Queen of None

  QUEEN OF NONE

  by Natania Barron

  Queen of None

  Copyright 2020 by Natania Barron

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or any electronic or mechanical means, including information and retrieval storage systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover art, design, and watermarks © 2020 by Sean Leddy

  Available as a trade paperback, hardcover, and eBook from Vernacular Books.

  ISBN (TPB): 978-1-952283-05-5 (eBook) 978-1-952283-06-2

  Visit us online at VernacularBooks.com

  For Dorothy

  who first followed Anna into the shadows.

  Foreword:

  The seeds of Queen of None were planted in the spring of 2000, when I attended the University of Massachusetts - Amherst, and took my first official class in medieval literature. The instructor, Dr. Charlotte Spivack, had taught alongside my grandfather when he was part of the same English department. Her syllabus read like a dream for me: a full immersion from the oldest historical references up through modern interpretations of Arthur.

  There, I met, and fell for, a knight named Gawain and, by extension, his family. I recall hovering over my copy of Le Morte D'Arthur on the bus during my commute, feeling as if I'd discovered a new world. Until that year, I'd only had a passing understanding of Arthur in English mythology and literature from books and movies of my childhood, but by the end of that semester—still living at home to help my mother endure the pains of chemotherapy—I knew my life would never quite be the same.

  When it came time for graduate school, I knew Arthuriana would be my focus. And there, in another course, I gained a better understanding of the historical contexts; or, rather, the lack thereof. Arthur himself, the fulcrum around which the entire canon rises and falls, has much historical context but no concrete proof. He, and his court, are both incredibly detailed and familiar and also mercurial, shifting, and adaptable. The standbys we know now, of the Table Round and Lancelot du Lac, are much later French additions. Arthur's myth was honed over almost a millennium, and it's still being forged.

  In 2009, my younger sister was diagnosed with cancer. And, like a mirror to the past, I was again drawn to the story of Arthur and Camelot. I needed to cope with her illness, and I needed to find my voice again: I had decided not to pursue my PhD and, instead focus on raising my son and freelancing. The first draft of Anna's story came in that cold spring and winter, hectic and sparse. And as the years passed, I was drawn again and again to the story to edit, to expand, to add, to detract. Now, over ten years later, the result is this novel.

  I wrote it, on purpose, out of history. It is intended to be a kind of mirror-version of the Arthur of England familiar in T.H. White and Mary Stewart. You'll notice unusual spellings of names, places, and twists on common tales. It's all very intentional. I pulled both from very old concepts and very recent concepts, and looked to create something new. In a way, like the Victorians, I wanted to pull Arthur out of a strict time and add a gauzy, mysterious window into the world not often seen.

  More than anything, the story is about the women—so many women in the tales—who are often relegated to plot points, pawns in marriage, gifts in battle, and vessels for future kings. Anna Pendragon appears almost a thousand years ago in Geoffrey of Monmouth, and then is absorbed into the myths of her more famous sisters. I sought to reconcile that, and to play upon her disappearance in her own prophecy, to unexpectedly give a voice to the women who came before and after her.

  Then [Uther] returned to the town of Tintagel, which he took, and in it, what he impatiently wished for, Igerna herself. After this they continued to live together with much affection for each other, and had a son and daughter, whose names were Arthur and Anne.

  —Geoffrey of Monmouth, History of the Kings of Britain, 1136

  “The gods only go with you if you put yourself in their path. And that takes courage.”

  ―Mary Stewart, The Crystal Cave

  “And so there grew great tracts of wilderness,

  Wherein the beast was ever more and more,

  But man was less and less, till Arthur came.”

  —Sir Alfred, Lord Tennyson, The Idylls of the King

  Chapter One:

  The Beginning of the Great End

  I often picture the scene of my birth: the dark room, the pulled drapes, the stench of incense and blood. I see my father, Uther, scarred and haggard, limping across the floor, then gazing at me for a fraction of a heartbeat. He nods his acknowledgement then leaves, letting the midwives whisper in his wake.

  I see my mother, Igraine, well past the flower of her youth, pale and weary. She turns her face away from me, closing her eyes with relief, knowing I could have no claim to this bloody throne. Just another daughter like all the rest. Another girl to add to the litany: Elaine, Morgen, Margawse, and now Anna.

  In my mind I watch as my brother, golden Arthur, is ushered in to examine the wrinkly squalling child, his wide eyes transfixed and perhaps a little frightened, unsure what to make of the new presence making so much noise in his mother’s room. He leans forward, trying to get a better look at the strange, shrieking creature. “This is your sister, Arthur,” my mother says. And then he buries his head in his hands and cries. I am so ugly and small and useless, and he was hoping for a playmate. Forever his disappointment.

  And lastly, and perhaps most clearly of all, I see Merlin taking me into his arms. He wasn’t there before, but then, there he is, as if emerging from the walls themselves like a ghast. He leans over me, brushing his thumb over my forehead — still sticky with blood and caul — and speaks in a voice like the roaring of the sea: “Anna Briallen Carys Pendragon. Through all the ages, and in the hearts of men, you will be forgotten.”

  My prophecy. My burden. My curse.

  * * *

  This tale, not of slaying beasts and saving helpless maidens but of shaping fate, begins shortly after the death of my first husband, Lot of Orkney. I had been away from Carelon for twenty years, having been married off at twelve, and bore my first son, Gawain, shortly after. Lot, though decidedly dead when this particular chapter of my life began, undoubtedly drained me of my worth. He leveraged Arthur’s gift of our marriage and used his political power to strengthen his lands, make strategic alliances with local lords, and emerged with a house richer for it in value and in reputation. While Lot’s influence grew, he kept me in the north wing of his old fortress with none but my servants, my books, and the ghasts. And once the boys were born, Lot only paraded me bout for occasions, to display Arthur’s only full-blooded sister, tamed and fettered to Orkney. When he was angry, he would beat me and let me linger on the bruises. He did not love me, and he did not expect me to love him.

  “There are no princesses in Orkney,” he would tell me as I lay, voiceless and motionless, to his violence. “Your blood is this land’s blood now.”

  When I returned to Carelon as a woman grown — a widow and a mother of three boys, I was weary from the month-long journey, but not broken. As we traveled the rolling hills and wheat-rich fields and away from Orkney, I thought only of seeing my son Gawain again, whom I had not seen in five years. Not even at his father’s funeral. They were steely, my boys, in ways many of the other knights at court were not. Perhaps I can thank Lot for that. My children grew hard in hard places, and it did them well in the years to come. For of course this is not a happy tale. It does not end with triumph and glory, the right of things champion over the darkness: but it is memorable. It is Arthur’s story, and even if you do not know my place in it, the tale remains.

  I had seen the
twins off at the barge in Striveling weeks before, as I rode toward Carelon: Gaheris trying to hide the tears that were both over departing from me and knowing his father was truly gone, and Gareth staunch and staid as any twelve-year-old boy can be. They were now in the care of Luwddoc, Lot’s younger brother, and I hoped his similarity to Lot was comforting for the boys. I only hoped that Luw’s habit of bedding any woman within ten miles would not rub off on the boys. Luw was kinder than his brother, Lot, and I trusted him to bring up his nephews in ways I could not.

  Yet I had another son. My eldest. There is so little in Lot of Orkney I ever found to be of worth. From his gluttonous vices and deadly temper to his insufferable singing voice, from the bunions on his feet to the reek of his breath, everything about the man repulsed me. And yet, though conceived in grief, Lot granted me an unexpected boon: Gwalchmai, my little Gawain.

  Not so little, I reminded myself. Not anymore. But he was a babe, once, and I cradled him to my breast, watched his perfect pink lips suckle greedily, and felt a joy which has since eluded me altogether. I hated Lot as I have hated anyone, but had it not been for him, I would never have borne Gawain, would never have loved as I loved him.

  We crossed over the magnificent stone bridge to the north of the castle I recalled dangling my legs off of when I was a child, the rough stones ringing against our horse’s hooves. I half-expected to see young Elaine, my eldest and once dearest sister, in her cloak carrying a basket of a variant of flower that only bloomed in the rain, hair plastered to her face, and smiling serenely.

  I had not heard from Elaine in quite some time. Like me, she was married young in a marriage of state, given as a spoil of war, not valued for cunning mind and nurturing soul. Our last parting, bitter and brief, still lingered in my thoughts. I did wish her health and joy in my heart, even if it was hard for me to accept those things for myself. We did not often write one another, content in our separate spheres: I in the frigid North, and she in the South of Gaul.

  The trees along the road to Carelon arced over us, but thinned, trimmed, and twisted into shapes more befitting of a royal garden than a natural forest. Such was the way of the world and man’s unending desire to bend nature to his will. Gone was the wildness I remembered with such fondness; the thickets and brambles I had gamboled through as a child were no longer. I always pictured Carelon as a jewel in the center of a great, rugged wilderness, but now it was tamed to reflect Arthur’s unending quest for rule and order. It did not surprise me. I knew the little boy arranging his soldiers in neat lines by the roaring hearth, though he stood taller now and wore a heavy crown.

  It was late spring, the leaves clustered on the edges of the branches, ready to unfurl, but still cold enough to chill me down to my underpinnings. I needed some hot liquor and a fire. I felt a rattling in my chest, and a growing cough I suspected came from the long miles and terrible weather during our journey.

  It was perhaps that moment, entering the outer gates of Carelon, coughing into my scarves, I at last accepted the truth: I was no longer a queen. Once, I entertained dreams of courtly love, elegance, and ruling wisely. Ten years as Lot’s captive burned away those visions, naught left but ashes. Queenship, I decided, would never be my fate.

  Though my relationship with Arthur was fraught on a thousand counts, I agreed, as our father before us, in the vision of a unified Braetan. A Braetan of peace. Fewer crowns means fewer conflicts, and in that a hope that Braetan could be whole—just as Avillion had been for the last three thousand years. One King, one Rule.

  As Queen of Orkney, upon my husband’s death, I was granted the most significant choice of my life: I could pass Lot’s crown to my sons, or to my brother. Lot desired no part in unification. The few times I attempted discussion on the matter he silenced me swiftly with his fists. Instead of immediate retribution, I waited patiently. As the years went on—as lichen crept up my walls and ice filled my veins—Lot finally breathed his last. And when he gasped that final, desperate plea, naked and alone before the gods, I vowed my defiance.

  So, I carried the dead King of Orkney’s crown, tied around my waist in a silk and ermine lined satchel, like a weight dragging me to the bottom of a lake. Drowning in the rain, in memories, and in regret.

  Certainly, I was melancholy, but who could blame me? Perhaps I expected Carelon to remain unchanged, for my familiar friends and family—Arthur, Cai, Bedevere, Elaine, Margawse, and even Morgen—to be waiting for me, preserved as if in amberglass in my absence. It was a childish, naïve wish. But it was the wish of a child who was been forced to grow up far too fast, of a girl who lived in shadows so long that even a ray of sunshine through thick colored glass felt like the sun.

  I had just begun to nod off again, when I heard Culver, my chief servant, at the head of my entourage, barking an order to stop. I squinted ahead and saw the red and gold banners of Arthur, and under them, two riders approaching at an impressive pace. I shivered, noticing for the first time the spires of Carelon in the distance, though misty and gray in the rain.

  The riders drew closer, and after exchanged welcome and laughter—laughs I recognized but could not place immediately—the shorter rider removed her hood, and I saw it was Morgen, my half-sister. Her red lips stood out brilliantly, like a gash across her pale face, and her soot black hair fell in straight braids on either side. Morgen’s face bore the same ethereal beauty, untouched since our last meeting, save the lines at the corner of her mouth and subtle hollow of her cheeks.

  Morgen was ever Merlin’s protected child, and it was no surprise to me the old conjuror was the other rider. I should have seen it in his gait. He turned to look at me, new streaks of white in his brown beard. His eyes were the same intense black I recalled, the lines in his face deepened and hardened but not changing the breathtaking strangeness of his face: his forehead was a twisting gyre serpentine of tattoos, his black brows bushy and unkempt, his small nose flanked by high cheekbones deeply scored with skeletal precision.

  “Why, Anna, you have returned,” said Morgen, upon seeing me. Her berry-green eyes bright in contrast against the drab that cloaked the world. “It is so good to see you, sister.”

  She was as sincere as she could be, yet I knew the words were out of courtesy rather than true compassion or feeling. My half-sister’s cold affections for me were no secret. Still, I would have settled for a quiet neutrality, but the daughters of Gorlois never had seen me as an equal.

  “The Queen of Orkney returns at long last,” said Merlin, his voice carrying over the rain, and I shivered. I heard the words of my prophecy when he met my eyes, as fresh in my mind as new ink on parchment: Through all the ages, and in the hearts of men, you will be forgotten. “I trust the journey was not too difficult, though it was undoubtedly trying. You wear the distance on your face.”

  I gave the best imitation of a smile I could but felt a twinge in my lung and coughed rather unseemly into the crook of my arm.

  “You’re soaked through," said Morgen, bringing her horse up beside me, reaching up to touch my face. Her fingertips were like fire on my skin. “And you’re burning up. How long have you been out in the open? You should be in the caravan, sister. You’re not a servant.”

  “It is stifling in the caravan,” I said, but it was not the only reason I opted for the saddle rather than cover. Anette, one of my woman servants, was recently with child, and I did not want her in such inclement conditions. So, the previous day I gave up my seat for her, and insisted the medic, Jain, stay with her; it was a small covered caravan, and certainly too cramped for three.

  Instead of elaborating, however, I continued, “I am surprised to see such a greeting. I did not know if my herald arrived in time to—”

  Even before I finished speaking, I saw Culver wink at me out of the corner of my eye, grimacing. I fell silent, knowing I had made an error.

  Culver cleared his throat and turned the attention from Morgen’s embarrassed face as he said, “Merlin and her Ladyship are on
their way to greet King Pellas and his entourage—they are arriving for Lugh’s Tournament, it is a happy accident we’ve come upon one another for such a fortuitous reunion.”

  “Of course,” I managed, glad for the fever to cover the blush creeping into my cheeks. “You will forgive me, I have been away from court so long, and we have been preoccupied with the arrangements since Lot’s passing.”

  Merlin narrowed his eyes, piercing, sifting through my words. Calculating. I could have done without seeing him for weeks. And here I was, not yet within sight of the castle, and the old bard was already trying to break me apart. “Yes, may his soul pass through the final door in peace,” said the sorcerer.

  “Yes, we wish him a swift arrival to the far shore,” Morgen said, a little hurriedly. “You know, sister, Arthur will be so pleased to see you. Though you’ve arrived a bit earlier than we were expecting. I’m not sure Gweyn has brought everything up to her standards at the moment, what with the tournament just around the corner.”

  Lot had barely cooled in the crypt, it was true. But I could not wait another day in that moldering prison of a fortress.

  “The winds were in our favor, it seems,” I replied. Then to Culver: “We shall make do, shan’t we, Culver? We can always help the Queen. It isn’t as if we are unfamiliar with keeping a castle.”

  “Of course, your Highness,” replied the coachman.

  “Her Ladyship will suffice, you recall,” I said to him, and he nodded a little reluctantly. He was intentionally asserting my former title in order to remind Morgen and Merlin of whom they were dealing with, and I admired him for the pluck. They would never assume such a man as Culver, a man more at home among dung-strewn stables than at court, would ever be as capable as them. It is one of the reasons I brought him with me to Carelon.