Queen of the Summer Stars (30 page)

“But you’ve no little ones?”

Typically, Gladys went right to the point, and I winced as I shook my head.

“Well,” she acknowledged, pursing her lips as she sampled the soup in the pot, “we’ll fix you some simples to take care of that.”

You and all the rest of the world, I thought wearily.

“If only Kaethi were still alive, she’d have a recipe for you.”

“She’s also gone?”

My knees buckled, and I sank onto the stool by the churn. Kaethi had been the mentor of my childhood, the tart voice of reason that pointed out the foibles of mankind and taught me not to take myself too seriously. I paled with the knowledge that she was no longer here.

“Oh, Missy, I thought surely you would have heard. She died in her sleep last winter.”

I looked away, angry and hurt that the Gods should store up so many losses to lay on me at once. “And Rhufon?” I asked, daring the Fates to take him away as well.

“Ah, the Horse Master’s still alive, but he got kicked by a dray horse that was being shod, and hasn’t been right in the head since. He sits in the sun most any warm afternoon and mutters away to your mother, or Nonny…sometimes he talks to you as well.”

I sighed, suddenly very tired and alone; without father or husband or even Kaethi’s insights, I’d have to convince the people to accept Urien as Regent by myself. It would mean tact and diplomacy, and a good deal more confidence than I presently possessed. I wasn’t sure I could accomplish it.

“Of course you can, child. Why do you think we raised you as we did?” The memory of Kaethi’s high, birdlike voice came to me as clearly as the splashing of the scullery girl, and I squared my shoulders with an inward sigh.

A Celtic Queen does what has to be done.

***

The intricate dance of diplomacy began even before the funeral was held. I sat in Mama’s carved chair a slight distance from my father’s bier and received the nobles of the nearby lands with quiet solemnity. I hoped they took it as a newfound dignity rather than the exhaustion it really was.

Uwain came in his father’s place since Urien had joined Arthur in his march against Cerdic. The boy was awfully young to represent a kingdom as powerful as Northumbria, but I suspected my people would find him less offensive than his parent—Urien had regularly raided our borders before Arthur instigated the truce, and not a few of our men had lost limbs and relatives trying to keep our rapacious neighbor out. Old warriors have long memories, so I was relieved it was the son and not the father who came for the funeral.

Fergus of Dal Riada was too busy fighting the Picts to go south with Arthur, but he came to pay homage to my father, as did many of the smaller leaders from the splintered kingdoms beyond the Wall.

My cousin Maelgwn arrived as well—Arthur had said he would leave him in Gwynedd to guard our flank. The man moved suavely across the Hall, accompanied by richly garbed nobles and a huge black dog—probably the beast named Dormarth that Poulentis had mentioned.

The Welsh King was effusive in his condolences. He went down on one knee before my chair, his voice full of honey and sympathy. The sunlight tangled in his graying hair, giving him a distinguished look as he lifted my hand to his lips. One would have thought we were the best of friends, and I wondered if he knew how much I detested him. Certainly he must remember the black eye I’d given him, but my icy greeting didn’t remove the smile from his face.

“How sad your father didn’t get to see you again,” he purred. “He would be much impressed, I’m sure. Why, I remember you as a freckle-faced youngster, and would never guess that you’d become such a beautiful woman.”

A stony silence hung between us. I am fully aware that I’m nowhere near the beauty that Mama was; trustworthy, quick-witted, competent—these are the words they use to describe me. Maelgwn’s attempt to appeal to a vanity I’d never developed struck me as one more indication of his deviousness.

I pulled my hands free of his grasp and called for Bedivere to join me. Hopefully my cousin would take the hint and leave me alone.

“Who will be selected to rule Rheged, now that your father cannot?” Maelgwn persisted, ignoring my rudeness.

“No one,” I snapped. “The people will no doubt approve Urien as Regent until such time as my own offspring are old enough to stand for the monarchy.”

For a moment my unctuous relative was caught off balance.

“But surely, as kin to your mother, my own line should be considered.”

“It was.” I leaned ramrod straight against the back of the royal chair and looked my opponent squarely in the eye. “But both my father and I agreed that a Regency under Urien was more desirable.”

“Well, perhaps I can change your mind, fair lady,” Maelgwn responded, the cold edge of anger glinting under his words.

We were poised like a pair of swordsmen who have crossed blades down to the hilt, each weighing when and how to jump free of the stalemate. I refused to look away, and at last he blinked and stepped back out of the sunlight.

Bedivere moved in beside me, ostensibly to explain who would lead my father’s stallion in the procession the next day. I rose from my chair and walked away with the lieutenant, dismissing Maelgwn without so much as a glance.

“He could cause no end of trouble,” the lieutenant warned under his breath, and I nodded silently. It was clear I must put my own imprint on the future of Rheged as soon as possible.

I spent that evening at the stables, reminiscing with Rhufon—who faded in and out of the present like a winter tree wrapping itself in mists—and getting acquainted with the man who had become the new Horse Master.

Some of the new animals eyed me cautiously, but I found fond welcome from the horses I’d known all my life. My father’s stallion nickered and blew against my shoulder, butting me impatiently as though annoyed that I should smell so familiar but not be the one for whom he waited. He was a tall horse, even for a Shire, and more high-strung than most. I could not remember anyone other than my father having ridden him, save perhaps Rhufon. It wasn’t clear how much this was due to my father’s pride in the animal and how much stemmed from the unruly nature of the stallion himself. But we had a long talk, that horse and I, and I went to bed feeling more confident about the morrow.

Before the funeral I tugged on a pair of breeches and simple tunic instead of a dress and, leaving my hair to hang long and free in filial mourning, rummaged through several chests until I found my father’s crown. Planting it firmly on my head, I turned and marched down to the stables.

There had been a summer shower in the night, as though the heavens were shedding the tears that I could not, but the day itself bloomed bright and clear. As the entourage formed up, I brought my father’s stallion from the barn.

When the solemn drumbeat started, it was I, Guinevere, who walked with the riderless animal behind his master’s body.

A murmur of surprise ran through the Court, but the horse and I kept stately pace with the rumbling drum, looking neither to left nor right. I’ve often suspected that animals know full well what happens in their human masters’ lives, and this morning the fractious stallion moved with a slow, deliberate purpose as though grieving for the King who would not ride again.

My father’s coffin had long been ready, and it was lowered softly into the grave beside his love’s. Mama had died unexpectedly and been buried hastily in a hollow log. Now the earth cradled them both, the one so young and vibrant, the other so bent with sorrow and pain. I hoped that Mama’s spirit still lingered on the Isle of the Blessed, to receive my father when he arrived.

As we were coming back from the cemetery the wind rose up. The stallion tossed his head nervously and began to pull against the lead. I soothed him a bit with my voice, but his ears twitched constantly.

Within minutes the billowing white clouds of morning had taken on the purple-gray of a Pennine storm, lying heavy on the green fells like a sullen bruise. When the first crack of thunder rolled over us, the stallion shied sideways, and I turned toward him so abruptly the crown started to slip on my hair.

Grabbing it before it fell, I swung up into the saddle and pulled the trembling stallion’s head to one side. He swung in circles, dancing against the rein, and I held him with knee and thigh as I lifted the crown and saluted the people with it.

A shocked gasp met my action, but after a moment’s uneasiness the crowd began to cheer. The horse calmed underneath me, his frightened, white-eyed look giving way to spirited pride. I held the mood of both the stallion and the people by sheer force of will and prayed that nothing else untoward would confront us.

By the time we climbed the hill to Appleby’s Hall, the stallion was prancing with pent-up energy but no longer threatened to break away, and the throng was chanting my name. It may not have been the most traditional return from a royal burial, but I did not think my father would have minded; certainly I had made it clear that I intended to claim the daughter’s right to rule in her father’s stead.

I handed the reins over to the groom, telling him to turn the horse out to pasture so he could run as long and hard as he wanted. The boy nodded briskly, and I watched the two of them move away, wishing I too could escape the confines of protocol and statesmanship.

***

The idea of dealing with Maelgwn at the feast that night was purely repulsive, but Edwen the Bard came to my rescue, filling the Hall with tales about the bravery and dedication of the King we had just buried.

In spite of his warped and twisted frame, my father was a king of majesty, as much committed to his people as Mama was. On the night after her death we had all left this Hall, sick and fever-racked, trudging through the rain to the Sacred Hill for the Need-fire lighting. Moaning in the dark, the ring of dancers begged for surcease of the plague, the rebirth of warmth and light, the promise of life renewed. When the tinder refused to catch, they cried for my father’s life in an effort to placate the Gods. It was then I had seen him dancing amid the crackling flames. Hunched and crippled and wrapped in smoke, he capered wildly in the heart of that inferno, seeming to fulfill the royal promise. Even now as an adult, though I understand he only thrust the burning brand into the dry heart of the pyre, the picture of him silhouetted in that blaze is seared on my heart.

In the midst of his eulogy Edwen crumpled over his harp, convulsed with grief for the leader he had served so long. Bedivere rushed to his side and after helping him to the bench beside the pillar, sat down on the Harper’s stool and took up the instrument. That night the one-handed lieutenant created such a lay for my father as to make the whole of Britain proud.

Yet still I could not cry. By the time the evening was over I was drowning in unshed tears and left the Hall in silence, brushing aside Maelgwn’s offer to see me to my chambers with a contemptuous glance.

“I shall look forward to hosting you in return, M’lady,” my cousin said next morning, bowing ostentatiously as he prepared to depart for Gwynedd. “Perhaps next spring?”

I stared hard at the man, weighing his words for hidden meaning—something in the invitation made me uneasy. Yet no matter how repulsive I found him as a person, we needed him as an ally. So in spite of my misgivings I murmured a vague, “Perhaps,” and bade him a formal farewell.

***

Word came sporadically from the south—
of Arthur gathering a growing army; warlords and nobles, archers and slingers and cavalry Champions, all joining forces. Of Geraint and Cador rushing to Silchester, meeting with Urien and Agricola as the High King arrives. Most of the might of Britain moves to protect the Goring Gap, rallying under the Banner of the Red Dragon.

Terrifying reports of Saxons pour out of steading and village—Octha and Aelle lead their armies forth from Kent and Sussex, joining the Federates of the Weald to cast their lot with this new leader who claims he is one of their own. Villas are torched, Britons enslaved, as the ranks of would-be conquerors swell behind the white horsetail standards of Cerdic.

Arthur draws his forces together, but even though it is still high summer, he provides no battle, no chance for glory and loot. Instead, he sets the men to digging storage pits at Silchester, preparing to winter over. In the south Winchester is lost to Cerdic—what was once a British enclave surrounded by a mixture of British and Federates is now a Saxon center. On the hills the men of Kent and Sussex set up camp.

Neither leader moves against the other, but each hunkers down, waiting to see who makes the first mistake.

I heard the news and shivered. With the whole of winter to improve his position, Cerdic would no doubt make Winchester a base from which to launch an attack toward London. There seemed little chance that Arthur could stop the process; given the number of warrior-farmers the Saxons had called up, our forces were badly outnumbered. If the Gods resented our efforts at unifying Britain, Cerdic was the perfect tool with which to punish us.

***

Stuck so far away in the north, unable to help or even hear what was happening from day to day, I turned all my attention to matters closer to hand. My own position in Rheged must be solidified and the question of Urien’s Regency settled. It kept me busy during the day. But every night I prayed long and hard to the Goddess, begging Her to protect Arthur and the Cause, lest the next royal funeral be for my husband.