Queen of the Summer Stars (13 page)

When it was time for Isolde to retire to the bedchamber, Branwen put her arm around her cousin’s shoulders, gently sheltering her as she led the girl away.

I glanced over at Mark, wondering how he was going to deal with one so young and inexperienced. He read my concern and leaning toward me, whispered, “For a prize like that, one can afford to be patient.”

Such sensitivity came as a surprise—perhaps the young girl’s enormous husband was developing some consideration for others after all.

Later, as the guests were making their way to their chambers, I grabbed Arthur by the waist and drew him outside, suggesting that we forgo the Lodge in favor of that wonderful bed of rose petals. He gave me a knowing look and, taking my hand, led the way to the deserted chapel.

It was there we found Tristan. He sat hunched with his back to the altar, his head buried in his hands from which a length of white silk hung like a shroud.

Dinadan stood nearby, guarding his friend’s privacy.

The lanky warrior’s heartbreak was all too clear, so with a nod to Dinadan, Arthur and I quietly slipped away. There were many other spots where we could sleep, but no more appropriate place for Tris to grieve for a love no one even knew he had.

***

The wedding celebration included a week of games and competitions, hunting and dancing and all manner of entertainments. There was even a tournament.

The Cornish were not familiar with the long, heavy lances our Companions use, and they responded enthusiastically when Pelleas and Gawain demonstrated a jousting maneuver with them. I was glad to see that the Prince of Orkney had taken the skinny young horseman under his wing and Pelleas was thrilled to have such a famous mentor. Like a cat that responds to stroking, Gawain left off sulking over the Marhaus adventure and now showed himself to be kind and gracious to everyone. Morgause’s son could add charm to any occasion, when he felt like it.

Arthur and Mark and Geraint took time to discuss the prospect of reopening the Cornish tin mines. So far the Saxon incursion had not moved as far west as Devon, and now that the Byzantine merchants had found a ready market at Topsham, perhaps Britain could redevelop her tin trade.

Theo, the Goth who had become leader of our fleet, sat in as well, for though he and Mark had no love for each other, the onetime pirate had proved himself adept at keeping marauders from the Bristol Channel. And Agricola volunteered his knowledge of international trade. As kingly councils go, this one was quite productive.

With Arthur thus occupied, Lancelot was left with time to spare. He soon befriended Tristan, who too often sat moping on the sidelines during the festivities. The pair of them went everywhere together. They were the biggest men in the realm, except for Pellinore and his son Lamorak, and so well matched that they filled an entire doorway when they stood side by side.

“Yesterday Griflet and I watched them wrestling,” Frieda commented as we combed out the dogs one evening. “Neither was able to best the other. I wouldn’t want to tangle with either one of ’em, M’lady…no, not at all.”

I smiled at her caution, and the fact that the Breton was providing Tris with a way to work out his misery, whether he knew of the other’s hopeless love or not.

The new bride appeared to have reconciled herself to her fate and by the third day was sitting in splendor at Mark’s side. He cosseted her like a spoiled pet, picking out the best of the wild strawberries from his own plate and putting them on hers. There was something touching about the scene, but it didn’t endear the girl to me. She accepted or disdained his offerings with an imperious nod or shake of her pretty head and I wondered what sort of Queen she could possibly grow up to be.

On the last night of feasting Isolde was clearly out of sorts. Toward the end of the meal she stood up from the table and stamped her foot in exasperation.

“Tristan is the only one who can help my headaches,” she pouted. “No one else can play the Irish harp I brought with me, and you know how much I need the music for my nerves.

Mark’s face was reddening, but as the Hall grew still he smiled calmly at his wife. “Of course the harper may attend you. But you’ll have to wait until we’ve thanked our guests for sharing this occasion with us.”

“What do I care about your old guests!” Tears brimmed in those beautiful eyes. “Surely they don’t want me to sit here, ill and unhappy, just for protocol’s sake.”

Mark leaned forward and, saying something the rest of us couldn’t hear, got Isolde to sit back down, although she stared petulantly at the plate before her.

A surge of chatter swept the Hall as everyone turned to their neighbor in sudden, animated conversation, embarrassed by the events at the royal table. Seated next to Ettard, Geraint listened politely to some tale or other. I watched them casually, thinking he was the perfect noble: brave in battle, discreet at court, and full of wit as well. The convent girl alternated between simpering coyness and blatant adoration.

Enid walked past their table, tossing off a comment that caught Geraint’s fancy, and he gave a laughing response. Predictably, Ettard was not amused, though the King of Devon managed to coax a smile out of her once Enid had gone.

***

Geraint asked to come with us when he learned we were planning to continue to the Saxon Shore. “I have no Federates in Devon—the line of hill-forts that runs north along the Avon keeps them out of the west. But I’m planning to meet with the men of those forts, and I’d be honored to present them to you.”

So we left Castle Dore with a flurry of farewells and good wishes for the Road. Even Isolde put on a cheerful face, giving us a formal thank-you for the splendid silver tray. I only hoped Agricola had been right about its auguring well for the newlyweds.

The fine, gay mood of summer lasted as we made our way along the south coast of Britain like a band of revelers on a long holiday. Riding proud along the high cliffs, we all stuck honey-scented sea pinks in our hair, and sprigs of yellow vetch as well. And where the rivers dropped down to the sea in steep, shaded canyons, we rested amid oak and fern, willow and mosses. Camping beside the green estuaries, we chatted with ferrymen and fisherfolk and shared our fires with other travelers. Dagonet piped up a cheerful tune, and we’d all go skipping along the shingle shore. Arthur doesn’t care for dancing, even on ritual occasions, but I whirled, breathless and merry, with everyone else except Lancelot.

At Maiden Castle we met the convocation of warlords from hill-forts with names like Hod Hill and Castle Ditches and White Sheets. Tough, pugnacious men who were neither as open as Pellinore nor as wild as Gwyn, they had dug into their old fortifications and dared anyone, Saxon or otherwise, to displace them. Yet they accepted Arthur as one of their own, proudly displaying their troops for him and joining in the Council round the fire at night. He listened carefully to their reports of Federate activity and praised them each for being so well informed. I watched them in the fire-glow, thinking of Merlin’s promise that Arthur would be King for all Britons.

***

“Looks to be a fine year,” Geraint noted as we came into Dorchester. “Everything quiet along the Saxon Shore, and a good crop in the fields. Why, the Cerne Abbas Giant was even seen dancing on his hillside, which always means a bountiful harvest.”

“Dancing?” I queried, remembering Agricola’s description of the huge figure cut into the turf on the chalk hill. The Roman noble and his wife had once spent the night sleeping on the Giant, in the hope that it would help them have children. That seemed a chancy pastime if the thing was going to start moving about.

“Oh, yes, M’lady, dancing…the fling, I think it was. Or was it a hop-skippety?” The King of Devon cast me a sly look and broke into laughter when I realized he was joking.

Whereas the warlords were eager to pass on whatever information they had about the barbarians, we found the would-be aristocrats of Dorchester so full of smug complacency as to be practically useless.

“The Federates?” Our Roman hostess scowled at the very word. “We have nothing to do with the likes of them. They’re all over Portchester, of course-—built their squalid little huts everywhere, both inside and out of the walls. But here they remember their place and don’t bother us.” She called over a servant—whose blond coloring looked suspiciously Saxon—and carefully surveyed the fruit on the platter he carried. “It’s so hard to manage a villa these days, what with the slaves running off three years ago. Ungrateful wretches, I hope the Saxons got them!”

***

Geraint left us next morning, heading down the Roman Road for Exeter.

“I’ve come to bid you farewell,” the gallant proclaimed, reining in before my ladies. “Can’t imagine a lovelier way to start the summer than in the company of the wise, the beautiful, and the Queen. Makes me feel like Paris with the Goddesses who started the Trojan War.”

I grinned at his nerve while Ettard dimpled coyly and Enid gave him an arch look. But before she could speak he threw us a kiss and wheeling his horse around, galloped away.

My ladies stared after him, speechless, and I thought how lucky they were—unlike royalty they were free to choose among their suitors for themselves.

Remembering Isolde, I thanked Epona that my own political marriage had proved so fortunate. Arthur was a mate I could love as well as admire; my subjects accepted me with the same generosity of spirit they had afforded Igraine, and the only thing lacking in my life was a child.

When we came in sight of the Cerne Abbas Giant I gaped, open-mouthed, at the white outline of a man standing with his feet apart and club raised for action. The thing takes up most of the hillside.

“Some say it represents Hercules,” Agricola reminded me, “though one can see why childless couples come here, too.”

Indeed, the Giant’s member is outlined, bold and erect for all to admire, and I wondered if sleeping on it really did help couples conceive. When I suggested we try, Arthur actually blushed.

“Seems a bit—uh—public—don’t you think?” he stammered. “I mean, it’s not as though we’re not capable…”

I couldn’t help laughing, for goodness knows he didn’t need help in his part of our coupling. Finally, after a bit of coaxing, he agreed to climb the hill with me once the rest of the camp had gone to sleep.

Later, as I gazed into the starry blackness above us, I begged the Ancient Powers to make up for whatever it was that kept me from conceiving.

But the Gods turned a deaf ear and my courses continued to come as regularly as the phases of the moon.

***

A small, nagging doubt had begun to darken my world.

Saxon Shadows

As we moved into the Saxon Shore the sense of adventure grew all around us. Like the Ancient Ones, the Federates were known more through hearsay than daily life, so the promise of actually meeting some filled me with excitement.

The man who waited at the seventh milestone beyond Portchester was blond, stocky, and not smiling. His hand rested on the throwing axe tucked into his belt, and when we approached he strode into the middle of the Road as though it were his own.

His voice was no more friendly than his face, and he made a quick count of our Companions before checking the device on our banner. “Arthur Pendragon?”

“I am he.” Arthur set his shoulders and stared the fellow in the eye.

“I’m Brieda—sent to escort you to M’lord Wihtgar.”

Without further word the guide led us into the dark woods and down a dirt track to the watermeadow beside a stream. I’d heard that Saxons prefer settling in the wet lowlands, and Wihtgar seemed to be no exception.

Fields had been cleared, pastures laid out, and a stout wall of logs put up around the small settlement. The palisade was made of whole tree trunks rammed upright in the ground and was very impressive. The Saxons are said to skin their enemies alive and nail the human hides to their palisades as a warning to all others. This one held no such horror, but I shivered when I saw it nonetheless.

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid? I thought Celtic queens weren’t afraid of anything,” Arthur teased.

“Of course not, silly. There’s no bravery in doing something you don’t have sense enough to be scared of,” I answered, lifting my chin in mock defiance, and we both laughed.

To my surprise, Lancelot grinned too and I caught a twinkle of appreciation in his eyes before he looked away. It lightened my mood unexpectedly.

A horn hung from a tree at the edge of the clearing, and after Brieda signaled our arrival with it, we approached the steading. A gate swung open, revealing a score of people coming out of huts and barns—mostly blond, mostly tall, and all watching us cautiously. Even the smith at the forge stopped to stare, his stilled hammer creating an eerie silence.

We came to a halt inside the gate, the wolfhounds standing at attention beside our horses. They held their shaggy heads high and the jewels on their bronze collars winked in the sun. A mongrel of the steading gave a warning bark but neither Cabal nor Caesar deigned to notice.

The little crowd of Saxons stood off from us; no one spoke, though there was some nudging and pointing in my direction. I wondered if they had heard as many dreadful things about us as we had about them.