And if there was no child?
Suddenly, Guenivere couldn't bear to think of the long, lonely years ahead, so different from what she had planned with cool calculation. She had thought herself independent, needing no one let alone a man to order her about. She had summoned Beren only in a desperate effort to save her lands and the way of life she had known. At least, that is what she had told herself. Now, Guenivere wondered if something else hadn't prompted her decision.
Perhaps, in her grief at her father's passing, she had reached out blindly to the only other person she had ever loved. And he had come, reluctantly at first, but determined to take her to wife in good faith. Yet, instead of embracing this new chance for happiness, Guenivere had turned away, unwilling to risk her heart again.
Or so she had told herself. Lifting a hand to her mouth, Guenivere made a low sound of anguish as she recognized the truth, at last. Despite all her claims to the contrary, her heart was already engaged. It had been since the first time she had seen Beren the boy, and not all the years since or their long separation had diminished her feelings.
"Are you well, lady?" The sound of a voice made her turn in startlement, for so sunk in her gloom had she been that Guenivere had not heard anyone enter the chamber. For one wild moment, she thought to see the subject of her thoughts, Beren, but it was only one of the knights of the keep, eyeing her in question.
Irritated by the intrusion, Guenivere straightened and tried to recover her poise, though she knew her eyes were damp. "What is it, Sir Crispin?" she asked as she recognized the older knight. He had no love of those of ignoble birth who sought to better themselves at his craft, including Beren, and Guenivere wondered if he were celebrating her husband's departure. At the thought, a tear loosed and slipped down her cheek.
"My lady! You are not well," Crispin said, looking alarmed. "Please sit down, I will call one of your handmaidens."
Crispin had good cause to be anxious, Guenivere thought, for ever she had hidden her yearning and her grief from her people, unknowingly distancing herself from them as well. Perhaps it was time to rejoin humanity. "Nay. Do not call the ladies to me, for they can do naught for what ails me. No one can. Have you not heard, Sir Crispin?" Guenivere asked. "My husband has gone away."
Her words seemed to stun him beyond speech. She might have laughed had her heart been less heavy.
"M-my lady, I do not understand. I thought this marriage of yours 'twas simply an alliance born of necessity—and one beneath you, as well," Crispin said, stiffly.
"I forgive your confusion, for I did claim to act for my people, when selfishly, I wanted Beren back and used whatever means necessary to bring him here," Guenivere said. There, she had admitted her hidden purpose aloud, and felt the better for it. Perhaps now she ought to tell Beren himself.
Sir Crispin's look of bewilderment gave way to a fierce expression. "He has dazzled you, lady, with his new title and power, but those are the things he values. He left you behind swiftly enough to increase them!"
Perhaps her plain speaking had encouraged his own, or his feelings for Beren had overcome his judgment, but Guenivere could not understand Crispin's sudden agitation. Nor could she let him continue in his mistaken belief that Beren had abandoned her once more. "And yet, I could have gone with him, as he wished me to," she said.
Sir Crispin appeared even more stunned. "My lady! Your place is here, not off with some upstart urchin who would set you aside for his own advancement."
Guenivere lifted her brows at this open insult of her husband, and more subtly of herself. "You would make my decisions for me now?" she asked.
Crispin looked uncomfortable but determined. "I know only that Berenger Brewere is naught but an orphan of lowly birth, a brewer's brat unfit to kiss the hem of your gown!"
"You forget yourself, Sir Knight!" Guenivere said, coolly. "I will hear no slander against my husband."
Crispin sent her a dark look, his face grim. "A husband who is gone, never to return, for thus have I proven his fealty!"
At Crispin's words Guenivere went cold. She had sensed something was not right in his manner and speech, but had blamed his old rancor against Beren. Now, she remembered the strangeness of the summons that Beren received, including her suspicion that the message was not real. And she wondered whether Crispin had been the one to manufacture it.
"And just how did you prove Beren's lack? Did you have something to do with the urgent call back to his lands?" Guenivere asked.
Crispin's face grew ruddy, but he did not demure. "I will not lie to you. lady. I had another feign the message that called him away. But I did it for you, lest you think he has changed, far he has not."
"You appear privy to much of my husband's mind. You know him well then?" Guenivere asked, her tone venomous. Here was a bitter discovery indeed, for she and Beren had enough difficulties, without suffering the malicious interference of another.
"I know him, yes, for what he is, a nameless riffraff who sought always to take the place of his betters!"
"And think you I care for your opinion?" Guenivere asked.
Crispin flushed, but made no apology. "Who else would save you from yourself? Berate me if you will, but I could not stand to see you debase yourself again for that whoreson, who so easily forgot you and the lord who raised him up! Your father would—"
Guenivere stopped his speech with her own. "He would have summoned Beren back long ago, had I allowed him, but I let my foolish pride stand in the way of happiness. And now I am suffering for the sake of your ill-placed vanity, as well, when I should not."
"But—"
Guenivere cut him off with an imperious wave of her hand. "Bid a train be readied for me, so I might go to my husband and beg his forgiveness for my behavior and your own!"
Crispin looked as though he would keel over from apoplexy, but Guenivere tendered him no sympathy. Perhaps, she and Beren could have worked out their problems had they been given more time to do so, time they would have had, if this knight had not taken it upon himself to challenge their fate. Now, she could only try to make amends for even more mistakes. For, if Beren returned to his lands only to find the message was false, he would lay the blame at her feet.
"Surely, you cannot mean to leave at this hour?" Crispin asked. "Perhaps, I acted out of hand, but do not endanger yourself, my lady, I beg you." Now, at least, the old knight seemed sincere, and Guenivere stole a glance out the window where the sun was sinking low, making travel unwise.
"Tomorrow then," she said, although she despised the delay. "But send out a messenger at once to tell Sir Brewere of my coming. Unless you cannot be trusted to do my bidding?" Guenivere asked the question coldly, letting the old knight see her displeasure. He deserved far worse for his treachery, but she would leave his fate up to Sir Berenger Brewere, Lord of Brandeth.
"By your command, my lady," Crispin said, bowing low, though stiffly.
"For now," Guenivere said.
It was late by the time Beren reached Brandeth. He had to rouse a sleepy guard at the gate, who sent them through with both surprise and welcome. Would that he would receive the same, or better, from his lady, Beren thought. But whatever Guenivere's greeting, he was not leaving until all was settled between them, one way or another, and all that needed to be spoken was said, he decided grimly.
Assuming that her door was barred for the night, as well it should be, Beren again walked through the bailey to look up at her window. He had no intention of entreating her through a wooden barrier, so once more, he climbed the stone face, familiar now, and by the time he reached the opening, he was flush with the exhilaration of his ascent. Lifting himself up and over, he dropped to the floor inside her chamber.
This time, she was not expecting him, so she was abed. The memories of the night they had spent there washed over Beren, firing his blood and firming his resolve. Without hesitation, he pulled back the curtains and beheld her lying there, and her name escaped his lips like a prayer.
Although
he had practiced his speech all during the ride back to Brandeth, the simple sight of Guenivere robbed Beren of his breath. He stood there, silent and staring, as she opened her eyes. For a long moment, they gazed upon one another. Finally, Beren forced his lips to move, but before he could utter a word, his wife flew into his arms.
Automatically, he drew her close, so startled by this unexpected response that he nearly wept against the silk of her hair. It seemed to Beren that the warmth of her greeting drove away a chill that had been lying on his heart for years beyond count.
"Beren! How came you here? Did you get my message?" she asked, raising her head to look into his face.
Beren shook his head. "Nay, I received no summons, except that of my own desire." He lifted his hands to her shoulders, holding her there as he watched her, willing her to see that he spoke the truth.
"I can't let you go, not after living my dream—if only for a night," Beren admitted. "You are all I ever hoped for, Guenivere, all I ever wanted, the sole reason for my striving and for any success I have had. And if you will accept me as your husband, now and always, I will stay here with you and give up my own lands, if I must, for they are nothing without you. My home is wherever you are."
Guenivere lifted her head to speak, but Beren went on, before he lost his courage. "I'm not good at saying things, else I would have told you all this before. In truth, though I have loved you since our first meeting as children, I was afraid to return for you, for fear that you would refuse me, that my ignoble blood made me unworthy."
Beren paused to take a deep breath, before eyeing her directly. "No matter how much you might wish it, I am not Parzival."
"Oh, Beren," Guenivere whispered. "I always accepted you as you are. 'Twas you who would not. 'Twas you who valued knighthood and money and lands, not I. And though I admit to a young girl's fascination with the romances, I did not want to marry any of those heroes. Nor did I seek to make you into one. I only wished you to see that you could do anything with your life that you wished, and you did, succeeding beyond imagining!"
Smiling tenderly, Guenivere lifted her hands to cup his face, as if to make him listen to her, as well. "Forgive me for letting you go away, but I was afraid, too, of risking my heart. 'Twas not until you left that I realized I had never stopped loving you. But then and now, I wanted only you, the real you, the boy I knew and the man he became, not some fanciful hero."
Beren felt as if the weight of the world had slipped from his shoulders, leaving him no longer bound to the earth—like a man who has climbed the highest heights. He nearly threw back his head and laughed with the pure pleasure of this triumph, greater than all others.
" 'Tis glad I am to hear you say so, for I am no hero at all, real or imagined. Although I tried to emulate your ideal, I have fallen sadly short, I am afraid. I never found the Grail or a lost father or even a royal uncle," Beren said, with a crooked smile.
"But I discovered one thing," he added, taking her hands in his. "That all the adventures and achievements in the world are worth little without love. Those long years without you were but half living, and I am thankful to have made my way home at last."
Guenivere kissed him then, a sweet, gentle communion that promised far more. "Despite all your protestations to the contrary, you would have done Parzival proud," she said. "Indeed, there is only one thing missing from this happy ending, my lord."
"What is that?" Beren asked, a bit warily.
"We have no twin sons to awaken and welcome you home," she said, referring once more to her favorite story. But Beren did not mind the comparison, for his heart was too full. He grinned.
"We'll work on that," he promised.
And so they did.
The
Siege
Glynnis Campbell
For
Ma and Pa Campbell
who always manage
to find a candle in the dark
one
"Hurry, my lady! This way!"
"God's blood!" Hilaire's feet slipped on the slimy steps as she scrambled down the dark, dank passageway, following the hobbling firebrand her maidservant held aloft.
Even here, deep beneath the keep, she heard the ominous pounding of the battering ram shuddering the wooden gates and ancient stone walls of the castle. Hastily, she made the sign of the cross. What she attempted was perilous, but what would become of her if she remained behind was far more terrifying. This way, God willing, if she didn't trip and break her neck along the way, she'd slip out of the tunnel on the other side of the curtain wall and be halfway through the forest by the time the enemy splintered the door to the inner bailey.
"Please, my lady!" entreated Martha, the servant. "Will you not leave the cursed thing behind? In another moment…"
The thudding ceased abruptly, heralding the devastation of the outermost gates of the barbican, the first line of defense, and elicited a fretful squeak from the maid. But Hilaire only clutched her small harp closer. She'd be damned if she'd leave the precious instrument behind. After all, she was abandoning everything else—her father, her home, her pet falcon.
"Just go," she said tightly, shivering in the chill air and prodding the maid forward.
Ahead the passage narrowed and the stone steps ran out, becoming less a corridor and more a burrow. Hilaire's pulse raced, and her legs threatened mutiny. She hated the dark, and close spaces in particular. Even the prospect of the garderobe's confines at night made her heart flutter so that she'd oft languish in misery till morning. This place, it smelled of mildew and decay, like a grave. She dared not imagine the rats and beetles and worms slithering in the clammy chinks of moldering rock.
Swallowing hard to dislodge the lump of terror in her throat, she forced one foot in front of the other.
In all her seventeen years, no one had had need to make use of the secret passageway excavated more than a century past by her ancestors, who'd lived in times of even more ubiquitous wars.
Even now, the attack raging above them wasn't a true battle. It had started as a negotiation—a simple demand met with a blunt refusal. But their enemy had not accepted that refusal. He'd lost his patience, and now what began as a siege had become an assault severe enough to warrant drastic counter-measures.
"Hist!" Hilaire held up a hand, halting Martha. "Did you hear that?"
The torchlight flickered across the servant's pinched features as she strained her ears. "What, my lady?"
Hilaire's brow creased in worry. She thought she'd heard… But perhaps it was only her bones creaking with cold or her knees rattling with fright. " 'Tis naught. Go on."
The tunnel angled sharply downward as it passed underneath the curtain wall, and Hilaire shuddered. Creeping down the incline was like descending into a cold hell.
"Mind the…" Martha warned, too late.
Hilaire's toe caught on a tree root. She stumbled and fell hard, landing on both knees in the soil. Her harp struck a discordant twang as she caught herself on one hand, biting her lip as tears filled her eyes.
"Oh, my lady! Are you hurt?"
"Nay," she snapped, and she wasn't, not truly. Her nubby woolen skirts had taken the brunt of the fall, and her palm was only bruised. But all at once, the weight of her circumstances and the depth of her dread hit her like a hard slap across the face. Here she knelt like a frightened wretch in the cold, dank mud, with naught but her harp, the peasant clothes on her back, and a frightened servant, running away from home and a future she couldn't bear to face. How had she come to such a coil?
'Twas her father's fault, she thought sulkily, wiping away a rogue tear. He should have betrothed her to someone sooner, ere the King had the chance to arrange her marriage. She would have wed anyone her father named—bandy-legged Lord Iwain, somber Sir Robert, even Lord Leonis, who stuttered and walked with a limp—anyone but the monster the King had chosen for her.
People spoke of The Black Gryphon in whispers, for fear that uttering his name might call his curse upon them. His countenanc
e was dark with the shadow of damnation, they claimed, hair as black as char, eyes as deep as a chasm. He never smiled, seldom spoke, and when he did, it was in a low growl more akin to an animal than a man.
Once the pennant of the Gryphon had flown proud, its master imbued with the noble qualities of that creature, the lion's strength and the eagle's courage. Once he'd been a warrior of great renown. But that was long ago. Now he need only pierce a man's eyes with his devil's gaze to send him cowering to his knees. And so men said the Gryphon had become the most horrible of beasts, for he was as ferocious as the lion and as ruthless as the eagle.
Still, naught was as terrible as the curse he lay upon women. To them he brought death. Three wives he'd already lain in the grave, one beside her young daughter, one with a babe still in her belly. Three wives, and not one had borne him a son upon whom to bestow his title.
A woman would have to be mad to wed him.
And, by blessed Mary, Hilaire was not mad.
Wiping her sniffles with the back of her hand, she struggled to her feet with Martha's assistance, and set out with renewed determination.
They'd come almost to the lowest point in the passageway, where the curtain wall was anchored and where, thankfully, the tunnel once more ascended, when she heard it again, the sinister creaking of mortar and stone.
"Let me," she said, taking the firebrand in her free hand and squeezing past the servant to investigate.
The sound came from directly above her now. She turned back for an instant to see if Martha could hear it as well.
Then, with an unholy crack, the sky fell.
Ryance wiped his damp brow with the back of his sleeve and stabbed at the earth again with his spade, deepening the tunnel. He wondered for the hundredth time if he was doing the right thing. A bloody siege, for God's sake!