Queen of the Summer Stars (46 page)

“I do not know which pained him more,” Dinadan said softly. “Tris is the son of Mark’s sister, who died in childbirth, leaving him to raise the lad as his own. So the idea that Tristan would betray him like this cut doubly deep.” The Cornishman shook his head in bewilderment, sorrowing equally for his friend and his King. “Mark dotes on his wife as though she were the sun in his heaven. He may be grossly selfish and not always an honorable leader, but he’s honest and true in his love for the girl, however misguided it might be.”

Early on the morning of the trial the Cornish Queen accompanied her husband to the chapel in Lantyne, carrying in outstretched hands a beautiful altar cloth that she had embroidered herself. Slowly and reverently, with downcast eyes and bent head, the Irish beauty walked into the little church and laid her offering on the communion table. There were oohs and ahs from the parishioners, and even the faultfinding priest had to acknowledge that the girl had done a fine bit of handiwork in the service of the Lord.

During Mass she and Mark sat apart, for the issue of her innocence was still to be proven at the river’s edge and he dared not weaken in his resolve.

When the praying was over the whole congregation followed the King and his lady as they set out for the stream. On the far side was a forge, and the smith had been ordered to have the coals well banked and cherry red.

People came from miles around, both Pagan and Christian, to see the outcome of this test, and there was much muttering and craning of necks by those who wanted to watch the nobles.

***

“Tris had gotten us both up in the habits of novices from a monastery,” Dinadan recounted. “You know how he loves to play games and tricks on people…one would have thought this was just another prank, although both his life and Isolde’s would be forfeit should the coals prove her to be false.”

The two warriors waited in a willow clump beside the brook, and as the royal party approached, Tristan pulled the hood of his habit up over his head. Hitching his robe up to his knees, he edged out into the waterway. Slack-jawed and stooping, he gawked at the King’s party like any country yokel.

Isolde and Mark were riding in a cart, and when they paused midway in the ford, Tristan moved closer, staring at the portly monarch, mouth open and eyes squinted as though to see him better. It appeared he did not even notice the Queen.

***

Pointing to the fire, King Mark cries out, “There, my dear. If you can honestly swear you have not committed adultery, God will allow you to carry a burning coal from the forge to the river without so much as blistering your hands.”

The young Queen gasps and casting a stricken look about her, falls from the cart in a faint. Lunging forward, Tristan makes an awkward job of catching her, and lifting her above the water, carries her to the other side of the ford.

Drenched from the knees down, the novice stands on the bank, stammering stupidly as he looks around for help as to what to do with the Queen. All can see he’s a pious country boy, struck dumb by the nearness of so much royalty.

Isolde’s eyes flutter, and she begins to moan. Everyone’s attention shifts to the fragile beauty, and having put her on her feet, the novice laboriously wades back across the water to watch the proceedings—unnoticed—from the farther bank.

In a stentorian voice the new priest commands God to judge this matter, then asks the Queen to swear to her innocence.

“By the White Christ,” she cries, her voice lifting with conviction, “I swear that the only two men to hold me in their arms have been my husband, Mark, and the novice who carried me across the stream just now.”

With great dignity she holds out her hand as the smith takes his tongs and carefully lays an ember in the center of her palm.

***

Dinadan shook his head in amazement. “She received it with neither twitch nor wince, and walked to the stream in a kind of stately trance. The coal hissed and sputtered when she dropped it into the water, but there was no sign that she had felt its heat. If I hadn’t heard Tris boasting of their times together, even I would have thought her to be blameless. I swear a beautiful woman can make men believe anything!”

I snorted and glanced at Arthur and Lance. The High King was watching Dinadan, but Lance’s gaze was far off, and neither noticed my reaction.

“Where do things stand now?” I asked, getting to my feet and stretching. There had to be some reason why Dinadan had come to us.

“She’s returned to Mark’s good graces, but he watches her like a hawk, and she’s begun begging Tris to take her away.” Dinadan turned to Arthur. “Can we count on you for sanctuary?”

“We?” Arthur noted, and Dinadan looked hard at his own hands.

“I’ve long wanted to become a member of the Round Table,” he said bashfully. “Perhaps if I bring the finest warrior from Cornwall, I will have earned a place in the Fellowship myself?”

“Of course, my friend.” Arthur laughed. “Both you and Tris have always been welcome, whenever you chose to come.” But he paused and shot Dinadan a more serious look. “What will Mark’s reaction be if she leaves him?”

“I don’t know. Anger, or sorrow…or maybe relief.”

“Do you think he’ll come after them?”

“I’m not sure.” Dinadan rubbed his chin diligently. “It would take a lot for him to mount a war against you, particularly with his best warrior in your camp. But I cannot altogether swear he wouldn’t.”

Arthur was pacing the room, weighing the probabilities. “Well,” he said at last, “it won’t make any difference in whether I take the lovers in or not, just where we keep them. How would it be, Lance, if they joined you at Warkworth for the summer?”

“But what about the work at Cadbury?” the Breton exclaimed, obviously surprised.

Arthur frowned. “I don’t really need you for that—Bedivere can handle it. But I do need someone to give Tris and Isolde a safe haven. And Mark isn’t likely to march an army all the way up to Warkworth just to claim his wife.”

“True,” Lancelot agreed, though it was clear that he’d prefer to spend the summer with us. “Couldn’t Pelli put them up at the Wrekin?”

“With that great brood of children he’s produced, and all the warriors and family members that have collected around him? He doesn’t have room,” Arthur answered, then grinned. “Besides, royal guests expect royal accommodations.”

Dinadan noted that anything would be an improvement over the swineherd’s hut, and he for one thought the whole subject of love was hugely overrated, especially if it interfered with one’s housing arrangements.

We all laughed at that, and when he left the next day to return to Tristan we assured him we would give the Cornish lovers sanctuary.

***

It was an unusually beautiful spring, and a number of romances began to blossom among our courtiers. Pages and squires stared calf-eyed after flocks of giggling household girls, the newest warriors boasted and strutted before my younger ladies-in-waiting, and even the seasoned Companions responded to the beguilements of the season, though not always with a light heart.

“Griflet wants us to make our pledge and begin our own family,” Frieda confided one morning as we checked on the newest batch of pups. We had procured another bitch after Cabal’s death, and the kennels were now full of Caesar’s progeny.

“Sounds very sensible,” I commented, watching the little ones nuzzling blindly for their mother’s teat.

“But it means I must choose—between my family and him, that is.” A catch in the Saxon girl’s voice reminded me how closely she was tied to her kin. “Oh, M’lady, I love them both. I can’t imagine giving up either one for the other…or why they should demand it. Why can’t loving just be loving, without all kinds of decisions?”

Why, indeed, I thought, gently commiserating with her.

Fortunately not all our lovers were caught in conflicts; Ettard, for instance, seemed suddenly very happy.

“This morning she was singing to herself.” Augusta paused meaningfully. “I tell you, something has changed.”

I coughed pointedly, and the Roman gossip looked down at her lap. At least she’d control her poisonous tongue while I was around.

“Maybe,” Elaine suggested, “she’s simply excited about her wedding. Didn’t you say she was to marry Pelleas as soon as he comes back? I’ll wager she’s just full of good spirits because of that.”

The redhead was on her hands and knees retrieving her kitten, and she looked up at me with a grin. I nodded, thinking that while the girl from Carbonek might be every bit as spoiled as Augusta, she at least had a habit of looking on the best side of things rather than the worst.

The conversation veered to other things: the abundance of lavender blossoms in the garden this year, and what fine sachets they would make when dried; a new recipe for using the ashes of bracken in making soap, and the most recent stories of strange happenings in the Wood of Wirral.

“I’ve a cousin who lives there,” a new girl from Chester noted, “and she says it’s the Green Man who goes stalking through the Wood at night. That Old God ain’t been seen for generations, you know.” She made the sign against evil, for the Green One was feared and revered by all.

“What we need is one of the traveling saints to banish the wretched thing,” Vinnie said firmly. “I could write to my friend the Bishop of Carlisle and see if he’s got someone to send down that way.”

Vinnie had badgered the hierarchy into sending a bishop to refurbish the old church in Carlisle when I was a girl, and to this day she took a proprietary interest in his activities.

“’T’ain’t wretched,” the Chesterite said quickly, fairly bristling at Vinnie’s assumption that what was non-Christian was evil. “He’s the most ancient one of all, God of the Beasts and Field, who commands the whole of life…excepting maybe what the Goddess controls.”

“I’ll wager he challenges all comers,” Elaine speculated, her eyes wide with awe. “Just like the great warriors at the river fords of old; ‘Present arms, Sir, or you shall not pass!’” She grabbed her kitten and held it up as the challenger, making us all laugh.

The little animal put its ears back and glared about, then, reaching out a silken paw, patted the girl’s cheek until she brought it under her chin and let it scramble onto her shoulder. They made a charming picture.

I’ve never had time to be jealous of beautiful women, but if I were to be piqued by such things, this bright, lively girl might stir me to envy. Instead I grinned at her ingenuousness and put the thought aside.

Two nights later I awoke to her shaking my shoulder and whispering, “Come quickly, M’lady…come quickly.”

“What on earth?” Arthur mumbled, sitting up and opening the shutter of the lantern.

The girl was all soft and tousled from sleep, her hair a halo of wild waves and curls and her young athletic figure softened by a white bedshift. When she saw she’d wakened the King as well, she dimpled prettily and bobbed a curtsy.

“Whatever is the matter?” I asked, thinking the child had far too much nerve.

“It’s Ettard, M’lady. She’s so distraught, the matron said I should fetch you.”

“Mmh,” I responded, wondering why Vinnie hadn’t sent directly for Nimue; in the end, it was the doire who would fix things with a sedative, anyway.

But I came wide awake when I walked into the room where the convent girl huddled in a ball of misery on a stool. White and pale as death, she sobbed silently, her head sunken between her shoulders and her arms wrapped across her chest in a protective embrace. When I tried to talk with her she simply shut me out by closing her eyes.

“What in the world…?” I asked, turning to Vinnie.

“I don’t know, M’lady. She won’t speak at all now, but when I first heard her sobbing, she was crying for Gawain.”

“Gawain?”

“Yes, M’lady, Gawain.” The matron knelt beside the weeping girl and tried to comfort her with an embrace, but Ettard didn’t respond. “You know how fond she was of him, always talking about him before she decided to marry Pelleas. Maybe he can help.”

I was running back to our chamber to ask Arthur if he’d fetch the Orcadian when I heard voices coming from the Hall.

“By the Gods, what made you do such a foolish thing?” Arthur was clearly angry. “There’s a hundred single ladies who’d be delighted to ease your night’s sleep, Nephew. Why did you have to pick Pelleas’s fiancée?”

“She’s been asking for it for years, Arthur,” Gawain shot back. “And now, what with Pelleas gone and all…well, she was willing and I was needful. And it’s not as though tonight was the first time; we’ve been romping regularly for the last few weeks. Besides, who was to know Pelleas would come back this early?”

Oh, Glory, the groom-to-be was also involved! I squared my shoulders and crossed through the shadows of the Hall.

Gawain flushed as I came within the circle of the lantern light and had the decency to look away while I watched him. “Where is Pelleas?” I asked.

“Who knows?” The redhead shrugged. “After he found us together, he drew his sword and threatened to behead me on the spot. You better believe it was a sticky moment, and I had just rolled away from the wench when the blade of his weapon began to shake and he drove the tip a full handsbreadth into the floorboards next to me. After that he turned and ran, and I decided I’d best be getting back to my room.”