Queen of the Summer Stars: Book Two of the Guinevere Trilogy

Copyright © 2011 by Persia Woolley

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Originally published in 1990 by Poseidon Press.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Woolley, Persia.

Queen of the summer stars / by Persia Woolley.

p. cm.—(The Guinevere trilogy ; bk. 2)

1. Guenevere, Queen (Legendary character)—Fiction. 2. Arthurian romances—Adaptations. 3. Queens—Great Britain—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3573.O68Q44 2011

813’.54—dc22

2011002337

Contents

Front Cover

Title Page

Copyright

King Arthur's Britain

Cast of Characters

Preface

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

Chapter XXI

Chapter XXII

Chapter XXIII

Chapter XXIV

Chapter XXV

Chapter XXVI

Chapter XXVII

Chapter XXVIII

Chapter XXIX

Chapter XXX

Chapter XXXI

Chapter XXXII

Chapter XXXIII

Chapter XXXIV

Chapter XXXV

Chapter XXXVI

Chapter XXXVII

Chapter XXXVIII

About the Author

Back Cover

To all my mothers—natural, god, in-law, and grand.

And especially to Irene Higman, from whom I learned how important stepmothering can be.

Cast of Characters

House of Pendragon

Uther—High King of Britain, father of Arthur

Igraine—wife of Uther, mother of Arthur

Arthur—King of Logres, High King of Britain

Guinevere—wife of Arthur

House of Orkney

Lot—King of Lothian and the Orkney Isles

Morgause—daughter of Igraine, half-sister of Arthur, widow of King Lot

Gawain—son of Morgause

Gaheris—son of Morgause

Agravain—son of Morgause

Gareth—son of Morgause

Mordred—son of Morgause

House of Northumbria

Urien—King of Northumbria, husband of Morgan

Morgan le Fey—daughter of Igraine, half-sister to Arthur. High Priestess and Lady of the Lake

Uwain—son of Morgan and Urien

House of Cornwall

Mark—King of Cornwall

Isolde—Mark’s child-bride from Ireland

Tristan—nephew to Mark

Dinadan—Tristan’s best friend

Round Table Fellowship

Accolon of Gaul—Morgan le Fey’s lover

Agricola—Roman King of Demetia, mentor to Geraint

Bedivere—Arthur’s foster-brother and lieutenant

Bors—cousin of Lancelot

Cador—Duke of Cornwall

Cei—Arthur’s foster-brother and Seneschal of the Realm

Geraint—King of Devon

Lancelot of the Lake—a Prince of Brittany

Palomides—slave-born Arab

Pelleas—lover of Ettard

Pellam—wounded King of Carbonek

Pellinore—warlord of the Wrekin

Lamorak—Pellinore’s eldest son

Perceval—Pellinore’s youngest son

Ulfin—Chamberlain to Uther, warrior for Arthur

Griflet—son of Ulfin, Master of the Kennels

Women of Camelot

Augusta—gossipy lady-in-waiting

Brigit—Irish foster-sister to Guinevere

Brisane—governess to Elaine of Carbonek

Elaine of Astolat—slow-witted lady-in-waiting

Elaine of Carbonek—beautiful daughter of Pellam, very much infatuated with Lancelot

Enid—sharp-tongued lady-in-waiting

Ettard—young companion to Igraine

Lynette—daughter of grounds keeper in London

Vinnie—Roman matron in charge of ladies-in-waiting

Various Heads of State

Vortigern—earlier tyrant, married to Rowena

Rowena—daughter of invading Saxon, Hengist

Cerdic—son of Vortigern and Rowena

Anastasius—Emperor in Constantinople

Clovis—King of the Franks

Other Characters

Beaumains—mysterious student of Lancelot’s

Cathbad—druid who was Guinevere’s childhood teacher

Dagonet—Arthur’s Court Jester

Frieda—Saxon milkmaid, lover of Griflet

Gwyn of Neath—horsebreeder and builder of the Hall on Glastonbury’s Tor

Illtud—Prince/warrior who became a monk

Gildas—student of Illtud

Paul Aurelian—student of Illtud

Samson—student of Illtud

Kevin—Guinevere’s childhood love

Lucan—Arthur’s gate keeper

Maelgwn—Guinevere’s cousin, King of Gwynedd

Merlin—Arthur’s tutor and mentor, the Mage of Britain

Nimue—priestess and lover of Merlin

Ragnell—leader of nomadic Ancient Ones

Riderich—Arthur’s bard

Taliesin—peasant boy who wants to become a bard

Wehha the Swede—leader of East Anglian Federates

Wihtgar—Saxon Federate settler

Assorted courtiers, pages, musicians, visiting dignitaries, and sprites, according to the reader’s imagination

Preface

During the last half of the twentieth century, the authors of novels based on the stories of King Arthur were more or less divided into three categories: those who cast the stories as fantasy, those who see them as women’s romance, and those who give them a realistic treatment.

As readers of my first volume, Child of the Northern Spring, know, I belong to the last group. Although the characters I’m writing about are superstitious, there are no dragons, no magic swords, no whooshing away of islands with a flick of the wrist. There is a place for that kind of sword and sorcery, but it is not in my books.

Nor have I chosen to focus exclusively on the love stories of the famous legend. Like Malory, I prefer to treat them as an integral part of the different characters’ development rather than as the main point of the story.

If Arthur and Guinevere lived (and scholars make cases both for and against their actual existence), it would have been during the period following the fall of the Roman Empire—roughly between 450 and 550 A.D. This was a time of tremendous change and upheaval throughout Europe, and nowhere was that more evident than in Britain.

Archaeologically we see a gradual dying out of Roman culture among the Britons—they would eventually be conquered by the vigorous, often brutal Anglo-Saxon settlers. But the struggle for supremacy went back and forth between these two factions for well over a century, during which time there was a brief but major Celtic revival reflected in grave goods, art, and religion. And in the midst of that there seems to have been a noticeable peace that lasted for several decades prior to the final Saxon incursions.

It is precisely against this turbulent background that I have set the adventures of the Round Table characters, for legend says that King Arthur led the British forces to victory over the Saxons at the battle of Mt. Badon, after which he reigned for twenty years of peace and prosperity.

While it is with history that I’ve set the stage, it is from the literature that I’ve taken the characters, remaining as true to the legends as a realistic approach allows.

The Round Table cast is a fascinating study in human types. Some of the characters have remained pretty much the same over the centuries, such as Tristan, the big young warrior who falls in love with his king’s wife, or Palomides, the Arab knight who is accepted for his honor and bravery but always holds himself slightly apart.

Others are more complex and have changed over the centuries as the stories have developed. Gawain, for instance, is the knight of greatest courtesy and honor in the earliest stories. But after the medieval romances introduced the Frenchman Lancelot (he was really a Breton), Gawain’s character began to change. Certainly the French versions show him as loutish and hot-tempered, and a decided rake where the women are concerned. I’ve incorporated both aspects and made them part of Gawain’s own growth.

I have also incorporated actual historical figures—Agricola, Geraint, Mark, and Tristan are all considered by scholars to have been real people. And occasionally I’ve played with archaeological finds, such as the Anastasius Bowl, which was part of the treasure retrieved from the Sutton Hoo ship burial. Although the grave itself dates from the seventh century, it contained a silver bowl clearly marked by a smith during the reign of the Byzantine Emperor Anastasius (491 to 518 A.D.). More than one archaeologist has puzzled over how that elegant bowl came into the possession of the barbaric Swedes who had settled on the edge of East Anglia—and I couldn’t resist working backward through the genealogies in order to have Arthur give it to the first king of that East Anglian dynasty.

The historical novelist always faces the problem of anachronism and must make the choice between contemporary readability and historical accuracy. In my case I’ve opted for readability, or occasionally for tradition. Therefore all the invading Germanic tribes are referred to as Saxons, though the northern settlers were predominantly Angles, and those in the south included Jutes and Franks as well. Since the Britons themselves called them all Saxons, I note it here strictly for academic accuracy. And while the game of chess probably had not reached Britain by 500 A.D., the tradition of Guinevere playing chess with her abductor is so strong, I chose that game rather than the more prosaic draughts, in part because there is so much symbolism connected to the royal pieces of the chess set.

One of the great aspects of the Matter of Britain (as the Round Table stories as a whole are called) lies in the fact that it is a living, viable myth that continues to grow. Each new teller of the tale is indebted in some ways to past versions, and I wish to acknowledge my own debt to Mary Stewart, whose Merlin books continue to be my standard of excellence. Not only have I consciously looked to her for style and approach, but I have also built on her concept of Merlin and Nimue in lifting their relationship out of the typical gold digger dynamic it had lingered in so long.

My specific thanks go also to Geoffrey Ashe, whose help and guidance through both the literary and physical landscape verged on the miraculous; to Marion Zimmer Bradley for insights into Morgan le Fey; and to Parke Godwin, who not only allowed me to use the Prydn—a people he created in Firelord—but also helped me develop the character of Ragnell.

In the area of research I am particularly grateful to Barbara Childs, who put me in touch with Xenophon’s work on horses; Linda Farley of Crossroads Counseling Center for taking the time to educate me in the dynamics of stress following rape; Ted Johanson, who answered my questions on Roman law; and the librarians of the Auburn-Placer County Library for their patience and help in locating odd bits of information on Britain’s flora and fauna. Since she served as overall godmother to the project, I’d like to thank Marian Jordan.

To all fans who wrote to ask when this second book would be coming out, to the friends and family who have listened patiently to more about Dark Age Britain than they really wanted to know, and particularly to Pete, who keeps telling me it will all be worth it, goes a great big I couldn’t have done it without you! I certainly hope you enjoy it.

Persia Woolley

Auburn, California

1986–1989

Chapter I

The Summons

I, Guinevere, wife of King Arthur and High Queen of Britain, dashed around the corner of the chicken coop, arms flying, war whoop filling my throat. The children of the Court were ranged behind me, shouting gleefully as a half-grown piglet skittered across the inner courtyard of the Mansion. The paving stones were slippery from a morning shower and the squealing shoat skidded into the kitchen doorstep before careening off toward the garden.

Not again! I howled, throwing myself on the creature just as a stranger stepped through the door.

With a flurry of bunched muscles and flailing trotters the porker squirted out of my grasp, leaving me red-faced and breathless. Brushing my hair out of my eyes, I looked up to find a small, mud-spattered priest staring down at me in astonishment.

Your Highness?

I grinned at the tentative greeting and scrambled back to my feet. Heaven knows what he expected of his High King’s wife, but I was what he got.

What can I do for you, Father? Beyond us the shoat had wiggled through a hole in the fence, followed by the jubilant youngsters who raced across the vegetable patch. I winced as an entire section of cabbages was demolished.

I’ve come from the convent, M’lady…where the Queen Mother lies ill…

Watching the mayhem in the garden, I was only half listening until I realized his message concerned Igraine. Turning to look at the holy man more closely, I saw for the first time the seriousness of his demeanor. How ill? I asked with alarm.

The man’s voice was husky. She’s been bedridden for weeks, but it wasn’t until yesterday she agreed to notify you.

It was so like Igraine not to make a fuss. Already frail and weak when Arthur and I had married, she’d gracefully declined my suggestion that she stay with us, preferring to return to the convent where she’d retired after Uther’s death. She promised to send word if she needed anything, but this was the first time such a message had arrived.

Wiping the mud from my hands, I squinted toward the gate. Arthur’s off fighting the Irish in Wales. It’ll take days—maybe weeks—to get the news to him.

She didn’t ask for her son, M’lady. She asked for you.

I paused at that, wondering if the whole world knew that Arthur and his mother avoided each other. If so, the people made no mention of it, for they loved Igraine in her own right and would say nothing to cause her embarrassment. It was part of the unspoken magic that surrounded her.

The priest pursed his lips and studied his hands primly. There is something she wants to tell you and she refuses to confide it to anyone else. So the sooner you can come…

Of course, I promised, untying my apron and wadding it into a ball. I’ll leave immediately. Do you wish to stay here in Silchester, or come with me?

I’ve been on the Road for a day and a half, so the rest would be most welcome.

I nodded and thrust the apron into his hands before heading for the stables.

Ulfin was the old warrior who had been left in charge of the houseguard during Arthur’s absence, and he chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip when I told him the news.

I’ll see to everything, he assured me, so I changed into traveling breeches and arranged for Brigit to run the household in my absence while Ulfin gathered a guard of four young men and readied Featherfoot for the journey.

The lads I’ve picked are sharp and well trained, M’lady. He frowned fiercely at the buckle as he secured my things behind the saddle. But I should like to come with you—’twixt Saxon and Irish prowling the woods, there’s plenty who would be happy to take the High King’s wife hostage while he’s away. He made the sign against evil before turning to face me. I was Chamberlain to King Uther and have known Her Highness from the days before she and Uther were married, so I’d like to be there—in case there’s any final service I could provide.

The catch in his voice brought home the realization my mother-in-law might be dying. My eyes brimmed with sudden tears and I turned to Uther’s Chamberlain in panic.

Ulfin put his arm around my shoulder and steadied me with a fatherly embrace.

I feel so helpless. The words squeezed around the lump in my throat. If only Morgan were here—she’s the one versed in healing. Why, I can’t be of any use if…if…

Of course you can. Ulfin’s voice was stern and confident, The Queen Mother’s as fond of you as though you were her own daughter, and the chances are she doesn’t want to be healed, but eased into death with a loved one near. The sooner we get started, the sooner she’ll be comforted.

I nodded mutely, hoping he was right. Birth and death are as much a part of life’s tapestry as singing and dancing and gathering up after war, and to avoid them is to avoid being human. But the idea of losing Igraine opened a terrible, sad ache inside me.

***

We rode silently through the town, past half-ruined houses and empty shops. Like most Roman things, they were only partially used, for the years of decay since the Time of Troubles had taken their toll. I’d never been as comfortable in the stiff, square buildings of the Empire as I was in the thatched roundhouses and wooden halls of my youth, and now the half-deserted town added to the bleakness of my mood. When we passed the outer earthworks and headed down the Road to Bath, I pulled my cape tighter around my shoulders and concentrated on the dearest memories of my mother-in-law.

When we’d first met, she was beautiful and serene—the very embodiment of queenly dignity. I’d stood awestruck before her, a rough northern girl, plain of face and awkward in manner, with no idea what was expected of me.

Used as I was to the freedom of Rheged’s mountains and valleys, this marriage was none of my doing. I’d had no desire to learn Latin, or wear dresses, or go south to marry that new High King. Angry, rebellious, foiled in an attempt to run away, I had not gone willingly to my fate. But personal desires are rarely considered in political marriages, and no one seemed to care how I felt about the matter. No one, except Igraine.

She’d come out of retirement to greet her son’s bride and shape my future as surely as Merlin shaped Arthur’s. I was—and sometimes still am—too outspoken to please most nobles, and my life at the High Court could have been a misery if the Queen Mother hadn’t taken me under her wing. During the months after the wedding, when Arthur was off at war, she smoothed my tomboy ways into some semblance of grace, and taught me to look beneath the surface of the people around me. It was then we had become close, and she’d told me any number of stories of her early life. She did not, however, talk about Arthur’s origins, or how she herself came to be High Queen, and I lacked the courage—or rudeness—to ask about it.

The common folk claimed Arthur’s birth was the result of magic—that Merlin created him to fulfill the prophesy that a great king would rise out of Cornwall and lead the Britons to victory against the Saxon invaders. There were stories of dragons and comets, and mighty spells cast over the fortress at Tintagel. I was sure there was more to the story than legend allowed, and hoped I might understand Arthur better if I could figure out the riddle of his parents.

Igraine was regal and dignified, and always thought of the needs of others, while Uther—by all accounts—had been harsh and abrasive, and was as much feared as Igraine was loved. Indeed, the very fact that they’d become a couple at all seemed a puzzle to many, including me.

Born of the royal line of Cunedda in southern Wales, Igraine would have known a life of ease and luxury but for the shadow of Vortigern, the Wolf; even the established families of the Empire walked cautiously in the days of the tyrant.

Like most British children, I’d listened to the elders tell the stories of Vortigern, who rose to power following the Time of Troubles, after the Legions were taken back to the Continent to support Constantine’s bid to become emperor. Seeing Britain left defenseless, our barbaric neighbors—Pict and Irish, Angles and Saxons—rushed to plunder the rich Roman province. But though we begged Rome for help, the reply was an admonition to look to our own defenses because the whole of the Empire was crumbling and there were no legions to spare.

In the chaos that followed, Vortigern had clawed and schemed and murdered his way to supremacy over the other warlords who were carving out kingdoms for themselves. Once in power, he offered to make the Saxons Federates, giving them both land and money if they’d help us fight off the rest of our enemies.

Invited the sea wolves right into the sheep-fold, he did, my childhood nurse used to say. Anyone could see they’d revolt against him sooner or later. By then he’d fallen in love with the Saxon chief’s daughter, Rowena…stupid old man put aside his British wife to marry the pretty lass with the flaxen hair, and gave her father the kingdom of Kent to seal the bargain! One wonders how he slept at night, knowing the people cursed him for the turncoat lie was!

Indeed, both Vortigern’s waking and sleeping were troubled, for there were rumors that Ambrosius Aurelius and Uther Pendragon, the sons of the rightful ruler, were building an army in Brittany, and would one day return to claim their throne. So Vortigern sent his spies everywhere, until fear begot constant suspicion, and tyranny replaced leadership.

I was eleven when the tyrant’s men swept through my father’s villa, murdering them all, Igraine had once told me. If my parents hadn’t sent me away with their old friend the Duke of Cornwall the night before, I would have been killed as well, for the tyrant’s men spared no one. But instead I grew up in Gorlois’s stronghold at Tintagel, as the Duke’s ward.

Igraine was very happy there, playing in the meadows at the top of the cliffs while the surf crashed and pounded on all three sides of the headland, and rainbows hung in splendor over the ocean.

I could easily imagine her—a shy, quiet girl, quite unaware of her own startling beauty, who preferred to spend her time with the wild creatures of field and air rather than in the Hall. She soon developed great skill with wild things—rescuing fledglings that fell from nests, and once even healing a fox kit with a badly gashed paw.

But best of all, she’d confided, I liked standing beneath the Sacred Oak, safe and secure while the wild wind whipped around me. There was an excitement in it that made my blood sing…

Gorlois was as magnificently rough-hewn as his fortress, and when she was fifteen, his beautiful young charge agreed to marry the widowed Duke. So they made their vows under the branches of the Sacred Oak, and when their daughters Morgause and Morgan were born, they too were brought there, barely dry from birthing, to be offered to the Old Gods.

And it was at the Oak that Igraine left votive gifts of flowers and bright ribbon when Gorlois went off to join Uther and Ambrosius in their battle to depose Vortigern. By then Igraine had become a young matron, bringing the same care and devotion to the raising of her lively children that she used to lavish on the small wild animals she’d nurtured as a girl.

I had no interest in going beyond the narrow path that connected Tintagel with the rest of the world, she’d said with a twinkle of wry amusement. I clung to the safety Gorlois provided, content with the moira the fates had given me—and would have run in terror if anyone had told me someday I would become a queen.

Even after Ambrosius overcame Vortigern and Gorlois returned to Tintagel with wonderful tales of the new High King, Igraine listened with little curiosity. And when her husband tried to get her to go to the High Court with him, she begged to stay in Cornwall, for the idea of leaving Tintagel filled her with dread.

But what was put off that summer became a necessity several winters later when Ambrosius died and his brother Uther Pendragon became High King. There was no escaping the summons to Winchester to swear fealty to the new overlord, and though Igraine tried to persuade her husband to go without her, it was to no avail.

I served under Uther in battle, Gorlois announced, and know how volatile his moods can be. I’ll not risk calling down the Pendragon’s wrath on this house, so we’ll go to the King Making despite weather and calendar and the fact that you’ve no desire to travel.

And that was that. When they departed for the High Court Igraine rode beside her husband, as calm and valiant a partner as anyone could wish, with no outward sign of her inner turmoil.

It comes, she’d noted, of being born to a long line of Celtic queens.

***

I smiled at the memory of her words, for I too had been raised in the tradition of brave and competent women, and knew the litany by heart; it was one of the things that the Queen Mother and I used to joke about.

But I was not sure I could have coped with a man like Uther, and sometimes wondered how much like his father Arthur might turn out to be.

Ulfin was leading us across the broad sweep of the Berkshire downs by now, and the morning showers had turned into real rain as Uther’s Chamberlain dropped back to ride next to me.

There’s an inn by the ford, not far ahead. I know the man who runs it, and it’s a good place to spend the night, he announced, and I nodded my agreement.

Tell me, Sir Ulfin—were you with Uther in Brittany, before the invasion?

Aye, M’lady. I was raised in their military camp on the Breton shore. My father was a Master Armorer, helping to outfit both warriors and nobles for the invasion to come…it took years to ready the army, and by that time I was grown myself. As was Merlin, the young druid who came to join our cause. So I guess you could say I’ve known them all, from early days on.

What were they like? I asked.

Ulfin considered the matter. Well, it was clear from the beginning that Ambrosius was the one cut out to be king. Thoughtful, almost philosophical, he weighed all aspects of a thing before making a decision. He kept the druid by his side, and after the invasion recognized Merlin as his own son, though born out of wedlock. Between the two of them, they had great plans for Albion. The old warrior paused, letting the ancient name of Britain hang on the air. Great plans. And perhaps if Ambrosius had lived longer…or if Uther had kept Merlin for his own counselor, once he became King…but they had a falling out, those two, and Merlin went back to his cave behind Carmarthen.

Even before the events at Tintagel? I prompted, hoping I wasn’t asking him to betray any secrets.

Oh yes. You must remember that Uther was a different stripe of cat from Ambrosius—taut as a bowstring, with action always at his heel, as though he were goaded by a renegade God. It made him a fine leader in battle, but not a favorite among the courtiers—why, the soldiers voted him into the Kingship before the nobles even knew Ambrosius was dead, and many of Ambrosius’s followers weren’t too happy about it Some thought Merlin should have been made High King, but the Enchanter was more interested in cosmic things. Uther was relieved to get rid of him, and I wasn’t surprised when Merlin left; they were too much like oil and water to work together well.

The Chamberlain chewed on his bottom lip and shook his head in bemusement.

"After Merlin’s departure I tried to take up some of the slack, for no one else had the courage—or effrontery—to advise the Pendragon. I urged him to use the occasion of the King Making to allay the fears of his courtiers. I particularly reminded him that while he was in the field, leading the men to victory, no one cared where he spread his seed, but now that he was High King and must live with the memories and grudges of his nobles, he should be looking for a wife of his own, not raiding the beds of others.

"Lot of good that bit of advice did, after he saw Igraine," Ulfin commented ruefully.

We’d all heard of her before she came to Court, of course, for rumor said she was fair enough to tempt the Gods, and faithful to the Duke as well. Uther joked about the old man who claimed her for his wife. Not meaning any disrespect, the Chamberlain added, making the sign to appease the dead, but the Pendragon was a randy sort, and likely to say right out what others were thinking quiet to themselves. He hadn’t reckoned on Igraine’s having a mind of her own, however—or that she might not want him.

We were coming down the long, sloping side of a down, and the checkered sign of the inn ahead gave promise of a warm welcome.

It was a chancy time for a while, I can tell you, Ulfin concluded. And I’m glad to say I was the one who convinced Uther to call on Merlin for help. So it all came well in the end, if not exactly the way anyone expected. But then, you never know how things will go with sorcerers, eh, M’lady?

By now we’d turned in at the tavern courtyard, and Ulfin had many other things on his mind, so I put aside my curiosity about Arthur’s father and went up to the room the innkeeper gave me, away from the noise and smokiness of the pub.

The innkeeper sent up a tray of food, and I ate the savory stew slowly, trying not to think about Igraine lying ill, with nothing ahead but a cold grave. Afterward I got into my sleeping robe and sat by the brazier for a while, staring into the embers and wondering what had really happened at Tintagel. Arthur didn’t know, Merlin wouldn’t tell, and with Igraine so close to death, it seemed likely the truth would go to the grave with her.

It was late when Ulfin knocked on the door, come to see if I needed anything before we all went to sleep. He took one look at my face and, closing the door behind him, brought me back to the chairs by the fire.

It will do no good to brood, M’lady—just give you bad dreams and drain you of strength you could give the Queen Mother. Besides, he added, seating himself across from me, you mustn’t think that Her Highness’s life was all duty and responsibility. She was full of laughing, lilting ways when she and Uther first ruled the realm. Not, of course, out in public; she was always quiet and regal before her subjects—but when they were in the arms of the family, you might say, she wasn’t reserved at all.

A fond smile played over Ulfin’s features and he reached up to take a small leather pouch from around his neck.

Uther’d never met a woman he couldn’t bend to his will, but Igraine was different—she wasn’t the sort to be intimidated. I’ve seen her call his bluff and have him end up laughing about it more than once. And for all that they were an unlikely pair, it was well for both Britain and its leader when she became High Queen. That’s something I’ll always be proud I had a hand in. It was after their wedding that he gave me this…

The Chamberlain carefully took a golden ring from the little pouch and put it into my hand. I was thinking that, seeing as how she’ll be buried on Christian ground, not next to her husband, Her Highness might want to have something of his to take to the grave.

I looked down at a gold band with a bright design of color around its rim. It was much heavier than the little enamel ring of Mama’s that I wore, but the workmanship was very similar.

Now you just get yourself into bed, M’lady, Ulfin admonished. I’ll call for you in the morning…and I don’t want to see your eyes all red from crying, either.

I thanked the Chamberlain for his concern, and, after he left, sat staring at the ring and thinking of Ulfin’s words. Finally, with a sigh, I blew out the oil lamp and crawled under the fur blankets.

***

I might not have any better understanding of how Uther and Igraine had come together, but I went to sleep that night imagining her as the bright young Duchess whose beauty and spirit had changed the whole of British history.

Chapter II

Igraine’s Tale

She wanted so much to see you—God willing, she’ll waken long enough to know you’re here, the Abbess whispered, hurrying me along a cloistered walk toward Igraine’s cell.

A handful of nuns knelt in silent prayer outside the door. The Queen Mother’s young companion, Ettard, was with them, and she looked up at me imploringly, as though I had the power to bargain with fate.

The little room smelled of candle wax and sanctity. An older sister, no doubt versed in healing, rose from the stool beside Igraine’s cot. Giving me a respectful nod, she came to my side and indicated that the end was expected any time.

I thanked her and moved slowly to the foot of the bed as the nurse tiptoed out.

Arthur’s mother lay in a deep sleep, her eyes closed, her breathing shallow. Linen sheets covered the narrow pallet, and her hair, once fabled for its gold, now spread over the pillows in a silver cloud. The wasted body barely showed beneath the rough blanket, and she looked more like a child than a powerful monarch. Yet even drawn and pale, Igraine’s features bore the mark of great beauty, and in spite of the dark circles under her eyes, she had a calm and peaceful air. Considering the tumult that had surrounded her life, this serenity in the face of death was all the more touching.

When Igraine had chosen to come live in the convent, she’d left behind all the trappings of her former glory; the cubicle was empty except for the bed and an unpainted wooden chest. A homespun garment hung from a peg by the door, more fitting for a farmer’s wife than a great queen.

The tree beyond the unglazed window was filled with willow warblers. They were Igraine’s favorite birds and their soft calls and silvery trills filled the air, as though already singing her to the Isle of the Blessed. I looked down at her still form and sobbed aloud.

There was a flicker of movement and the dark eyes opened, assessing my presence at the foot of her bed.

M’lady…oh, M’lady, I cried, rushing to kneel at her side and pressing her cold hand to my cheek.

Now, now, child…there’s no need to weep. It’s enough that you got here in time. She was smiling at me while her fragile fingers tried to wipe away the tears. Tsch, tsch…I didn’t send for you to watch you mourn. I’m not afraid of dying, and I’ve made my confession already, but there’s still a matter left undone. Are you listening, child?

Of course, M’lady, I gulped. What can I do?

Prop up my pillows, to begin with. I can’t talk lying down, and I want to tell you about Uther, and Tintagel.

For a moment I thought she had confused me with a priest, but the old twinkle crept into her eyes and she gave a small laugh.

There’s some things, my dear, which men will never understand—even, or perhaps particularly, men of the cloth. I’ve made my peace as regards my Christian life, and expect to see the heaven they tell of soon enough; but it’s wise to give credit where it’s due, and matters that pertain to the Goddess are best shared with one who follows the Old Ways. Besides, she added thoughtfully, it’s a story you’ll do well to remember.

So I propped her up on the pillows and settled silently on the stool to listen.

Gorlois was always a good man; honest and true and gentle, Igraine began. And I would have done nothing to hurt him, in either word or deed. Perhaps the fear I felt in leaving Tintagel was as much for him as for myself, for while I didn’t understand the Goddess yet, I dreaded Her power.

The Roads to Winchester were packed with people hurrying to obey Uther’s summons—nobles decked in fur and gold, client kings surrounded by their warriors, even commoners striding along on foot, all come to see what sort of creature this new Pendragon was. Sunlight glinted off rooftop and hill, where new snow turned the landscape black and white, and winter trees stood etched like brooms against the sky. Even the horses’ breath hung in steamy clouds as they passed through the walls at Southgate’s tower.

Igraine’s uneasiness was soon replaced by curiosity, for the shy country Duchess had never seen such a gathering before. She even enjoyed the first evening in the Hall, though the High King himself did not make an appearance.

Waking at dawn the next morning, she wrapped herself in a long, dark cloak and tiptoed out of the Hall to go walk among the birches at the top of the hill, seeking the inner peace such settings always gave her. It was there she found a young falcon, hunkered in the snow, with one wing dragging. Slipping her soft glove over the bird’s head to quiet it, she crouched down to examine the pinion.

Suddenly a pair of boots planted themselves between her and the path back to the Hall—well-made boots of polished leather, with spurs that spoke of both power and cruelty. For one terrifying moment Igraine’s heart leapt into her throat. Then, like a falcon, she raised her proud gaze upward to the man who towered over her.

***

I had no idea who he was, but as I took in the hawklike features, I knew he was as wild and untamable as the wind at Tintagel, my mother-in-law said, her voice vibrant with memory.

The man stared down at the beauty at his feet, surprise leaving him speechless. And Igraine stared back, noting every detail of his face. It was only when he raised his hand and she saw the Dragon Ring that she realized he was the High King.

Do you always tame raptors, M’lady? he inquired suddenly, without introduction or greeting.

Not tame, M’lord, merely heal, she answered, never flinching under his scrutiny. It was a simple response, but it went home to Uther in a way she had not foreseen. He flushed heavily, and turning abruptly, strode away.

Igraine felt the same wave of warmth steal through herself, and bundling up the falcon, hastily returned to the Hall. But all the while she was fixing the bird’s wing, her mind was on the morning’s encounter. Her hands shook and her body ached with confusion and desire.

***

I was sure something fearful was going to happen, she murmured, and that night at the feast I tried every way possible to avoid him.

But the Pendragon prowled the Hall like a wolf circling sheep. He was edgy and feverish, greeting people too loudly and breaking off conversations in midsentence. Igraine could feel his presence coming closer and closer, and studiously kept from catching his eye, even accidentally. By the time Uther stood in front of her, he burned with fervor and she stared with equal determination at the floor.

Without a word to Gorlois the High King took her hand and lifted it to his lips. She raised her eyes slowly, unwillingly, and blushed when their gazes met. For a moment she tried to pull her hand free, but Uther refused to let her go, and turned to propose a toast instead.

To the Duchess Igraine of Cornwall. I pay you this singular honor, O Fairest in the Realm, in the hope that you will take kindly to my suit, for rough men such as myself need to be healed by Goddesses like you.

The courtiers were horrified at his presumption, and Igraine writhed with humiliation and anger, sure that everyone could see the passion that warred between them. But she held her head high and accepted the compliment graciously. It was only later, when they were back in their quarters, that she turned to her husband in tears.

Of course Uther pays attention to you, my dear, Gorlois said reasonably. He has a fine eye for the ladies, and a roving nature to boot, and if I did not know you so well, I might worry that he’d turn your head a bit. Believe me, our new monarch’s interest will shift to some other comely maid before the week is ended, so we’ll just wait it out.

But his words only made Igraine more miserable, for she could not tell him that she feared her own desire more than Uther’s, and the notion that she was just another woman to be conquered and forgotten cut deep against the quick.

Great, racking sobs began to shake her and nothing Gorlois said could calm her panic. Before long the Duchess was wailing like a sidhe out wandering in the wildwood, pleading hysterically with her husband.

Take me home, M’lord…please, by all the Gods that be, take me away from here, I beg you.

We’ll go directly after the King Making, he promised, hoping to settle the matter, but the distraught woman only moaned more deeply, and in the end he grew frightened for her sanity, so they left as soon as it was light.

***

Perhaps, the Queen Mother mused, Gorlois was right, and if we had stayed, Uther’s interest would have flagged.

She began to cough, and her breathing became more labored.

You shouldn’t be talking so much, M’lady…you need to save your strength, I admonished her.

What for? she wheezed, gesturing toward the water pitcher.

Her hands were too shaky to hold the goblet, but when I raised it to her lips she looked at me over the rim, her eyes crinkling in a half-smile. "The only strength I need is to tell the story straight out, as the Goddess would expect…

You must understand that I was not intentionally complicit in what happened. Caught in a web of the Old Gods’ making, clothed in a moira beyond my comprehension, I was, up to that point, honest and honorable in all that I had done or said. Even after we left, racing for the safety of Cornwall, I hoped to avoid the fate I didn’t understand. There was a pause before she added, No one can outrun the Gods.

They had no sooner settled into Tintagel than a messenger from King Mark of Cornwall arrived. He warned them that Uther had declared Gorlois a traitor for not swearing fealty and was leading an army into Cornwall.

Mark rides with him, but he wants you to know he will not take arms against you, since you are his own Duke, the courier announced glumly.

Gorlois gave a hollow laugh. "We appreciate His Highness’s reassurance. But I don’t suppose that means he will take arms for me."

Embarrassed, the fellow stumbled through an explanation that Mark didn’t want to further upset the High King, but after he had left Gorlois let out a string of oaths, calling the pudgy young King of Cornwall every kind of coward he could think of.

Ah well, as long as you stay here there’s nothing to fear, the grizzled warrior concluded, slinging