Queen of the Summer Stars (3 page)

“What were they like?” I asked.

Ulfin considered the matter. “Well, it was clear from the beginning that Ambrosius was the one cut out to be king. Thoughtful, almost philosophical, he weighed all aspects of a thing before making a decision. He kept the druid by his side, and after the invasion recognized Merlin as his own son, though born out of wedlock. Between the two of them, they had great plans for Albion.” The old warrior paused, letting the ancient name of Britain hang on the air. “Great plans. And perhaps if Ambrosius had lived longer…or if Uther had kept Merlin for his own counselor, once he became King…but they had a falling out, those two, and Merlin went back to his cave behind Carmarthen.”

“Even before the events at Tintagel?” I prompted, hoping I wasn’t asking him to betray any secrets.

“Oh yes. You must remember that Uther was a different stripe of cat from Ambrosius—taut as a bowstring, with action always at his heel, as though he were goaded by a renegade God. It made him a fine leader in battle, but not a favorite among the courtiers—why, the soldiers voted him into the Kingship before the nobles even knew Ambrosius was dead, and many of Ambrosius’s followers weren’t too happy about it Some thought Merlin should have been made High King, but the Enchanter was more interested in cosmic things. Uther was relieved to get rid of him, and I wasn’t surprised when Merlin left; they were too much like oil and water to work together well.”

The Chamberlain chewed on his bottom lip and shook his head in bemusement.

“After Merlin’s departure I tried to take up some of the slack, for no one else had the courage—or effrontery—to advise the Pendragon. I urged him to use the occasion of the King Making to allay the fears of his courtiers. I particularly reminded him that while he was in the field, leading the men to victory, no one cared where he spread his seed, but now that he was High King and must live with the memories and grudges of his nobles, he should be looking for a wife of his own, not raiding the beds of others.

“Lot of good
that
bit of advice did, after he saw Igraine,” Ulfin commented ruefully.

“We’d all heard of her before she came to Court, of course, for rumor said she was fair enough to tempt the Gods, and faithful to the Duke as well. Uther joked about the old man who claimed her for his wife. Not meaning any disrespect,” the Chamberlain added, making the sign to appease the dead, “but the Pendragon was a randy sort, and likely to say right out what others were thinking quiet to themselves. He hadn’t reckoned on Igraine’s having a mind of her own, however—or that she might not want him.”

We were coming down the long, sloping side of a down, and the checkered sign of the inn ahead gave promise of a warm welcome.

“It was a chancy time for a while, I can tell you,” Ulfin concluded. “And I’m glad to say I was the one who convinced Uther to call on Merlin for help. So it all came well in the end, if not exactly the way anyone expected. But then, you never know how things will go with sorcerers, eh, M’lady?”

By now we’d turned in at the tavern courtyard, and Ulfin had many other things on his mind, so I put aside my curiosity about Arthur’s father and went up to the room the innkeeper gave me, away from the noise and smokiness of the pub.

The innkeeper sent up a tray of food, and I ate the savory stew slowly, trying not to think about Igraine lying ill, with nothing ahead but a cold grave. Afterward I got into my sleeping robe and sat by the brazier for a while, staring into the embers and wondering what had really happened at Tintagel. Arthur didn’t know, Merlin wouldn’t tell, and with Igraine so close to death, it seemed likely the truth would go to the grave with her.

It was late when Ulfin knocked on the door, come to see if I needed anything before we all went to sleep. He took one look at my face and, closing the door behind him, brought me back to the chairs by the fire.

“It will do no good to brood, M’lady—just give you bad dreams and drain you of strength you could give the Queen Mother. Besides,” he added, seating himself across from me, “you mustn’t think that Her Highness’s life was all duty and responsibility. She was full of laughing, lilting ways when she and Uther first ruled the realm. Not, of course, out in public; she was always quiet and regal before her subjects—but when they were in the arms of the family, you might say, she wasn’t reserved at all.”

A fond smile played over Ulfin’s features and he reached up to take a small leather pouch from around his neck.

“Uther’d never met a woman he couldn’t bend to his will, but Igraine was different—she wasn’t the sort to be intimidated. I’ve seen her call his bluff and have him end up laughing about it more than once. And for all that they were an unlikely pair, it was well for both Britain and its leader when she became High Queen. That’s something I’ll always be proud I had a hand in. It was after their wedding that he gave me this…”

The Chamberlain carefully took a golden ring from the little pouch and put it into my hand. “I was thinking that, seeing as how she’ll be buried on Christian ground, not next to her husband, Her Highness might want to have something of his to take to the grave.”

I looked down at a gold band with a bright design of color around its rim. It was much heavier than the little enamel ring of Mama’s that I wore, but the workmanship was very similar.

“Now you just get yourself into bed, M’lady,” Ulfin admonished. “I’ll call for you in the morning…and I don’t want to see your eyes all red from crying, either.”

I thanked the Chamberlain for his concern, and, after he left, sat staring at the ring and thinking of Ulfin’s words. Finally, with a sigh, I blew out the oil lamp and crawled under the fur blankets.

***

I might not have any better understanding of how Uther and Igraine had come together, but I went to sleep that night imagining her as the bright young Duchess whose beauty and spirit had changed the whole of British history.

Igraine’s Tale

She wanted so much to see you—God willing, she’ll waken long enough to know you’re here,” the Abbess whispered, hurrying me along a cloistered walk toward Igraine’s cell.

A handful of nuns knelt in silent prayer outside the door. The Queen Mother’s young companion, Ettard, was with them, and she looked up at me imploringly, as though I had the power to bargain with fate.

The little room smelled of candle wax and sanctity. An older sister, no doubt versed in healing, rose from the stool beside Igraine’s cot. Giving me a respectful nod, she came to my side and indicated that the end was expected any time.

I thanked her and moved slowly to the foot of the bed as the nurse tiptoed out.

Arthur’s mother lay in a deep sleep, her eyes closed, her breathing shallow. Linen sheets covered the narrow pallet, and her hair, once fabled for its gold, now spread over the pillows in a silver cloud. The wasted body barely showed beneath the rough blanket, and she looked more like a child than a powerful monarch. Yet even drawn and pale, Igraine’s features bore the mark of great beauty, and in spite of the dark circles under her eyes, she had a calm and peaceful air. Considering the tumult that had surrounded her life, this serenity in the face of death was all the more touching.

When Igraine had chosen to come live in the convent, she’d left behind all the trappings of her former glory; the cubicle was empty except for the bed and an unpainted wooden chest. A homespun garment hung from a peg by the door, more fitting for a farmer’s wife than a great queen.

The tree beyond the unglazed window was filled with willow warblers. They were Igraine’s favorite birds and their soft calls and silvery trills filled the air, as though already singing her to the Isle of the Blessed. I looked down at her still form and sobbed aloud.

There was a flicker of movement and the dark eyes opened, assessing my presence at the foot of her bed.

“M’lady…oh, M’lady,” I cried, rushing to kneel at her side and pressing her cold hand to my cheek.

“Now, now, child…there’s no need to weep. It’s enough that you got here in time.” She was smiling at me while her fragile fingers tried to wipe away the tears. “Tsch, tsch…I didn’t send for you to watch you mourn. I’m not afraid of dying, and I’ve made my confession already, but there’s still a matter left undone. Are you listening, child?”

“Of course, M’lady,” I gulped. “What can I do?”

“Prop up my pillows, to begin with. I can’t talk lying down, and I want to tell you about Uther, and Tintagel.”

For a moment I thought she had confused me with a priest, but the old twinkle crept into her eyes and she gave a small laugh.

“There’s some things, my dear, which men will never understand—even, or perhaps particularly, men of the cloth. I’ve made my peace as regards my Christian life, and expect to see the heaven they tell of soon enough; but it’s wise to give credit where it’s due, and matters that pertain to the Goddess are best shared with one who follows the Old Ways. Besides,” she added thoughtfully, “it’s a story you’ll do well to remember.”

So I propped her up on the pillows and settled silently on the stool to listen.

“Gorlois was always a good man; honest and true and gentle,” Igraine began. “And I would have done nothing to hurt him, in either word or deed. Perhaps the fear I felt in leaving Tintagel was as much for him as for myself, for while I didn’t understand the Goddess yet, I dreaded Her power.”

The Roads to Winchester were packed with people hurrying to obey Uther’s summons—nobles decked in fur and gold, client kings surrounded by their warriors, even commoners striding along on foot, all come to see what sort of creature this new Pendragon was. Sunlight glinted off rooftop and hill, where new snow turned the landscape black and white, and winter trees stood etched like brooms against the sky. Even the horses’ breath hung in steamy clouds as they passed through the walls at Southgate’s tower.

Igraine’s uneasiness was soon replaced by curiosity, for the shy country Duchess had never seen such a gathering before. She even enjoyed the first evening in the Hall, though the High King himself did not make an appearance.

Waking at dawn the next morning, she wrapped herself in a long, dark cloak and tiptoed out of the Hall to go walk among the birches at the top of the hill, seeking the inner peace such settings always gave her. It was there she found a young falcon, hunkered in the snow, with one wing dragging. Slipping her soft glove over the bird’s head to quiet it, she crouched down to examine the pinion.

Suddenly a pair of boots planted themselves between her and the path back to the Hall—well-made boots of polished leather, with spurs that spoke of both power and cruelty. For one terrifying moment Igraine’s heart leapt into her throat. Then, like a falcon, she raised her proud gaze upward to the man who towered over her.

***

“I had no idea who he was, but as I took in the hawklike features, I knew he was as wild and untamable as the wind at Tintagel,” my mother-in-law said, her voice vibrant with memory.

The man stared down at the beauty at his feet, surprise leaving him speechless. And Igraine stared back, noting every detail of his face. It was only when he raised his hand and she saw the Dragon Ring that she realized he was the High King.

“Do you always tame raptors, M’lady?” he inquired suddenly, without introduction or greeting.

“Not tame, M’lord, merely heal,” she answered, never flinching under his scrutiny. It was a simple response, but it went home to Uther in a way she had not foreseen. He flushed heavily, and turning abruptly, strode away.

Igraine felt the same wave of warmth steal through herself, and bundling up the falcon, hastily returned to the Hall. But all the while she was fixing the bird’s wing, her mind was on the morning’s encounter. Her hands shook and her body ached with confusion and desire.

***

“I was sure something fearful was going to happen,” she murmured, “and that night at the feast I tried every way possible to avoid him.”

But the Pendragon prowled the Hall like a wolf circling sheep. He was edgy and feverish, greeting people too loudly and breaking off conversations in midsentence. Igraine could feel his presence coming closer and closer, and studiously kept from catching his eye, even accidentally. By the time Uther stood in front of her, he burned with fervor and she stared with equal determination at the floor.

Without a word to Gorlois the High King took her hand and lifted it to his lips. She raised her eyes slowly, unwillingly, and blushed when their gazes met. For a moment she tried to pull her hand free, but Uther refused to let her go, and turned to propose a toast instead.

“To the Duchess Igraine of Cornwall. I pay you this singular honor, O Fairest in the Realm, in the hope that you will take kindly to my suit, for rough men such as myself need to be healed by Goddesses like you.”

The courtiers were horrified at his presumption, and Igraine writhed with humiliation and anger, sure that everyone could see the passion that warred between them. But she held her head high and accepted the compliment graciously. It was only later, when they were back in their quarters, that she turned to her husband in tears.

“Of course Uther pays attention to you, my dear,” Gorlois said reasonably. “He has a fine eye for the ladies, and a roving nature to boot, and if I did not know you so well, I might worry that he’d turn your head a bit. Believe me, our new monarch’s interest will shift to some other comely maid before the week is ended, so we’ll just wait it out.”