Queen of the Summer Stars by Persia Woolley Page B

time to hang up his shield—older warriors become a liability when their speed drops off.
    “Came out to ask if you’d like to stay over,” the wildman went on. “I’ve a hunting lodge not far away—excellent larder and good enough quarters. Been breeding a line of large horses—good for cavalry—and hoped we could discuss bloodlines over ale and meat.”
    Arthur glanced at the man’s mount. A young gelding, he was big and sound, and tall in the bargain; just the sort we needed.
    “Heard you’re developing a strain of your own,” Gwyn continued, eyeing Arthur’s stallion as well. “I’ve a notion to try for a line of blacks…”
    Whatever doubts Arthur had disappeared, and by the time we sat down to dinner he and Gwyn had gone over all the mares in the barn and determined which ones might be suitable for breeding with the stallion.
    During the meal Gwyn’s bard regaled us with stories of the witch of Wookey Hole, who lived in a nearby cave with a pair of goats.
    “My da saw her once—face all twisted as she stared into a polished crystal ball,” the bard recalled. “Carries the thing at her belt and uses it to make charms.”
    I was wondering if she might have some spell for fertility when Gwyn spoke up, his dark eyes riveted to my face. “People don’t go near her cave, however—there’s terrible groans and screams come from that cavern now and then.”
    I shivered and made the sign against evil and in the firelight caught sight of Lancelot doing the same. He may not have much respect for me, but at least he paid the Gods their due.
    “Tomorrow,” Gwyn announced with a sudden, toothy grin, “I’ll take you through the Gorge. Wonderful place; fairly reeks of the first days of creation.”
    In the morning we took the path that leads down into a canyon between steep limestone walls. The gray-white stone is ridged like giant columns, seamed with balconies and festooned by vines and trees that cling to every ledge. As we followed the dancing stream deeper into the chasm, the hanging gardens towered over us. I had never seen such naked grandeur at close range and joined the rest of the household in marveling at the strangeness of it—even the arrogant Breton seemed impressed.
    Gwyn continued with us to Glastonbury, talking about his plans.
    “Have a notion to build a Hall on top of the Tor.” Both his tone and the cavalier wave of his hand made it sound like child’s play.
    I thought of the great hill that rises abruptly above the marshy lake. Nimue, who is a priestess in her own right, says the Mother Goddess has an invisible shrine on the highest level of the Tor. The idea of erecting a home in that holy space seemed cheeky in the extreme, unless Gwyn was himself related to the Gods in some strange way. I studied him surreptitiously, noting the slight stature and gnarled features. He caught my gaze and gave me a broad, knowing wink before I could look away.
    Lancelot also watched the fellow with a quizzical interest. Having been raised by the Lady, the Breton was no doubt well versed in the ways of the fey.
    Yet when we paused at Glastonbury it was Lancelot who went into the chapel in the vale, stooping slightly to make his way through the low door.
    “Would you care to pay your respects as well?” the hermit who tended it asked me. “It’s sacred to the Mother, you know.”
    It seemed odd for a Christian holy man to dedicate this little thatch-and-wattle church to the Goddess who was already worshiped on the hilltop. “The Mother?” I repeated.
    “Why, Mary, the Mother of Jesu,” came the answer.
    I hastily declined the invitation but wondered why Lancelot would want to visit such a place.
    “Merlin came and went among the Christians, sharing ideas and asking questions,” Arthur reminded me. “Maybe Lance is curious in the same way.”
    “Maybe,” I conceded, thinking it a peculiar trait in a warrior.
    ***
     
    We made a detour to inspect a deserted hill-fort above the tiny town of