Queen of the Summer Stars (26 page)

He released my shoulders and getting to his feet, began to pace the room. The grimness had left his face, but neither of us spoke; I couldn’t put my confusion into words, and he seemed to prefer the silence.

Although I was weak and a bit shaky, there had been no hemorrhaging, so when Enid returned with a tray I rose and joined my husband at the table, trying to lessen the distance that was growing between us.

As he finished his soup he began to tell me about the lairds of those bristling mountains to the west; fierce, proud warlords who could see the advantages of being associated with the Pendragon as long as he didn’t threaten their independence.

“Hueil’s is the only faction that won’t meet with us, and if Lance hasn’t won them over by the time I get back, we’ll give up for the winter and come home.”

I nodded, still not knowing what to say to this man who had become a stranger in less than an hour’s time.

“I’d best be returning to the camp,” he allowed, rising and looking down at me. “Just wanted to make sure you were all right.”

I longed to find some shelter in his embrace, to feel the whole of him between me and that cold, sad emptiness, but there was no invitation on his part, so I sat silent, unable to move, and he patted my shoulder.

“Best you get some rest, lass.”

And then he was striding toward the Hall, and I remained where I was, staring bleakly into space.

Perhaps I had never known him at all. Perhaps we never would share the same feelings, the same hopes or dreams or fears or pain. Perhaps, in the final analysis, Britain was the only child we’d ever have. Someday I’d be proud of that, I knew, but right now the thought just left me numb.

***

Slowly, silently, I stood up and made my way back to bed.

The Loathly Lady

Ah, Gwen, she makes a bright day beautiful, and a dark mood bearable.” Gawain sighed as he stared at Ragnell with such open admiration I couldn’t help but smile.

The nomad Queen was moving among her reindeer. Dressed in coarse wool and old pelts, she blended so closely with her animals one could believe she had the art of becoming invisible—only a cluster of brilliant blue kingfisher feathers tucked in her hair gave her away.

Reindeer are fractious as goats and just as unpredictable. They pressed their broad cowlike noses forward when Ragnell scratched them behind the ears but jumped nimbly away if she moved suddenly.

The Gern turned her head to sniff the wind, and Gawain laughed. “You know what she does, first thing in the morning? Crawls out of that pile of skins she calls a bed and starts snuffling like a bear digging under a rotten log. Only she’s digging in the air. Afterward she pops back under the covers and tells me where the snow has fallen, and if the deer are grazing near or far, and what the ‘tall-folk’ are having for breakfast in Stirling. I hear how they make fun of her at Court, but there isn’t one of us who couldn’t learn something from her and her kind.”

I nodded in agreement. This young leader of the Ancient Ones—whom the courtiers called “the loathly lady”—romped through their midst with magnificent indifference. Head high, she was a picture of honest pride in spite of the snickers and grimaces that dogged her heels. It was a quality I admired and began to apply in my own life, for Arthur had returned to Stirling full of plans for the Caledonians, and the subject of children lay dead between us. So, like Ragnell, I held my head high and went on about my duties, hoping neither Arthur nor the world would know how deep the hurt had gone.

Winter came with an abundance of feasts and festivals; the fort was comfortable and the forests full of boar and deer. The men hunted during the day and at night there was singing and gaming and storytelling in the Hall.

Various Caledonian chieftains came to meet with Arthur. They brought food for the table and musicians for the Hall, and the nights rang with the thrum and echo of skirling bagpipes. It was swirling, rampant music that made the blood stir for battle and lifted the head with resolve, until one warrior after another put down the crossed swords and, driven by the wild sounds, leapt and capered between the blades.

Afterward, when the swords were put up, the country dances began. I loved the intricate toe-and-heel patterns that give physical shape to the music, and though Arthur wouldn’t join me, I found a willing partner in Lancelot. We spent many an evening whirling through the Hall as it filled with the lively skip of dancers and the whip of pleated tartans.

The affair between Gawain and Ragnell grew into a tempestuous passion that flared explosively between them. Arthur’s nephew spent more and more time in the shadow of the barrows where the Prydn had their camp, and some at Court began to worry that the Champion would get trapped in their fey ways. It is well known that when mortals are tempted across the threshold of those Hollow Hills, they rarely return.

“My wife thinks the Prince is under a spell and doesn’t see what an ugly scamp that creature is,” a local laird confided. “But I’ll wager she turns into a lovely lass at bedtime; you know how changeable the fairy-folk can be.”

I suspected it was less a question of physical beauty than spiritual affinity that drew Ragnell and Gawain together. Raised in the mannered, painted Court of his mother, the Prince of Orkney seemed to be reveling in the freedom he found with the homely nomad Queen. Like a pair of wolves unwilling to be tamed, their spitfire energy fused in a savage partnership. Nor did it seem that either one cared a whit about what the courtiers might say.

So I was surprised when Gawain brought the Gern to my chambers and asked if I could find a dress for her—he wanted to present her at the Hall and feared the others would ridicule her native clothes.

I stared in dismay at Ragnell. When she stood on tiptoe she came barely up to Gawain’s chest, and since Gawain and I are of an equal height, I was at a loss as to what I had that might fit her. But Enid was quick with a needle, and she added a panel to one of my tunics, turning it into a full-length gown for the Prydn Queen. It was not exactly elegant, but it would serve for her debut at Court.

Remembering her generosity of spirit when I lost the child, I laid out my jewelry for Ragnell to choose from, but she wrinkled her nose in disdain.

Gawain laughed. “I fancy she’d prefer to dazzle them with her own treasure.”

And dazzle she did. There was a gasp of amazement when she and Morgause’s son appeared at the Hall that night, and I had a hard time keeping from grinning as they walked the length of the room to give us a formal greeting. Gawain was defiantly wearing the rough tunic and cape of skins that Prydn men use, and Ragnell had covered herself with gold; gold braided into torques, beaten into bands, strung as beads or sewn to edgings as bangles. No doubt it was fairy treasure from within the Hollow Hills, and it made her glimmer in the fire-glow like a tiny, primitive Goddess.

Gawain had coached her well, and she gave me a mischievous look as she made a full curtsy. I reached out my hand and squeezed her fingers lightly as she rose. For a moment I felt them tremble and knew her poise was more facade than confidence.

Later that evening one of the warlords who had drunk too much became suggestively familiar with the Gern. Ragnell turned on him so rapidly that he had no chance to raise his guard, and her nails left a set of bloody furrows down his face.

Gawain jumped to his feet, dirk drawn and manner challenging. The nomad had more than defended herself, but after the drunken lout backed down, she stepped forward and spat in his face, no doubt thinking that one insult deserved another.

A murmur of disapproval ran through the Hall and Ragnell let out a string of invective, though I couldn’t tell whether it was meant for the boorish warlord or the Court as a whole.

Gawain slung some comment at her, and then suddenly the two of them were at it, yelling and hollering like banshees at Samhain. The Prydn Queen stamped her feet in frustration and sidestepping her lover, advanced upon my chair. In a movement that was half wriggle, half ripping, she tore off the tunic and with the briefest nod, stepped out of the tatters and turned toward the door.

Clad only in her jewelry, she passed by Gawain with the utmost dignity, as though he didn’t exist. He threw out his arm to stop her, and with a flick of her wrist, so quick it could have been that of a thief, she snagged the fur cape he was wearing and, slinging it over one shoulder, marched out of the Hall.

With a yell Gawain disappeared after her, and the Court erupted with laughter. But I sat silent, aching for both of them.

Ragnell never came back, and while Gawain continued to divide his time between the Prydn and the Court, it soon became obvious the redhead was caught between conflicting loyalties. He would sit, gloomy and miserable, with us, clearly longing for the open fields and his love. Yet after several days at their camp, he’d come back to Court, sad and angry, but relieved to be home.

I watched him fret within the trap of his moira, but when I brought the subject up he growled like a hound with a sore paw, so I let it be.

The winter progressed, and for every three lairds who came to meet the High King, two left willing to talk about truces and trade agreements. Scrap by scrap Arthur was stitching together a unified Britain, and he was so filled with his own dream, he didn’t notice his nephew’s plight.

One March morning a Pictish envoy appeared, coming up the Forth in a sturdy dugout. He was a brawny fellow with ornate tattoos on his arms and across his cheeks, and though he stayed only long enough to deliver his message to Arthur, the household was full of gossip about him when I returned from riding.

“The paths and tracks from the Highlands are still frozen, so he sailed along the coast.” Arthur shook his head in admiration. “I swear those Picts are half seals, they’re that at home in the water! Maelchon, the leader at Inverness, has invited us to join him for the Gathering in the Great Glen at midsummer. He sent along a present for you as well—seems they’re full of admiration for the warrior queen who fought the Saxons so bravely at Humberside.”

I laughed; it always amuses me how quickly news of royal activity travels—and how often it is wrong. Next they’d be saying that I had been the hero of that battle instead of Cei.

Arthur let a sleek, slippery necklace of silver flow into my palm. It had the look of slinking water, and I stared at it, fascinated, while he explained it was a token of their highest esteem. I would wear it with pride at Inverness this summer.

As the weather warmed we began to hear that Hueil, son of Caw and brother of that same Gildas who was studying with the monk Illtud, was trying to gather enough men to force us to retreat back beyond the Wall.

So Arthur and the Companions fought a series of skirmishes through the great forest before Hueil’s men scattered across the Trossachs at the end of May. Lance volunteered to stay behind to round them up while we were attending the midsummer rite in Pictland. It was an offer Arthur much appreciated.

The day we were to leave, I climbed to the top of the rampart for a last look at the view I had loved so well and found Gawain leaning morosely against the parapet. He was holding one of Ragnell’s hair ornaments between his fingers and barely acknowledged my greeting.

“Gone!” The Orkney Prince glared out toward the north as though his very anger could stop her. “Gone back to the summer pastures without even a farewell.”

“Are you going after her?” I asked, and immediately regretted it.

“What good would it do?” He sighed heavily and turned to look me full in the face. The misery of his loss was written clear across his countenance, all bravado and bluff gone.

“She was the world to me, Gwen…but Arthur and the Companions are my family.” He swallowed heavily and glanced away. “The very night after my father died in the Great Battle, my mother tried to make me swear I’d take revenge on Arthur…even though I had already surrendered and given him my oath. Being newly widowed, she was distraught—misspoke herself in her grief, no doubt. But she is an ardent woman; beautiful and powerful, and you cross her at your own peril. When I refused her request she cursed me…cursed me and struck my name from the family.”

Morgause’s son wrestled silently with the memory, then shuddered. “That’s when I turned to Arthur and made his Cause my Cause. He’s all the family I can call upon, Gwen, and I could never forsake him.” There was a long pause, followed by a deep sob. “I told Ragnell she needn’t live at Court, that we could meet somewhere in between…”

Gawain turned his back to me and leaned, stiff-armed, against the parapet, elbows locked and head drooping. This was no time to point out that the Gern could no more forsake her people than he could his, so I simply put my hands on his shoulders and tried to massage the tension from the knotted muscles. When he’d relaxed a bit I gave him a fond pat and went back downstairs, leaving him staring moodily at the bright feathers his love had left behind.

The conversation had at least given me some insight into Morgause. I wondered if she still harbored that fierce rage against Arthur, or if, as Gawain said, she had been crazed by grief when she tried to set her son against her brother. Certainly in the years since, she had shown no enmity toward us and had let her sons come to Court as they reached the age to become pages. I hoped that time had dulled her pain and would draw the sting from Arthur’s bitterness as well.