Queen of the Summer Stars (11 page)

“I won’t stay with the sisters permanently—at least, not yet,” the Irish girl promised. “But I want to talk with Mother Superior about the future. And you don’t really need me on this trip, as the other women can attend you.”

Her request made sense, of sorts, and since we had just finished packing the hampers and panniers for the journey, there wasn’t time to argue. So I gave her my blessing and turned my attention to the Beltane rites.

The change of seasons is always a chancy time, when both Gods and mortals run the risk of coming face to face. Samhain is by far the most frightening, for in that autumn time ghouls and spirits move abroad and people can be snatched without warning into the Otherworld. Beltane is generally fairer, with its songs and dancing, May Day rites, and grand processions as the cows are turned into the pastures for summer. Since everyone must participate at Beltane—young and elder, weak and hardy—a bustle of activity filled the Court.

I found the kitchen in chaos. Enid had dragged out every pot and pan and was surveying the lot with obvious misgivings. Small and dark as a changeling, my lady-in-waiting spent most of her time in the kitchen because Cook was more in need of help than I was. Her brows knit in exasperation as she assessed the remains of the Empire.

“Those old Romans must not have had much of an appetite; aren’t any vessels here big enough for a proper frumenty. From the looks of it, they never sacrificed anything bigger than a pigeon!”

I grinned and pointed out that when the Romans became Christian, they’d given up blood sacrifices. “But if anyone knows where a caldron could be found, it would be Cei.”

Sure enough, the Seneschal located a battered bronze crater, and before long Enid and Cook were busy mixing up barley kernels and milk and dried fruit for the ceremony.

As the shadows lengthened Ettard and I took the children through the house, making sure that every ember was extinguished in hearth and oven, lantern and brazier—at Beltane one must truly return to the darkness of the days before the Gods. Only then, with the lighting of the Need-fire, can the Gods prove they have not deserted us.

It is a ritual I’ve taken part in all my life. With every year the memories become richer, layered one over the other like petals of a flower holding a secret in their center. In good years it is a time of high spirits and anticipation, but when plague and pestilence stalk the land the royal promise leaps to mind with the Need-fire spark. Mama had died the day before Beltane, and since the flux was still rampant, my father’s life would have been forfeited if the Need-fire hadn’t caught. The memory of that terrible fact lies always just beneath my Beltane joy.

This time the bonfire roared to life with a fine, bright blaze, and the people laughed and capered and danced in giddy delight at leaving winter behind. When the flames died into a glowing pile of embers, we all helped pull the frumenty pot up to the coals and I began the circle dance.

Singing and clapping, the women followed after me—snaking back and forth between the glow of fire and the dark of night, doubling round on ourselves—a living spiral in the dance of life bobbing and weaving to the high, piercing notes of Dagonet’s pipe.

The men moved in behind, swaying and stamping as they reached out to spin us around. Deeply throbbing, lightly sinuous—together we called the Goddess, woke the land. Great waves of love, of pent-up longing, of glorious release, rose in the voice of the people as the cold constraints of winter dropped away and spring came romping across the fields.

Every shadow whispered hope and invitation, and I was back again in the fire-glow of the Beltane after Kevin left. Now…now…I prayed, as if the time since his disappearance had not been. If you are ever going to claim me for your own, it must be now!

His face shimmered suddenly before me; dark-eyed and haunting, but without a smile or gladness of any sort. And when I flung my arms out to him, he turned aside with a look of pure contempt.

Confused, blinded by hot tears of hurt and disbelief, I stumbled from the circle. Arthur’s arms went around me, swinging me up in an arc so high that my feet left the ground. Flying, soaring, whirling breathlessly in his embrace, I blinked repeatedly, trying to clear my vision until I saw that it was Lancelot who moved silently away from us, not Kevin at all.

The pain and poignancy of that love which was never to be, mixed with the cold hardness of the Breton’s scorn, made my heart cry out. Tears ran down my cheeks, mingling with the sweat of fire and dance, and when Arthur steadied me on my feet I answered his kiss with a grateful eagerness that did the Goddess proud.

***

Just before we consummated our ritual, I commended Kevin to Epona’s care, wherever he might be, and once again reminded the Goddess that the moon was full and I was in need of a child.

Discovery

When the May Day festivities were over we headed off to Cornwall—a cheerful bunch, laughing and joking in the dazzle of spring. After the winter at Silchester everyone looked forward to a change of scene, but for me it held the special promise of getting to know both the land and people.

I rode Shadow, the little white Welsh Mountain mare Arthur had given me as a wedding present, and he was astride his large black stallion. The horses were fit and eager for the Road, tossing their heads and making the bells on their bridles ring. The Banner of the Red Dragon floated above us, while the entire entourage was decked out in their most colorful outfits. Even I was wearing a dress, and Igraine’s golden torque encircled my neck. Altogether we made a splendid picture.

Everywhere we went our subjects came out to greet us, cheering in crowds by the gates of towns or saluting us singly from field and farm. They were as curious about me as I was about them and often called out my name as we approached. I waved and saluted them in return, glad to see them friendly and happy.

Other travelers joined us if they were heading south or pulled to the verge of the Road as our party swept past. Peddlers, healers, farmer’s wives taking food to market, a band of young adventurers sharing the rigors of travel—I studied their faces closely, wondering about their dreams and hopes.

We were coming through the Mendip Hills when a strange, mournful sound overtook us. It was as many-tongued as a pack of hounds, but muted and softer, like geese flying somewhere in the distance. The great, sky-filling flocks had long since settled down to nest, so I looked to Arthur with a query.

Before he could reply the dogs burst into sight, rounding the shoulder of a hill like a tide of flapping napery spotted with blood. White as linen, every animal had dark red ears.

“Great Gods, it’s the Gabriel Hounds,” Gawain cried, reaching for his dagger. Lance drew his sword and the wolfhounds froze, hackles raised and bodies taut.

The racing pack divided to pass on either side of us, sending waves of panic through the household as an ear-splitting whistle rent the air. A man on a dun charger came into view, clinging to his galloping mount like a burr to a blanket. He bore down on us, long hair flying and eyes agleam.

Shadow whinnied in terror as the thundering horse reared skyward to avoid crashing into us. For a long moment it danced in the air, front hooves pawing, nostrils flared and eyes rolling, before crashing to a halt barely three paces in front of me. The dogs ceased their yelping and turned back to their master.

“Arthur Pendragon?” the man called, eyeing my husband with a fierce intensity—half mischief, half threat.

“Who asks?” Arthur’s hand rested on the hilt of Excalibur.

“Gwyn of Neath,” came the quick reply. “Thought I’d find you somewhere in these hills. Welcome to my territory.”

“Your territory?” Arthur cocked an eyebrow. “A bit far from southern Wales, aren’t you?”

By now our challenger had turned to ride beside us, sending his dogs on ahead. He gave the King a gap-toothed grin and nodded politely to me.

“Neath’s just the family holdings—I’m going to Glastonbury to claim the land I liberated from a scoundrel who challenged me at a ford…typical braggart, he was. But I’ve taken to raising hounds and horses, and his land is good pasturage.”

From the web of scars on Gwyn’s arms I suspected he’d spent more of his life on the battlefield than in either stable or kennel, but perhaps he felt it was time to hang up his shield—older warriors become a liability when their speed drops off.

“Came out to ask if you’d like to stay over,” the wildman went on. “I’ve a hunting lodge not far away—excellent larder and good enough quarters. Been breeding a line of large horses—good for cavalry—and hoped we could discuss bloodlines over ale and meat.”

Arthur glanced at the man’s mount. A young gelding, he was big and sound, and tall in the bargain; just the sort we needed.

“Heard you’re developing a strain of your own,” Gwyn continued, eyeing Arthur’s stallion as well. “I’ve a notion to try for a line of blacks…”

Whatever doubts Arthur had disappeared, and by the time we sat down to dinner he and Gwyn had gone over all the mares in the barn and determined which ones might be suitable for breeding with the stallion.

During the meal Gwyn’s bard regaled us with stories of the witch of Wookey Hole, who lived in a nearby cave with a pair of goats.

“My da saw her once—face all twisted as she stared into a polished crystal ball,” the bard recalled. “Carries the thing at her belt and uses it to make charms.”

I was wondering if she might have some spell for fertility when Gwyn spoke up, his dark eyes riveted to my face. “People don’t go near her cave, however—there’s terrible groans and screams come from that cavern now and then.”

I shivered and made the sign against evil and in the firelight caught sight of Lancelot doing the same. He may not have much respect for me, but at least he paid the Gods their due.

“Tomorrow,” Gwyn announced with a sudden, toothy grin, “I’ll take you through the Gorge. Wonderful place; fairly reeks of the first days of creation.”

In the morning we took the path that leads down into a canyon between steep limestone walls. The gray-white stone is ridged like giant columns, seamed with balconies and festooned by vines and trees that cling to every ledge. As we followed the dancing stream deeper into the chasm, the hanging gardens towered over us. I had never seen such naked grandeur at close range and joined the rest of the household in marveling at the strangeness of it—even the arrogant Breton seemed impressed.

Gwyn continued with us to Glastonbury, talking about his plans.

“Have a notion to build a Hall on top of the Tor.” Both his tone and the cavalier wave of his hand made it sound like child’s play.

I thought of the great hill that rises abruptly above the marshy lake. Nimue, who is a priestess in her own right, says the Mother Goddess has an invisible shrine on the highest level of the Tor. The idea of erecting a home in that holy space seemed cheeky in the extreme, unless Gwyn was himself related to the Gods in some strange way. I studied him surreptitiously, noting the slight stature and gnarled features. He caught my gaze and gave me a broad, knowing wink before I could look away.

Lancelot also watched the fellow with a quizzical interest. Having been raised by the Lady, the Breton was no doubt well versed in the ways of the fey.

Yet when we paused at Glastonbury it was Lancelot who went into the chapel in the vale, stooping slightly to make his way through the low door.

“Would you care to pay your respects as well?” the hermit who tended it asked me. “It’s sacred to the Mother, you know.”

It seemed odd for a Christian holy man to dedicate this little thatch-and-wattle church to the Goddess who was already worshiped on the hilltop. “The Mother?” I repeated.

“Why, Mary, the Mother of Jesu,” came the answer.

I hastily declined the invitation but wondered why Lancelot would want to visit such a place.

“Merlin came and went among the Christians, sharing ideas and asking questions,” Arthur reminded me. “Maybe Lance is curious in the same way.”

“Maybe,” I conceded, thinking it a peculiar trait in a warrior.

***

We made a detour to inspect a deserted hill-fort above the tiny town of South Cadbury. The fortress was as old as Liddington, and almost as big, for within the ramparts the hill rose and rippled toward a high plateau. The buildings were too ruinous to use, but someone—Arthur thought perhaps it was Uther—had made an effort to refurbish the defensive wall. We pitched camp at the edge of an oak grove that had grown up around the remains of an old Roman temple, and after dinner Arthur and I took our blankets up to the top of the plateau, a little distance from the rest.

The evening was clear, and the sky arched deep and black and glittering with stars above us. We talked softly before sleep, our half-whispered words fluttering away in the darkness as we slipped into silence.

Wrapped in a half dream, the whole of Albion stretched out around me, turning slowly like a lovely lady preening herself from every angle before the mirror of my mind. I saw the golden scarps of Cotswold, the green sea surge of the downs and the giant arches of ancient elegance rising from the steaming swamp of Bath.

Yet the heart of Britain remained hidden, shifting like a rainbow in the mist—even beyond the power and majesty of Cheddar Gorge and the vast watery plain around Glastonbury, there was something dearer, closer to the core of life. Slowly she unveiled it—the homey steading carved from the forest, the cluster of a village, the shepherd’s bothy and the shanty of the fisherman. They glimmered in my memory like the faces I had seen on the Road, a prismatic portrait of the people who called me Queen.