Queen of the Summer Stars (17 page)

“He’s requesting a personal audience,” the convent girl repeated. “And asks that it be private.”

I struggled to full wakefulness and saw Brigit’s eyebrows lift.

“There’s no need to worry about propriety where Lancelot and I are concerned,” I assured her. “You know we barely tolerate each other.”

The nausea returned as I sat up, and I patted Brigit’s hand. It was she who had suggested that my upset stomach might be caused by pregnancy, if the wicca’s charm had worked.

That was the one bright hope in this otherwise horrible night, and I clung to it fiercely while Brigit combed out my hair and Ettard helped me into a robe. The irony that I was finally harboring a new life at a time when my own was in danger did not escape me.

A waning moon was scudding through the clouds and I paused to stare up at the poor, lopsided thing, wondering what Arthur’s lieutenant would say.

Perhaps, since both our futures depended on his prowess tomorrow, he was coming to offer a word of encouragement. That would be a kindness I’d appreciate right now. Or even better, he might be gracious enough to apologize for his past rudeness and agree to end our hostilities.

If that’s the case, I told the moon, I’ll meet him halfway.

When I was settled in my chair and the door opened, I turned toward it expectantly, a smile of appreciation already on my lips.

Lancelot entered without a word and planted himself midway across the room. In the dim light of the lamp I couldn’t read his expression, but his manner was quiet as he folded his arms and waited for my women to leave.

“Since I am going to be championing you in a few hours,” he began, once we were alone, “there is something I wish you to know.”

I leaned forward, trying to gauge his mood as the moon limped out from behind her clouds and cast a cold light across his face. For the first time I saw the fierce anger burning in his eyes. It was so startling, I recoiled as from a blow.

“I may die in that combat, M’lady, and if that happens, I don’t want to go to my grave with you thinking I willingly defended you. Oh, I’ll fight as well as I know how, but only because Arthur has commanded it…you haven’t duped me as easily as you have the rest.”

Stunned, I stared speechlessly at the man, waiting for him to explain. But he stood his ground in silence, dark and immutable. Used to Arthur’s pacing in times of crisis, Lancelot’s stillness made me nervous and I rose to my feet.

“What do you mean, ‘duped’?” I snapped.

He gave a snort. “You forget, I was raised in the Sanctuary of the Goddess. I know how the Celts harbor grudges—and that many see Arthur as an interloper. The Lady may have gotten them to accept him as their High King, but I have no doubt there are some who would like to see him dead.”

He paused, his tone so calm and assured I could hardly believe he was speaking of treason.

“Whether you are an assassin trained for the job from the beginning, or the unwitting pawn of others, the fact remains that you had both the means and opportunity to concoct that poison and give it to your husband.”

“I beg your pardon!” I stalked across the room, stung by his accusation. Rounding on him suddenly, I demanded, “Whatever are you talking about?”

“About your consorting with the old hags in the woods. And about your visit to a Saxon wicca—a creature who may well want Arthur dead,” he shot back.

His mention of the wicca caught me totally off guard. I was shocked on the one hand that my private business was being held up to ridicule and enraged on the other that he so easily assumed my actions were motivated by treachery. Added to that was his damnably smug conviction that he was right. Outrage began to rise in me.

“You’re right, I met with the wicca,” I retorted, striding to the opposite end of the room. “And I’ve practiced all manner of rites and done all sorts of things, both with my husband and alone.”

The force of my indignation brought me back, and I began to circle my accuser like an animal. My voice was low and measured, and I moved around him as I spoke, so that he had to turn constantly to face me.

“Not only that, I have been present when vile potions were brewed, and drunk the wretched things down when every sense in body and mind rejected them. I’ve done all that, and more. And would do it again,” I added, stressing every word carefully, “if it would insure a child for Arthur.”

Coming to a stop, I pulled myself up as tall as possible and met the Breton’s gaze eye to eye.

“Can you, my fine fellow, say you would do as much for your King?”

Dumbfounded, the lieutenant stared back at me, his eyes wide with astonishment.

By now a flaming pride was coursing through me. No pompous newcomer from Brittany was going to cast doubt on
my
motives, much less my loyalty to Arthur. I had every right to have the man thrown in irons—except that I needed him to fight for me on the morrow!

The ludicrousness of the situation struck home and I would have laughed aloud, but the room was beginning to spin and the last thing I remember was Lancelot reaching to break my fall as the floor rushed up to claim me.

***

I came to sometime in the night, rising from a dreamless place to see Arthur sitting on the edge of the bed. Still half-asleep, I wondered why he looked so worried. I wanted to reach out and take him in my arms, but when he saw I was awake he brushed a broad hand across my brow.

“Brigit says you’ve lost a lot of blood, and must stay quiet.”

The words made no sense, and I frowned up at him, confused. “Blood?”

The Irish girl was beside me then, and as Arthur rose she settled into his spot.

“Your flow is much heavier than usual,” she said gently. “But whatever caused the first gushing has passed, and a few days on beef broth and bed rest should see you well again.”

Suddenly memory flooded back—the accusations, the trial, the fact that I might be pregnant. Or might have been pregnant.

“You mean…” The words wouldn’t come out, and I looked hastily from Brigit to Arthur. I had not yet told him, so he couldn’t know how cruel this news was.

Brigit’s nod confirmed my fear.

“And the Trial?” I whispered.

“It will be held in about three hours.” Arthur sighed deeply. “Lance asked me to assure you he’ll do his best.”

My eyes filled with unshed tears—sorrow, pain, hope, fear—they were all there. I turned my face away, not wanting to weep in Arthur’s presence.

Brigit rose quietly, leaning over to straighten the pillows and smooth the blankets. “Time you get some sleep, M’lady. And you too, M’lord. You’ll both need all the strength you’ve got come morning.”

Arthur mumbled something about staying in the other room, then came over to the bed and wished me an awkward good-night. I wanted to cry out, to beg him to hold me safe until dawn, to let the tangle of misery all pour out. But instead of lifting me in his arms, my husband took my hands in his own and stared silently into my face. Then with a gulp he dropped my fingers and headed for the door.

I stared after him, knowing it was not the first time in life I’d had no one to turn to, but that didn’t help. Looking down at the bare spot where Mama’s ring used to be, I tried to think what she would do in such a plight. Probably get a good night’s rest, I thought wryly as the tears broke loose and I began to sob.

***

At sunrise Lancelot rode forth and did battle with the boy who had voiced the charges Morgan whipped up against me. The lad proved to be as competent as his cousin on horseback, but Lance’s skill with the sword gave him the edge on foot. Before the dew was dry on the grasses Arthur’s lieutenant had the stranger pinned to the ground, and suggested he retract the accusation of murder in exchange for his life. Fortunately the youngster had the sense to accept the offer.

I was grateful Lance gave him the option; at least I wouldn’t be held accountable for two deaths in this wretched affair.

Minding Brigit’s instructions, I stayed in bed for the next two days. It gave me a chance to think about what had happened.

Whether I had miscarried or not was uncertain—but even if I had, it was but a poignant result of the greater crisis.

Lance’s fear that I would bring death to the High King explained a good deal of his behavior. Hopefully he’d look on me with less suspicion now, and recognizing that we were each dedicated to Arthur, we might eventually become friends.

The fact that none of the other warriors had come to my aid was harder to understand. Clearly they’d been scared and confused at the start of the Feast, even before the boy had died. Perhaps they had already heard about the wicca and misunderstood my motives just as Lancelot had. That didn’t make sense, since Brigit and Frieda were the only others who knew…and Morgan.

I lay back among the pillows with a sigh. How many times had I made excuses for Morgan? In her own way she was as beautiful and passionate as Igraine, and she gloried in being the High Priestess with the absolute conviction that she was the favorite of the Gods. Everyone in Britain stood in awe of her, and the first time I met her, I’d been filled with dread and terror.

But Morgan was also a woman prone to wild mood swings, able to go from charming graciousness to temper tantrums or cold arrogance in remarkably short order. I had tried to make allowances for that, hoping that her rage at me would diminish as her affair with Accolon cooled. But now it seemed she bore me a grudge far deeper than the discovery of her liaison.

Perhaps she resented my being so close to Igraine, when she was not. Or maybe she could not forget that if it weren’t for Arthur, she and Urien could have been High King and Queen. Whatever her reasons, it was obvious that while I’d been trying to mend a family spat, Morgan had become my deadly enemy.

Not that I thought she’d planted the poison—Morgan had helped put Arthur on the throne, so she would surely not want to kill him. But making use of the moment is one of her specialties, and her rush to place the blame on me could hardly be denied. I didn’t like the idea, but if Lancelot had failed in the Trial, both he and I would be dead by now—because of Morgan.

On the afternoon of the second day I pushed aside Brigit’s cluckings and dressed for Court; there were a few matters I wished to take up with the Lady of the Lake.

***

“Left yesterday,” Cook said, scowling at the fish she was scaling. “And no word to the kitchen, even. Her whole party gone—poof—like magic.”

Cook flipped the fish over and attacked the other side, her irritation making the silver scales scatter in the sunlight. I turned away, my anger with my sister-in-law flashing in much the same way.

Come into my Court, would she, and snub me dead upon our meeting? Play on innuendos and fear to charge me with murder, and build the net so skillfully that not even the High King could stop it? And after threatening both my honor and my life, disappear before she’s called to account…gone, just like that—poof—leaving the commoners to marvel over her magic.

Venomous bitch, I thought, heading for the room with the long table where Arthur and I ran the realm. At least it was clear that my husband hadn’t been fooled. Bless him, he might be guarded and obtuse about expressions of love, but he’d rallied to my cause in a way that left no question of his belief in me.

Lance and Arthur were studying one of Merlin’s scrolls when I came in, and both gave me a welcoming smile. It was the first time Lance had greeted me with anything other than disdain.

“I think I owe you an apology, M’lady,” the Breton said, moving toward me.

“I owe you a great deal more,” I replied, extending my hand as I crossed the room.

“We both do,” Arthur interrupted, taking both my hand and Lancelot’s and bringing them together with his own. “So much so that from now on Lance will be known as the Queen’s Champion. It is an honor he earned in the arena of the Trial.”

There was much relief in Arthur’s voice, as though the tension between his lieutenant and his wife had been obvious even to him, and now he was glad things were resolved.

For a moment the three of us stood there, laughing and beaming at each other, and then Arthur let us go and we all moved toward the table.

“Well,” Lance mused, “the Combat satisfied the Old Ways and left the courtiers feeling that something had been done about a needless death. Fortunately neither my opponent nor I suffered more than a few bruises, though I was sorry to see the lad go home; we could have used him among the Companions.”

“But it didn’t solve the question of who put the poison in the cup, or why,” I pointed out, pulling up a stool and sitting down across from them.

“That’s what we’ve just been discussing.” Arthur rolled up the scroll and slid the lead guard up its threads to keep the thing closed. “Seems one of Urien’s pages saw someone fiddle with the goblets while Ettard was talking with Gawain. The fellow wore no badge, but with so many strangers at the tournament, the page didn’t think much of it. He did notice a scar that ran from the man’s cheek to his chin, but that’s about all.”

Arthur looked over at me with a nod. “I’ve told the Companions to keep an eye out for him, but doubt they’ll turn up much—many warriors are scarred that way. Besides, every king has enemies, so I’m not going to waste time worrying over this one. What bothers me most is how easily the concept of justice was swept aside in favor of the Old Ways.”