on the bed, and dropped a rainfall of sweet kisses on her quivering flesh.

  The touch of his lips felt like the sun in spring after the longest winter she had known. Tenderly he explored the dewy triangle at the top of her legs till she writhed under his hand. She felt herself grow wet with joy for him, and a mist of tears came before her eyes. She clung to him in a storm of emotion; of love, of fear, she could not tell. A thought of Arthur passed through her like a knife, and she caught her breath with pain. What am I doing? she moaned to herself. Why am I here? Then Lancelot renewed his caresses and she could think no more.

  Now she was riding the waves of desire as they battered her senseless, pulling her down to the dark rolling depths. He quickened with her till she could not tell where his body ended and hers began. Now they were breathing the same panting breaths, and the need between them could not be contained. She opened her arms and cried out to him from her heart: Love me, Lancelot, love me. Love me now!

  And he cried out too, and came into her, and the roaring sea drowned them both.

  AFTERWARD THEY DROWSED in each other’s arms. Lancelot held her close, but she could hear the doubt and wonder in his voice. “When did you know?”

  Lazily she traced the fine skin of his eyelids, the tender blue of harebells in spring. “As soon as I saw your eyes.”

  He paused. “What, the very first time we met, in the forest? When I came with Bors and Lionel?”

  “There. I could have lain down for you there.”

  He was silent. Anxiety seared her like a flame. He could have had any girl, one of his own age who had never borne children, who did not have the telltale marks of motherhood. Perhaps he hated her body now they had made love. Perhaps he did not love her, and he never had. She forced herself to speak. “And you? When did you know?”

  The silence lengthened and deepened till she could feel the ground shifting and a chasm opening between them. She clutched at him. “You do know, don’t you? Say you know!”

  He opened his eyes. “You knew,” he said gently, settling her back in his arms. “That is enough.”

  And she knew it was not the last time she would feel that pain.

  WHICH OF THEM was it?

  Which of her knights was Guenevere’s paramour?

  Malgaunt circled his chamber like a wolf in a trap, his head thrumming with the same insistent refrain.

  It had to be one of them. He had had all night to reason it out, and however many times he passed it through his burning mind, it came to the same thing. Guenevere had a lover, and he had to know who it was.

  There was no other explanation of the way things had turned out. Tuath his Druid had seen she was ripe for love. Arthur had failed her; she had to choose again. Yet she had not chosen him.

  The familiar fury boiled up in Malgaunt’s heart.

  He knew why.

  Guenevere, damn her, had already made her choice! The new consort seen by Tuath in the stars had already invaded her heart before he, Malgaunt, had even come knocking at the gates!

  Why else would she refuse him? Oh, she had always been cold to him, and pretended he was the last man on earth for her. But she knew as well as he did that they were fated to come together, fated to rule together, fated to restore the wrong that the fates had done him by making her Queen, when he should have been King. When she took him in marriage, they would both have what they had wanted all along. They would be lord and lady of the Summer Country, in fate’s clear solution to its own whimsical prank. She must know this, it was so obvious!

  It was true he had to give way when Arthur appeared. But that was just another of fortune’s little pranks, to send a raw youth adventuring to snatch the pr
ize from him when he had it in his grasp. He was unprepared for a rival, so almost anyone could have defeated him then. But later he came to see the beauty of Dame Fortune’s plan. Once Guenevere had married Arthur, another kingdom was added to her own. Now Arthur had only to meet with an accident, and both countries were hers. And his.

  He took a moment to consider Arthur’s end. How should he die? Nothing too easy, in memory of Amir. Any man who killed his own son, Malgaunt brooded, who could not save his own flesh and blood from the sea wolves, deserved the worst of deaths. He should see his death coming, know his life was ending, and understand why. And then Guenevere would be free. Free for Malgaunt, her true partner all along.

  Then the blood bulged in his veins and throbbed behind his eyes.

  Who was the new consort, the new bedfellow? It had to be one of the three knights in her quarters, the three she had brought with her into the wood.

  Not Lancelot then, though it had looked that way when the young fool appeared. No, the May Day ride Guenevere had planned was all too plainly a way of bringing the new lover to a secret tryst. The two other trusted knights would serve both as a cover for dalliance, and as lookouts during her amorous antics in the secret wood. With Arthur far away, Guenevere could indulge herself. She would never have left Lancelot behind in Caerleon if he were the man. So which one?

  Not Kay—too short, too dark, too sarcastic. The Guenevere he knew would never take a sharp-tongued lover; she had to be adored. Kay was a cripple too. However hungry she was for a man in her bed, he thought brutally, Guenevere would never open her legs to a man without two strong lusty legs of his own.

  Bors, then? Not as handsome as Lancelot, but his brown brooding eyes and well-knit body could be to any woman’s taste. Bors, yes, maybe.

  Still, the most likely one was Lionel. He was made of softer stuff than his brother, and Guenevere would prefer a weaker man. And he had the gold-brown coloring she favored, with a fine long loose body to boot. Which he was doubtless putting to good advantage now. Unless the sword slash to his arm was much worse than it seemed, he’d have wasted no time. At this very moment, Malgaunt concluded desperately, he must be slipping lustily between the lady’s sheets.

  The clear image of Guenevere in bed with a lover, her long pale arms entwined around his back, his body eagerly burrowing into hers, seared Malgaunt’s eyes and lit a bonfire in his mind.

  “Guard!” he screamed.

  A startled man-at-arms almost fell into the room. “Order a detail to the Queen’s quarters!” came the command. “Get a captain here and six men to follow me for a search and arrest!”

  LANCELOT FIXED HIS gaze on the crack between the bed hangings, and watched the sky lighten toward dawn. Beside him Guenevere was sleeping as sweetly as a child, her cheeks flushed, tiny tendrils of her bright hair, still damp with the exertions of love, clinging to her face. But he must not sleep, he knew. He must be away before dawn, and back to his quarters before anyone knew he was gone.

  Already a dappled dawn was rising up the sky, painting the chamber with streaks of opal and gold. He had already left it too late to be sure of getting back while darkness would still cover his tracks. Go! he told his reluctant body. Go! Or you betray yourself, and worse, you betray the Queen!

  He pressed his lips to her cheek, and gingerly started to untangle his limbs from hers. She awoke at once, opening her eyes wide like a child. Then with a sweet smile, she curled into him again, sleepily fumbling misplaced kisses on his chin and neck. The touch of her lips was so unexpected that his flesh stirred at once, and he shuddered with fear and delight. She was the most beautiful woman in the world. She was the most forbidden, and the most irresistible.

  Go! ran the last faint whisper of everyday sense. But he was beyond sense. He ran his hand hard down her body and was startled at the speed of her response.

  She came at him with her dewy eyes, her milk-white body, and her longing stronger than he ever dreamed women could have. Her shoulders were hot and round and smooth to his touch as he pushed her back among the plump pillows, kicked off the bedcovers, and, spreading her legs, drove into her till they both knew no more.

  RACING THROUGH THE castle with six guards in his wake, Malgaunt was almost happy. He would catch Guenevere in the act and expose her for what she was—a married woman with a lover, a queen who lay with her knights.

  Why else would she have wanted them with her so badly? “Release my knights!” she had cried, as soon as he told her how she could save Lancelot’s life. She cared for them more than she cared for Lancelot, that was plain. And why should she care for them? Guenevere cared for no one but herself. No, an older woman with a younger man wanted one thing, and only one. Something she was already having, and doubtless had been having all night, hot and strong, while he was condemned to pace the cold floor of his chamber with only rage and jealousy to keep him warm.

  Well, not in Dolorous Garde! It would be dolorous indeed for Guenevere when she was caught. Malgaunt’s lips contorted in a sadistic smile. For the wife of a king, adultery was treason, and treason in a queen of the Middle Kingdom, where the Christians ruled, was punished by death. And a traitor’s death for a woman meant punishment by fire—treacherous women were denied the swift mercy of the axe and block. So Guenevere would burn, as he had burned for her, for so long, all in vain.

  And he would catch her; he couldn’t fail. She and her paramour would hardly expect callers at this hour; they’d think they were safe enough at the break of dawn. And with bars on every window, they’d have no chance of escape. They’d both be caught. And he’d be satisfied.

  And he would know, Which one?

  As his mind embarked again on the same frantic round, Malgaunt’s step quickened to keep pace with his tortured thoughts. And on he strode toward the couple sleeping in the bed.

  CHAPTER 56

  The clenched hand at the hangings was tearing the curtains back. The dawn light flooded into the dark, safe place, blinding her.

  “So, Guenevere! Shall I ask you how you have slept? Not a lot, it seems, from what I can see!”

  She grabbed for the tangled sheets to cover herself. Over Malgaunt’s shoulder she caught sight of Ina’s face. “Don’t blame me, my lady,” she begged in agony, weeping and wringing her hands. “I couldn’t stop them; they broke in before I knew!”

  Behind Malgaunt stood half a dozen men-at-arms. Some were staring dumbly at the walls, at the floor, anywhere but at her; others were openly ogling her as she lay in bed. They would all think of this moment, she knew, for the rest of their lives—Queen Guenevere, naked in bed, still warm in the arms of her lover Sir Lancelot!

  But Lancelot was not there.

  Tears leaped to her eyes. Goddess, Mother, thanks!

  Where had he gone? With a terrible longing she remembered waking to feel him slipping out of her arms. She had watched him hungrily as he shrugged into his clothes. He had come back to the bed to press a rain of hasty kisses on her hands, her eyes, her mouth, then moved quickly to the window and slid sideways between the bars. Once outside, he had taken a moment to wedge the loose bar back into place, then raised a hand in farewell and was gone.

  Her sharp sense of loss was drowned by a wave of relief. She lay back on the pillows and made her voice harsh with contempt. “How dare you burst in here like this, Malgaunt! Get out at once, you and your bully-boys! Have my horses prepared. I shall be leaving at once, I and my knights.”

  “I doubt that, lady!”

  She stared at Malgaunt. With a snake’s swiftness, he reached into the bed, snatched the pillow away from under her head, then thrust it triumphantly into her face. “What’s this?” he gloated. “Does it look as if you slept alone last night?”

  The white surface of the linen was smudged and stained with blood. She had a sudden savage memory of Lancelot rearing up over her, driving into her, supporting himself on his hands, without a thought of the cuts he had in his palms.

  Malgaunt turned to the captain of his men. “Ge
t the Queen’s knights in here to answer for themselves,” he ordered savagely. “Drag them from their beds if need be!”

  He stood over Guenevere, holding the pillow aloft like a token of victory. “Leave here, Guenevere? I don’t think so; not today! One of your wounded knights has been with you in this bed. You will leave here only in chains, when I take you back to your husband to be punished for your treachery!”

  “IN HERE—that’s right!”

  One by one the three knights were dragged into the room. The sudden exertion had caused Sir Bors’ head wound to break out, and beads of blood lay along the raw red scar on his brow. Sir Lionel’s eyes were still wide and unfocused from sleep, and as he clutched his injured forearm the rough dressing was stained with traces of blood.

  “So, sirs!” Malgaunt looked at the brothers with a rage that was close to despair.

  Sir Kay was the first to respond. His face was jaundiced with pain and fatigue, but he was not afraid. “So, Prince Malgaunt,” he said firmly, “what is all this?”

  Malgaunt gestured toward Guenevere. “The Queen has turned traitress to the King!” His teeth flashed. “Now we know why Her Majesty was so intent on having her knights brought into her quarters, so that she could tend to them.” He pointed a finger that vibrated with pent-up spite. “One of you three lay with the Queen last night!”

  Bors closed his eyes. This was madness; it was a nightmare; he must be more ill than he thought. Lionel flinched, and his pale skin became mottled with shock. What was the matter with them? Kay thought furiously. Crippled leg or not, it was left to him to challenge Malgaunt now. “Prince Malgaunt—” he began evenly.

  Guenevere’s voice rang round the room. “Malgaunt, demand the truth from these knights on their oath of chivalry. I will stake my life on their word!”