Queen of the Summer Stars (50 page)

We reached South Cadbury on one of those smoke-smudged days when the stubble of the fields was being burned. A misty gray veil hung over the land and the setting sun was a copper disk.

The tiny village at the base of the fortress’s hill was crowded with the tents of craftsmen from all over Logres who’d come to work on Arthur’s stronghold—carpenters and smiths, stone workers and plumbers, carvers and painters, all eager to take part in creating the King’s new home.

The hill itself rises from the lowlands as suddenly as the Tor at Glastonbury, though Cadbury is more rugged and lacks the lake and marsh that lap the feet of the Tor. During the days of the Empire, when all hill-forts lay deserted, bramble and scrub had grown thick over the banks and ditches. Arthur had removed all trace of tree and vine lest they provide a handhold for attacking Saxons, and now the rock foundations of the fortress towered over the plain in four steep tiers.

I caught my breath as I stared up at it. A wooden parapet had been built atop the rockwork wall, and lookout towers pointed in each direction of the compass. Large double gates, bound with iron and boasting huge hinges, opened on a steep cobbled road that led upward to the broad plateau inside the ramparts.

It was here, on the highest ridge, that Arthur had constructed an amazing Hall. Double-storied, with a peaked roof like that of the Great Hall at Appleby, its walls of newly planked wood shimmered palely in the afternoon light.

Pennants fluttered on the lookout towers, and the Banner of the Red Dragon floated over the roofbeam of the Hall, proclaiming the High King’s presence. Craftsmen called back and forth to each other or paused to survey their work before hurrying off for more materials. Altogether it had the life and sparkle of a miniature city spun into reality by the arts of the fey.

I sat tall and proud in the saddle as we drew near. Thanks to Lance I was returning to my husband without a trace of guilt, yet there would be a difference. Never again need I hunger for words Arthur couldn’t say. Never again need I think of myself only as that competent but childless Queen. No matter what else the summer at Joyous Gard had brought, I knew I was loved, and even seen as lovely, by a man I admired and loved in return. That knowledge wrapped around me like a charm.

When we reached the gates Agravain called out to the sentry in the tower, announcing that he had the Queens of Britain and Cornwall with him. There was something childishly boastful in his voice, as though he were unused to filling a position of importance. I wondered what his childhood had been like; too young to keep up with Gawain and Gaheris, too old to enjoy playing with Gareth and Mordred, perhaps he had never found a niche of his own in Morgause’s family.

Once inside the walls we were surrounded by a fever of activity. Workers and soldiers were laying out drainage ditches while over at what I took to be the stables a cadre of men were hoisting the roofbeam into place. And all of it to be part of our new home.

I stared about me, thrilled and impressed.

“Almost ready for its Queen,” said a familiar voice, and there was Arthur standing in front of my mare. Featherfoot nickered and brought her nose down to be patted as he grinned up at me. He was wearing the leather apron of a laborer and was hot and sweaty from working with the builders, but the pride of accomplishment and welcome in his voice was unmistakable.

Staring down at him, I felt the summer past slip suddenly away. I fairly leapt off my horse and then Arthur was lifting me in one of those high, wild embraces he does so well.

A cluster of workmen cheered and clapped approvingly, and when we’d shared a long, full kiss I threw back my head and, looking up at him, announced firmly, “Now that is more like a welcome home.”

For a moment I thought he was going to drop me, he laughed so hard.

***

Once Isolde was settled, Arthur and I sat down to exchange news.

“Tristan didn’t know she was going to leave,” I explained. “I wrote Lance a note asking him to detain Tris at Warkworth until Isolde reaches Cornwall—with all the rest of the women to move as well, it will take them some time just to get started. What have you heard from Mark?”

Arthur frowned. “Nothing so far, but he should be satisfied now that his wife is returning. How did you get her to agree so readily?”

“I think,” I answered carefully, “she’s simply had enough of grand romance…She and Tris paid a very dear price for their love.” I paused, not wanting to discuss the subject. “Now tell me, what’s been happening at Court?”

“Everyone here’s been working on the buildings. Between Bedivere’s engineering and Cei’s ability to find materials, we’ve made wonderful progress. Elsewhere, the Saxons are quiet. Sir Ector reports that Cynric is settling in well—says he’s a bright lad who seems to have accepted the loss of his father’s cause. Only time will tell if he’s willing to accept me as his overlord, so we’ll wait and see. Haven’t heard anything about Pelleas—or Gawain, for that matter. Mostly,” Arthur concluded, coming to stand in front of me, “I’ve spent the summer missing you.”

It was such a surprising admission, I threw my arms around him in a hug, and then we were kissing and stroking and groping for the bed, everyone and everything else forgotten.

I woke next morning to the cheerful whistling of a carpenter hammering away in the next room and, squinting in the sunshine, was surprised to find Arthur still abed.

“I think waking up with you is what I missed most,” he said casually, grinning down at me. It was the kind of comment he never used to make and I wondered if I should go away more often. Whatever accounted for my husband’s change of habit, I was delighted.

By comparison, the mood of the Cornish Queen verged on despair. I found Isolde lying on her bed, staring silently at the ceiling. “Yes, yes—I know I must make plans,” she acknowledged. “And I won’t be going back on my word…It’s home to Mark I go, and that’s all there is to that. But not yet, Gwen…I’m not ready yet.”

I was loath to press her further—who knew what memories and sorrows she was grappling with. I just hoped a few days’ rest would revive her spirits.

Later, when Arthur took me to see the new kennels, memories of my own rose to haunt me. Coming through the doorway, I ran right into Maelgwn’s hound from the Otherworld. He raised his head and stared directly at me, as he had in the hunting lodge, eyes glowing red, throat full of growls.

“What’s he doing here?” I cried, clutching my husband’s arm in panic and turning away from the brute.

“He’s well chained, Gwen—can’t possibly hurt you. Giving over Dormarth was part of Maelgwn’s reparation. I’ve always wanted to breed up a strain of black dogs, you know…”

I began to shake uncontrollably, a cold sweat covering my skin. Quite apart from the fact that it seemed a small payment for the grief my cousin had caused, I simply could not face the idea of living with that constant reminder under my roof.

“Please, Arthur—I haven’t asked for many things over the years,” I begged, still shaking. “Please get rid of him. I don’t care how, just make him go away.”

Arthur stared at me, confusion and surprise in both his voice and face. “I had no idea it would upset you so…” From the way his voice trailed off I knew he hoped I’d change my mind, but the very presence of the creature made my stomach turn, and I held firm.

Fortunately Gwyn of Neath, who had indeed built a small Hall of his own on Glastonbury’s Tor, arrived that evening to welcome me home, and Arthur gave the devil-hound to him. The gnarled little man was immensely pleased and promised to breed the dogs for Arthur but not bring them here, so everyone was satisfied.

***

Isolde’s problem was not so easily remedied, however—she continued to lie on her bed without tears or words, as though uncaring about either life or death. While I conferred with the builders about small additions and amendments to the kitchen—including a dovecote like the one at York—I tried to think how to encourage the Cornish Queen to continue her journey. Castle Dore was only a few days away, and I didn’t want Mark to come haul her home when she’d already made the trip this far. Besides, there was no telling how long Lance could keep Tris in the north.

I was debating the matter as I carried out a rack of fresh bread to cool. For a moment I paused to stare down the cobbled roadway, still marveling at the citadel the workers were constructing.

A swarm of people had gathered around a traveler who was making his way up the hill, and as they came nearer I cried out in surprise.

“Lance, what are you doing here?” I couldn’t imagine why he was on foot, and there was no sign of Tristan.

He glanced up at the sound of my voice and I called out again so he could see where I was. As the little crowd opened to let him through, I realized he was wearing the habit and cross of a Christian priest. My heart began to pound, and I shook my head in disbelief. Mouth open, eyes all but popping out of my head, I stood there like a ninny, gaping at the man who limped toward me.

“Your Highness.” His blue eyes twinkled as he made a formal bow. “Allow me.”

He took hold of the rack just as I was turning to put it down, and for a moment we engaged in a little tug-of-war.

“Oh, Kevin, is it really you?” I exclaimed, finally finding my voice as Beaumains rushed to relieve us of the loaves.

“Aye, ’tis me in the flesh, my dear, and more than glad to have found you!”

The people watched in astonishment as we hugged and cried and laughed like moonstruck children until I explained that Kevin was the closest thing I had to a brother, who had been lost and long thought dead.

“But I never believed it,” I rejoiced once we were seated in a quiet spot under the loft that runs around all four sides of the Hall. “You know I made Rhufon send Ailbe after you, don’t you?”

“Ah, so that’s how the wolfhound came to join me.” Kevin smiled. “I did wonder about that.”

“He was moping so badly, we thought he’d die,” I explained, remembering that no one could get the great dog to eat once his master was gone. “But everyone said you’d be eaten by wolves or bears, or worse yet, captured by outlaws and sold as a slave. I was counting on Ailbe to keep you alive.”

Kevin inclined his head, his tone light but his words serious. “Then I owe you my life, for I did come close to starving, and the weather was bitter that year…Without Ailbe for help in hunting and warmth in sleeping, I might well have died.”

There was a pause while I struggled not to blurt out the question that had haunted me for so long: Had you loved me, Kevin? Did you run away because you couldn’t stand to see the emissaries of kings come courting? Or was it only my own childish dream that kept me waiting for you, clinging to the belief that one day you’d return right up to the point when I married Arthur? Now that he’d come back, even belatedly, I needed to know the truth of it.

“Why…why did you leave?”

The priest stared off into space, searching for some inner truth with the same strange intensity I’d seen in Lance. At last he cleared his throat, but he spoke without meeting my gaze.

“Father Bridei would say it’s because I had not yet found my calling. Remember the Pictish priest we met at Loch Milton—the hardy little man with tattoos all over and the love of God in his eyes? It was he who found me lying sick and feverish in the summer house that’s perched on the edge of the waterfall’s chasm. If he hadn’t happened by, I would have perished, but he took me to the monastery at Whithorn, where I grew whole and healthy again.”

Kevin finally met my gaze and smiled. His voice and manner were much as I’d remembered, but I was sure it was no accident that he wasn’t answering my question directly. Maybe it was because he hadn’t felt all those emotions I’d ascribed to him—maybe that had only been a reflection of my own feelings. Maybe, in truth, all we can ever know of loving is our own part in it—all the rest must be taken on faith and trust.

It was an idea that made me distinctly uncomfortable, and my mind veered away from it. “You weren’t Christian back then, were you?”

“Um-huh. Took me a while to admit to His Grace. I hear that Brigit is in a convent now?”

“Aye, up in the Welsh Marches.” It struck me odd that so many of the people I loved were involved with the White Christ: Brigit and Igraine, Vinnie, and now Kevin.

“Good heavens, Lance, when did you get in?” Arthur called, hastening across the Hall, then slowing abruptly when he realized his mistake.

“It’s Kevin, whom I’ve told you so much about,” I explained, and my husband stepped forward with a grin of welcome.

“We’d be pleased to have you stay over,” he announced.

Kevin accepted gladly, and by the time we had all shared the evening meal it felt as natural to have him there as if he had never been lost.

But for all that I was excited to have him returned and Arthur was gracious to him as a host, it was Isolde who truly responded to the priest’s presence.

I told her about his arrival the first evening, and the next morning she asked shyly if he would hear her confession. He spent much of the day with her, and by nightfall she joined us for dinner.

Two days later Isolde left for Castle Dore, after Kevin blessed her and the warriors who would escort her home. I gave the young Queen a hug, and we waved her on her way, hoping that the most harrowing part of her loving—and leaving—Tristan was finally over.