Guenevere, Queen of the Summer Country Read online

  BOOKS BY ROSALIND MILES

  Fiction

  THE GUENEVERE TRILOGY

  Guenevere, Queen of the Summer Country

  The Knight of the Sacred Lake

  Child of the Holy Grail (Summer 2001)

  Return to Eden

  Bitter Legacy

  Prodigal Sins

  I, Elizabeth

  Act of Passion

  Nonfiction

  The Fiction of Sex

  The Problem of Measure for Measure

  Danger! Men at Work

  Modest Proposals

  Women and Power

  The Female Form

  The Women’s History of the World

  The Rites of Man

  The Children We Deserve

  Copyright © 1998 by Rosalind Miles

  Map copyright © 1998 by Rodica Prato

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Published by Three Rivers Press, New York, New York.

  Member of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc.

  www.randomhouse.com

  THREE RIVERS PRESS and the Tugboat design are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Originally published in hardcover by Crown Publishers in 1999.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Miles, Rosalind.

  Guenevere: queen of the summer country: a novel / by Rosalind Miles.

  1. Guenevere, Queen (Legendary character)—Fiction. 2. Arthurian romances—Adaptations. I. Title.

  PR6063.I319G84 1999

  823’.914—dc21 98-27659

  eISBN: 978-0-307-42082-4

  v3.1_r2

  For the One

  Who Walks the World

  Between the Worlds

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  IT BEFELL IN THE DAYS of Uther Pendragon when he was King of all England, that he loved a fair lady by the name of Queen Igraine. But she would not give her assent to the King.

  So for pure anger and great love King Uther fell sick. Then Merlin said to him, “If ye will fulfill my desire, you shall have your desire. And the child you get on Igraine you shall deliver to me.”

  “I will well,” said the King. Then he came with a great host to Cornwall and laid siege and killed Igraine’s husband, Duke Gorlois. And Merlin raised a great mist, in which Duke Gorlois was slain, and afterward he brought Uther to Queen Igraine in the likeness of Gorlois. That night Uther lay with Igraine in her castle at Tintagel, and begat on her the child called Arthur.

  Then he took Queen Igraine as his wife, and willed King Lot of Lothian and the Orkneys to wed the Queen’s daughter Morgause. Her other daughter, Morgan Le Fay, he put to a nunnery, because he would have it so.

  Then the Queen waxed great with child, and when she was delivered, the child was given to Merlin out at a postern gate and placed with a faraway lord to nourish as his own. Within two years King Uther fell sick of a great malady, and his enemies usurped his lands and slew his people to right and to left. And so he died and left the realm in great jeopardy.

  And after many years, Merlin called all the lords and kings and people to London, to show who should be rightwise king of this realm. And so it happened that a good knight called Sir Ector came from his far estate along by Wales, with his son Sir Kay and the young Arthur that was brought up as Kay’s brother, and they came upon a sword set in a stone …

  MORTE D’ARTHUR

  CHAPTER 1

  The old man shivered and leaned forward to warm his hands on his horse’s neck. White fingers of mist were feeling their way down from the mountains ahead, and the short April day was drawing toward night. Already the grass was damp with evening dew, and soon there would be rain. London lay far behind, and they were miles from shelter and food. It would be another wet and hungry night.

  No matter. A white light flickered in his yellow eyes. When they reached their destination, every man would eat his fill.

  “Merlin?”

  He started. “Yes?”

  The young man riding beside him stirred uneasily. His gray eyes were troubled. “When you called all the kings and lords together to proclaim my right—how did you know they would accept me as King?”

  “They were promised a sign.” Merlin stared off into the mist, avoiding his companion’s gaze. “And we gave them one.”

  The younger man ran a hand through his thick, fair hair and gave an embarrassed laugh. “What, the sword in the stone?”

  “What else?”

  If the young man heard the rising irritation in Merlin’s tone, he did not care. His broad shoulders went back as he spoke. “But that was not a true sign from above. You made it happen. You brought it about!”

  “It was the sign they needed.” Merlin turned on him. “And it has made you King!”

  Merlin’s eyes blazed. He could still hear the cheers that had echoed round the churchyard as the crowd roared for Arthur till the heavens rang. So what if the petty kings and jealous lords had slunk off vowing war? The boy had won over the rest of them with his simple honesty and shining faith.

  Sourly he eyed what he secretly doted on, Arthur’s open gaze, his boyish smile and thoughtful air. “King Arthur now!” he snarled. “What more do you want?”

  “Ha!” Arthur laughed ruefully. “A king without a kingdom.”

  “Not so!” The old man angrily tossed his head. “Your lands may lie in the hands of your enemies. But when we reach Caerleon, all the people will rally to your flag.”

  Arthur smiled faintly. “All of them?”

  “All your true subjects!” came the sh
arp reply. “And they will fight for you against those who carved up your kingdom when your father died.”

  When Uther died …

  A shadow of old pain crossed Merlin’s face. Long ago, many lives before this, he could remember the land sliding into anarchy when the Romans left, and the legions marched away. But that was nothing to the darkness that came down when King Uther fell.

  Merlin’s chest heaved, and his breath wheezed in his throat. “The Christians say, ‘Woe to the land where the king is a child.’ The Middle Kingdom has belonged to the House of Pendragon since time out of mind. If your father had lived till you were grown, no man on earth would have dared to usurp your right. We would not have to fight to reclaim your throne. We would not have to take Caerleon by storm to bring you into your own lands again.”

  “The Christians, yes.” Arthur’s thoughts had taken another turn. “Our people here follow the old faith. What are the Christians to us?”

  Merlin’s eyes grew opaque. “They are the coming men. We must have their support.”

  “But the old Gods will never die.” Arthur glanced up in awe at the mossy oaks by the wayside, the black mountains ahead, and the arch of the sky encrusted with the first faint glistening stars. “And—”

  “The Great Mother, who was here before them all?” Merlin cackled harshly. “Never fear, boy! Like all true females, the Goddess has a weakness for young men. If you smile on the Christians, she will forgive you. And a king must be king of all his people, not of one faith alone.”

  A light drizzle was beginning to fall. Arthur looked around at the small column of men following behind. “We must make camp,” he said heavily. “The men have had no proper sleep for days. They are exhausted; we must rest now.”

  He was aware of the old man’s cruel glare.

  “Your enemies will neither rest nor sleep. Every delay allows them to grow strong.”

  Arthur took a breath. “They are strong already, sir. After twenty years, a day or two can make no difference now.”

  Merlin ground his teeth. “Push on, I say! Strike hard and fast, to drive them from the land!” The old man passed a hand over his eyes. “Strike without mercy; smash them to a pulp!”

  His pulse raced. Yes, pulp and bonemeal, food for crows and dogs. And one above all must pay a hundredfold. King Lot of Lothian should feel his wrath like fire.

  Lot of the Lothians, King of the Orkneys, Lord of the Isles.

  Lot the loathsome, Lot the loathed.

  Merlin’s sight faded, and a broad, black-bearded face rose up before him, set on a beefy neck. Now Lot and all of them would eat hot iron and drink their own blood.

  With a sensuous pleasure he pictured himself plunging his swordpoint into Lot’s throat, watching the black eyes bubble till they burst, hearing the last gurgling blood-choked scream. It would be good, so good—

  Arthur’s voice cut across his waking dream. “If the men aren’t fit to fight, we can’t strike at all.” He smiled an apology, but his tone was firm. “Forgive me, Merlin. You shall command everything else, but I must lead the men.” He threw a glance behind. “They have left their lords, their kings, their lands to follow me. I must take care of them.”

  Merlin turned his gaze up to the indifferent stars. His thin frame shook with the effort to master his revenge. “Well, after twenty years, I can wait for King Lot.” His laugh was shrill. “When he drove me out, I swore I would return. He will be there when I come for him.”

  “Where, in Caerleon?”

  Merlin shrugged his thin shoulders. “His vassal kings rule your land for him there. He’ll be in the north, in his own distant realm. Where he lived well enough on the territories he had, till your father’s death left your kingdom undefended, and a prey to greedy rogues like him.” His teeth flashed yellow in the evening light. “But we shall draw him south, I have no fear.”

  Arthur nodded. “And beat him in a fair field, man to man. Only so will I reclaim my kingdom and my lands.”

  Merlin’s eyes gleamed. “And only so will you make yourself High King!”

  Arthur paused. “I know my father made himself High King when all the other kings agreed to follow him. But he fought many wars to give them peace. I only want what I can call my own. If I can bring the Middle Kingdom back to the rule of Pendragon, I shall be content.”

  The veins knotted on the side of Merlin’s head. “Pendragon means High King, ruler of all the Britons!” he ground out. “Don’t fool with your destiny, boy! You are called to fulfill it now!”

  “If it is truly my destiny, it will fulfill itself,” Arthur said quietly.

  Merlin struck his forehead with his hand. “You will be High King! I have proclaimed it in the face of the whole assembly when I declared you King!”

  Arthur gave a loving smile. “Dear lord, if it is to be, then it will be as you say. But now I have to face the task at hand.” He grew serious again. “From what you say, I have harsh wars to wage at home before all those who have claimed a piece of the Middle Kingdom are driven out. Attacking Caerleon can only be the start.” He laughed self-consciously. “And such war work is not all that I must do. A king must have a queen. If I am to be a true lord to all my people, I must have a wife.”

  Merlin’s eyes flared. So the boy’s mind was already turning that way? “One day, yes, of course. But you’re young yet, boy—there’s plenty of time.”

  “Men of my age are married with children.” Arthur’s voice changed. “And I met a lady, a month or two ago—”

  “When you went to the tournament? The girl at the castle?”

  Arthur stared. “You knew about that?” His fair skin colored as if he had been slapped. “How did you know?”

  Merlin met his angry glance indifferently. “I knew.” Of course he knew. It was his business to know. He gave an unpleasant laugh. “And I know that she will be nothing in your life. A fine young man can have any girl.”

  “She was not any girl!” Arthur colored again. “She—” he broke off and looked away.

  Merlin watched him without sympathy. How young he is, he thought.

  Arthur could feel the force of the old man’s sulfurous glare. “She wasn’t just any girl,” he said stubbornly.

  But Merlin did not care. “No girls!” he pronounced with ferocity. “In time we shall find a royal princess for you, virtuous and well bred.”

  “Like Guenevere of the Summer Country?” Arthur leaned forward eagerly.

  Merlin tensed. “Guenevere?”

  “She’s brave and beautiful, they say, and she will be Queen.” Arthur glanced at Merlin. “When we win back the Middle Kingdom, they’ll be our closest neighbors, and we shall need them as friends.” He paused. “We’re passing very near their borders now. Should we turn aside to pay our respects?”

  Not a chance, boy, Merlin told himself. He waved a skinny hand dismissively. “Forget her!” he ordered. “Later on we shall make a treaty with them, to keep our borders safe. But the Princess Guenevere is not for you.”

  The gray eyes fixed on him were curious now. “Why not?”

  Why not, indeed? Merlin hugged his thoughts to himself. He kept his voice light. “She’s spoken for, that’s why. She’s already betrothed; she’s to be married soon. But it’s no loss to you. She’s born to be a trouble to her husband, that one.”

  He looked around casually and pointed between the trees. “You wanted to call a halt and make camp for the men? This looks a good place, here.”

  He reined in his horse and sat for a moment, brooding heavily. “I must leave you for a while. Tomorrow I shall return. We shall meet again by nightfall, in the woods above Caerleon.” He smiled and gathered up the reins. The dying sun lit his hooded eyes. “Wish me well, then, for I have much to do.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Why have I never been like other girls?

  SHE ALWAYS KNEW that she lay in a queen’s arms when her mother told her stories of the Fair Ones who watched out from their hills and hollows for little princesses like
her. And she knew that she rode out beside her mother to greet the people all in white and gold because all the Queens of the Summer Country had done so too. When her nursemaids said, “Hush, do not trouble the Queen,” her mother would smile and say, “Let her come to me. One day she will be Queen.”

  When her father frowned and said, “Guenevere is a grown girl now; she must be married one day soon,” the Queen would laugh and say, “ ‘One day’ is soon enough for her to choose.” And all the tall knights around the Queen’s throne would smile at her and agree.

  Childhood was one long summer in sunlit meadows clad in white and gold, daisies and celandines spangling the grass like stars. At midday the sun blazed down on silent glades and lofty forests, living green cathedrals roofed with fire. Of all the kingdoms of these islands, her mother said, summers were longest here. That was why, when the Old Ones made the world, they called this the Summer Country, the sweet green southwestern kingdom by the sea.

  It was an enchanted childhood in a land of summer sun. And though the autumn winds were blowing that would turn her world to winter, she saw nothing, and felt nothing, until suddenly it was gone.

  Why is it all so very different now?

  “Guenevere, where are you? Hurry, darling, do!”

  She could hear her mother calling as she slowly climbed the stairs. In the wide gallery as she reached the top, the Queen stood in the midst of the crowd surrounded by her knights. Radiant in her light gown and crown of gold, she shone like a flower in the forest among the tall men.

  So many men, so many watching eyes …

  Guenevere moved toward the group of knights, willing herself to avoid their curious gaze. Laughing, the Queen took her hand and drew her toward the rail. “See, they’re all here; which one shall I choose?”

  Below the viewing gallery, a handful of horsemen were already out on the jousting field. Like dolls on their prancing steeds they curvetted about, the spring sun flashing from their armor of shining steel. On the meadowland beyond, the bright pavilions of the contestants dotted the grass like flowers. Between the tents, squires and pages hopped to and fro like crickets as they worked furiously to prepare their knights for the fray.

  In the distance the white towers of Camelot shimmered in the sun. Clad in their holiday best, crowds of the townsfolk were pouring out of the gates and over the meadows toward the jousting field. With a loud peal of trumpets, the heralds were making their rounds. “Move along, there! Clear the field, make way!”