Queen of the Summer Stars (47 page)

“Leaving your conquest to fend for herself?”

Gawain hung his head for a moment, then shrugged again. “I assumed she’d find her way back to her quarters, though I admit I didn’t wait to find out. An outraged fiancé isn’t that different from an outraged husband, you know.”

“What did you tell her when you bedded the girl?” I demanded.

Gawain lifted his head proudly. “I never promised her anything, Your Highness. I don’t deal in lies.”

The old pride of honesty flamed across his red face. Cut off your head, ruin your marriage, make war over a broken tea cup he would, but never, never lie! The Celt in me responded fondly even as I shook my head in reprimand.

“And you never talked of love, or marriage, or the fact that she was a virgin?”

“Virgin? Oh, come now, she may have called herself that, but she had no objection to being bedded. As for love, they all talk about that. But I never promised her anything,” he repeated, his voice rising with belligerence. “She knew perfectly well what this was: a fling, a last lark, a time for play before the marriage vows took over.”

Arthur was watching his nephew closely, and now he sighed heavily. “There are many girls who go hunting husbands among the Companions, using fair means or foul. But the point of the Fellowship is a bond of trust with one’s brothers. How do you defend your actions where Pelleas is concerned? You were his mentor, his idol, and his best friend, after all.”

“So what’s a little—” Gawain clamped his mouth shut on the crudity with a glare at me. “If you’re going to snoop and pry and worry over each person’s ethical behavior, perhaps you had best begin by looking to your own, Uncle.”

His voice was full of indignation and I suddenly thought how much he sounded like Morgan when she gets upset.

“You who prate about law and order, and fairness for peoples…and then send away a loyal and blameless lad because of a personal grudge. What sort of honesty is that within yourself, Your Highness?”

Gawain spat the words at Arthur, and I saw my husband blink with surprise and lack of comprehension.

“I’m speaking of Uwain, damn it. Exiled from the one place he felt at home, by a man he revered. Don’t you dare sit in judgment of me, you…you Roman hypocrite!”

For a moment Gawain’s hand rested on the hilt of his dagger, but a loyalty deeper than all the anger in the world restrained him. Without another word he spun on his heel and marched into the gloom.

Arthur and I both let out a long breath and looked at each other in amazement. Neither one of us had any idea Gawain was harboring such a grievance. My husband spoke first.

“Do you suppose he’s right about hypocrisy?”

“Ye Gods, Arthur, this is no time for soul-searching; we’ve got a woman in hysterics and a cuckolded young man lost somewhere in the dark. Have you any idea where Pelleas is?”

Arthur shook his head but went off to look for him while I went back to Ettard. She may well have brought it on herself, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t in desperate straits.

Nimue had already fixed her a cup of cowslip wine by the time I arrived, and although the convent girl was still pale and teary-eyed, she had at least begun to talk. She rambled on about her fear of leaving the Court and how Gawain owed it to her to make “an honest woman” of her now that he’d enjoyed her favors. Her voice had the same flat tone as when she’d told me of her childhood, and I wondered if there was any love and caring for anyone behind the pretty facade.

As she drifted into sleep Nimue and Vinnie and I sat in vigil beside her—the Christian crone, the Pagan priestess, and, somewhere in the middle, the Queen who was determined to hold things together. We could not have been more different in outlook or temperament, yet we gathered protectively around one of our own who was too hurt to protect herself. Men may deal in active blows, but it’s women who bind up the internal wounds.

***

All three members of the miserable affair left Court within a week. Pelleas crept away in the early dawn following his discovery of Gawain and Ettard together, having spoken only to Palomides.

“I do not know what will happen to him,” the Arab told me sadly. “The one saving grace is the land Arthur has given him. If he can face going back there without Ettard, perhaps it will eventually bring him life and hope again. The land is always healing, M’lady.”

I agreed but wished there was something I could do or say to the young horseman—he was the one most deeply hurt by this twisted, stupid mess.

Gawain also departed, ostensibly to check on his lands in the north. I hoped that was all it amounted to; we could ill afford to have the Prince of Orkney turn on Arthur as his father had.

With the strange, quixotic sensitivity that marks the Celts, he sought me out the morning before he left, precisely to allay my fears.

“I own I lost my temper, M’lady, and laid a harsher tongue on the two of you than I meant. Arthur’s said he understands, and I hope you’ll accept my apology as well.”

“Perhaps the change of scenery will do you good,” I replied, looking fondly at the redhead. “We’d hate to see you leave full of black rage…or feel you couldn’t return.”

He smiled disarmingly. “Arthur and the Court are still my home and family. But it’s been years since I’ve seen my kin. Mordred and Gareth must be so big by now I wouldn’t recognize them. And Mother…well, it’s time we made up our differences.”

I nodded, hoping that both of them had mellowed enough to patch up the old wounds. If so, there might be some way to effect a truce between her and Arthur as well. With that in mind I asked Gawain to give her my regards, and tell her that I would like to meet her someday.

Gawain shrugged and said he’d tell her. It was a casual remark on both our parts, but I hoped it might bear useful fruit.

Before the week was out Ettard announced that she was going to move to the Cornish holdings Igraine had left her. Clearly she had no future with Pelleas, and word of her involvement with Gawain had become the tattle of the Court, so I didn’t blame her for leaving. I wished her well and gave her the litter Igraine had used, as she seemed much more comfortable with it than I ever was.

Silently I commended her to the Queen Mother’s care, for even in spirit form I was sure Igraine had more patience than I did. Besides, with the imminent arrival of Tristan and Isolde, I had no time to worry about Ettard.

The party from Cornwall reached Oxford a week later and Isolde retired immediately to the quarters I’d put aside for her. I inquired if she and Branwen wished to join us at the table for dinner but was told she would be ready to face the world no sooner than the morrow, so I went to the Hall without them.

“You made very good time,” Arthur was saying to Tristan. “We weren’t expecting you this soon, or Gwen would have been packed.”

“I would? What for?” I asked, caught totally off guard.

“Why, to accompany Isolde this summer.” My husband seemed equally surprised that I hadn’t foreseen this new development. “She’ll need a chaperone, you know.”

I started to laugh aloud, the idea of protecting Isolde’s virtue being blatantly ridiculous. But Arthur was looking at me with his “don’t you dare” expression, so I stifled my laughter and glanced at Lancelot. Our eyes met for a moment, and I realized suddenly that he was as disconcerted by this development as I was.

***

“But I don’t want to go to Joyous Gard,” I protested to Arthur as we prepared for bed. “I thought we were going to work at Cadbury together.”

“I did, too.” My husband sighed. “But until we see how Mark is going to react, we have to take all possible precautions. The last thing I want is war with the man—it could easily involve Ireland as well. With you accompanying Isolde, it will look like a summer frolic for two Queens.”

I groaned inwardly, knowing there was no way to tell Arthur that I was afraid to be alone with Lance for weeks at a time. It was one thing to enjoy his company as part of Arthur’s team and quite another to come face to face with…with what? I noticed I couldn’t even finish the thought.

“It will take weeks to get the Court ready to move,” I countered.

“Then take a smaller retinue,” came the answer. “I’m sure it really doesn’t matter how many there are, as long as we can tell Mark that the needs of Christian propriety were served.”

My husband came over to stand in front of me and putting his arms around me, pulled me to him. “I don’t look forward to being separated all summer, either,” he said. “But the needs of Britain come first, and right now that means giving Mark time to calm down before he decides what to do about his wandering wife.”

I looked up at him, loving him, hating him, wanting to scream, “Can’t you ever think of anything but Britain!” and so torn inside that tears welled unexpectedly to my eyes.

“Come now, is my favorite Celtic Queen going to cry over something as small as a three-month separation?” he teased, wrapping me in a bear hug.

I threw my arms around him and clung for dear life, all my words of doubt and uncertainty heaped on that great pile of silence where the sharing of love and hope and sorrow also lay.

***

Someday, Arthur, I told him silently, someday they’ll find a voice, and then you’re going to get such an earful, you’ll never never be able to ignore them again!

The Garden of Joy

So we went to Warkworth: Lance and I, Tristan and Isolde, Palomides and Griflet—who coaxed Frieda into coming, too—and most of the women of the household because at the last minute Arthur looked at me in dismay and said, “What on earth am I to do with them while you’re gone?”

After miles of travel across the Cheviot Hills with their high, windswept reaches rippling with purple moor grass, the vale of the Coquet River was a wonderful relief. Winding down into its lush shelter, I understood why Lance loved it—green and sweet, it has the air of an enchanted kingdom.

When we dismounted to rest the horses beside a rocky pool, the flash of a kingfisher caught my eye like a streak of blue lightning. For the first time in years I stopped to savor my surroundings—gray lichen on the gnarled trunk of an oak; mosses, rich and plush, clinging to damp rocks; the silver dance of water as it dropped from ledge to ledge. The smell of the woods and the coolness of spray-drenched ferns offered a peace and tranquillity I didn’t even realize I had lost until it was restored.

My life at Court had become a dizzying round of decisions and diplomacy. It amazed me to think that all the while I hurried from duty to duty, trotting from cobbled courtyards to tower chambers, the earth continued to pour forth her silent strength for any who had sense enough to seek her out. I drank in the beauty of it like a parched traveler who stumbles on a hidden spring, slaking my thirst with wonder and gratitude to the Gods. With a sigh I promised myself that for this summer, in this joyous garden, I would not let affairs of state keep me from being part of the world around me.

Lance’s new Hall was both comfortable and homey. Perched on its knoll in the loop of the river, it was more a farmstead than a military center, and though a ditch and bank encircled it, there were no ramparts. The overseer and his wife were warm and friendly, and I woke the first morning to the smell of bacon sizzling on a country hearth. It was so much like my childhood, I could have cried for pleasure.

Our sojourn quickly turned into a summer idyll as we worked and played together like a large family and I reveled in the freedom from protocol and propriety. Even Isolde responded to it, gradually dropping her reserve and taking part in whatever we were doing. I was glad, for it gave me a chance to get to know the girl better.

“Are you very homesick for Ireland?” I asked one morning as we were digging clams for dinner on the golden beach.

“Not really,” she answered, energetically poking about with a pointed stick and scattering wet sand everywhere. “Castle Dore’s on the track between Ireland and the Continent, so there’s caravans and boatloads of people coming and going all the time. That was one of the things I was charged with in this marriage…making sure that Cornwall continues to be hospitable to Irish traders.”

The matter-of-fact way she spoke of trade needs and geography didn’t fit my picture of a spoiled darling only interested in pretty clothes. Perhaps she was better equipped to be a working queen than I had thought.

“I often wondered why your family married you off to a man so much older,” I said, deciding that if we were going to become friends over the next months, we’d better start with honesty. “Had you no say in the matter?”

“Not much,” she admitted, sitting back on her haunches and looking thoughtfully at the rocks rising beyond the surf. “And by the time I found out my mother had tried to salvage some happiness for me, it was too late. Don’t ever drink wine from an unmarked flagon,” she cautioned ruefully.

“Ah, the love potion,” I responded, and Isolde bobbed her head in response.

“Actually, I’m sick of thinking about it.” She shrugged and stared at the wheeling birds that filled the air with their cries. “Just look at those black-headed gulls! We have them in Ireland, too, and I used to love to run through the dunes where they nested in the spring, and see them all rise up in a great cloud of flapping wings around me.”