The entire Kingdom of Britain grieved with Arthur, all except Elaine. Elaine alone was serene, at peace again. He was free once more, and she was biding her time. She tired me with her fantasies and her ambition, or perhaps it was the long, dreary winter days and nights within the castle that tired me. When the midwinter thaw finally came, I spent all the daylight hours out riding. It felt so wonderful to be free again! I pitied the High King, if he could not find joy in the freedom of a horse.
One clear, bright January morning I rose early, slipped into my doeskin leggings and a warm cloak, and took Zephyr down to the shore. Her favorite run was along the beach, and afterward she was relaxed and ready for practice jumping fences. Her prowess amazed me; she could fly over any obstacle I put before her with plenty of room to spare, and she seemed to love it. She was eager that morning, tossing her head and snatching playfully at the bit, urging me to hurry. But she came back to my hand the instant I asked her and obediently walked down the track to the sea. It was a fine morning, cold and clear, the last traces of dawn painted pink streaks on the gray sea. I caressed the mare, who trembled in anticipation, and, hooking a fist in her mane, gave her her head. She shot forward, and the shore sped past in a blur. I loosened my hair with my free hand and let it whip in the wind. I felt free of everything then—the Kingdom with its constant wars, Wales with its jealous lords, and castle routine with daily lessons and strictures—all were left behind me at that moment. I was as free as the seabirds, and as wild. The future lay before me, unknown and therefore bright and beckoning. As icy air filled my lungs, I shouted aloud with joy. Zephyr responded by quickening her thundering pace, and we flew up the beach, only slowing when The Fangs came into view. As we turned and trotted back, I hugged the mare in exhilaration.
“Oh, my proud beauty, what happiness you bring me! I shall never part with you, my Zephyr. We shall always ride together!”
She nodded her head exactly as if she understood, and we cantered slowly back the way we had come. I headed her toward a track that left the beach toward the jumping field, when suddenly she started, shying violently, and almost threw me. I grabbed her mane, and only just kept her from whirling and bolting. She was shaking like a leaf in an autumn storm, and though I sang and spoke to her, she did not settle.
The beach was deserted, the sea quiet. I saw no movement anywhere. But the mare was frantic and would not advance. I slid off her back and held her head close to my body. When I wrapped her nostrils in my cloak, she calmed a little, and I knew then it was something she had smelled. The light land breeze still blew at that hour, so I looked inland, up the track, searching the sparse gorse bushes that grew in the sand, toward the line of bare hardwoods that marked the edge of the woods. And I saw something. Underneath our own footprints the sand had been disturbed. It looked like something heavy had been dragged up the track, and something small and white fluttered ahead under the bushes, just short of the trees.
“Come on, my sweet, let’s find out what it is.” Frightened as she was, the filly followed me up the track, but as we neared the trees she snorted once and screamed. A low moan answered from the bushes, and to my amazement, the filly blew once and was quiet. The mystery was solved for her: it was human, and therefore a friend. I tied her to a sapling and left her standing peacefully while I went to see who lay half concealed and moaning in the sand.
He was a stranger. There was dark blood caked in his bright hair, and his left leg was bent at an unnatural angle. His tunic was torn, but the cloth was fine. I saw no cloak anywhere. His face was blue with cold and pain, and his eyes were closed. I drew off my cloak and covered him. He shivered violently. I laid a hand to his forehead. He was very cold. The light touch seemed to revive him, for his eyes fluttered open and he looked right at me. His eyes were a brilliant green in color, with honey-colored flecks around their dark centers; I found it impossible to look away as he stared at me.
“Forgive me my sins,” he mumbled, and then he sank into senselessness.
I ran to the filly, beginning to shiver myself, and jumped on her back. His speech had been in Latin, but his accent was foreign. I was sure he was not Welsh, perhaps not even British. He lay on the sand by the Irish Sea. My heart pounded in time with the filly’s galloping strides as we raced back to the castle. Was he one of the Irish devils all good Welsh children had been taught to fear?
I roused the castle with the news, and King Pellinore sent troops with a litter down to fetch the stranger, but he would not let me show them the way. He ordered the grooms to care for Zephyr, and he roused Leonora, who took one look at me and threw me into a hot bath. Queen Alyse scolded me for parting with my cloak and made me go back to bed with hot bricks at my feet. I was furious with frustration, for I felt perfectly fine, only cold, and I wanted news of the stranger.
Thank goodness Elaine was adept at eavesdropping, for she tripped in and out of my room all day with whatever news she picked up. When they found the stranger he was delirious and half dead with cold. He was not expected to live, so they did not put him in the dungeon, but in a guest chamber near the guard tower. They bathed him and placed hot bricks wrapped in herb-soaked towels around his body. King Pellinore’s physician set his leg and bandaged his head, and Father Martin gave him the last rites, for it was clear he was a Christian. In his delirium he called upon the Christian God and his angels to save him. But most of the time he rambled in a tongue no one could understand.
By nightfall he was hot with fever and still delirious. An Irish kitchen slave, captured in a thwarted raid upon our shores eight years before, was brought into the room to see if he could understand the stranger’s delirious speech. The man broke into tears at hearing once more the lilting Gaelic of his homeland.
“And so,” Elaine announced, perched on my coverlet, “he is Irish, just as you thought, Gwen. If he lives he will be a prisoner, and if he is a lord of some kind, a hostage, which could bring Father some Irish gold. They say he is young, not over twenty. What does he look like?”
I saw again the white, drawn face with the matted gold hair and the mesmerizing eyes. “He’s the handsomest man I’ve ever seen.”
Elaine giggled. “You’d better not fall in love with an Irish prince, Gwen. I don’t think Mother would let you go to Ireland for all the gold in Rome. She saw his clothes, you know, and said they were of good quality. So he might be someone important. Isn’t it exciting?”
“But how did he come to be lying on our beach?”
“I don’t know yet. But I’ll know before dinner is over.”
I was not allowed up for dinner, but Ailsa brought me a meal in bed and fixed me a hot posset. I did not protest this care, for my throat was beginning to feel raw, and I knew I would be abed for two days with the usual winter chills. But Elaine was as good as her word and had all the news by bedtime.
“There was a raid last night,” she confided, eyes shining. “The thaw has opened the seas, and Father has had the beach patrolled for the last five days. Last night a ship was sighted, and four boatloads of ruffians came ashore, led by a young hothead, or so the soldiers say. They didn’t get far, and most of them escaped back to their ship, but the fighting was fierce, and many were wounded. The soldiers rounded them up and they’re in the dungeon now, but I guess they missed this one. I wonder if he’s the leader.”
“From your description of the raid, he can’t be much of a leader.”
Elaine laughed. “Well, he’s no Arthur. But the Irish aren’t thinking fighters. They never have been. They fight from passion. Show them cold steel, and they turn and flee.”
I grinned at her. “If he lives, I’ll be sure to let our stranger know your good opinion of him.”
“I don’t care what he thinks of me,” she retorted. “He will always be an Irishman, and I’m going to be a British queen.”
At least, I thought later, as I drew the covers around me and fell towards sleep, she didn’t say “Queen of Britain.”
8 FION
I lay
abed a week with fever and chills. I was nursed and cosseted, but given no news and forbidden to ask questions. An air of secrecy seemed to envelop the castle. Elaine was with me often, but turned the conversation from any topic of interest except King Arthur and his doings. He was doing much, it seemed, even in the winter snows. Tales of courageous deeds and of murderous rages were told and retold; he was no longer referred to as a youth. He was nineteen now and a man. Wherever he raised Excalibur in the defense of Britain he was victorious. Ten major battles and thousands of skirmishes lay behind him; he had never received so much as a scratch from a Saxon weapon. Yet in the midst of his glory he grieved for his lost wife, his lost child, and his lost friend, the great enchanter. His tread was heavier; his smiles were rarer. He got on with the business of defeating his enemies and unifying the kingdoms with a cold determination that made his own men afraid of him.
Of the Irish stranger, Elaine would say nothing except that he still lived. But her eyes sparkled, and she winked at me when Ailsa’s or Grannic’s back was turned. Finally my strength returned, and I grew weary of convalescence. I insisted on getting up to sit by the fire or to take short walks on Ailsa’s arm. When after two weeks I was fully recovered, the wild winter weather set in, and we were snowbound. I couldn’t even get out to visit Zephyr. I had to spend my days with the rest of the women in the weaving room, spinning, weaving, sewing, talking. We joined the men at meals in the dining hall, but otherwise we were cloistered together. It was the dreadful winter routine. People got fractious without exercise in the sun, and personalities began to rub one another into irritation. All this I knew and expected, but this winter was better than most. The Queen’s ladies were often in buoyant spirits, teasing each other and laughing, singing new songs, even weaving new patterns—and all because of our stranger.
His name was Fion. He was, it seemed, quite a catch. He was certainly an Irish prince, and if the kitchen slave who served as translator was to be believed, he was the Prince of Ireland, son of Gilomar the King. He had lived through a three-day fever, survived two leechings and the setting of his leg, and was fast recovering from a chest cold. He ate like a young wolf and sang like a bard. He had already picked up enough Welsh to carry on a conversation, and he flirted with the ladies, even Queen Alyse, from dawn until dusk. He showed no fear and bore no grudge against his captors. He was a hostage, and he knew it. But he appeared to be in no hurry to return to his native land. As long as there was a woman in his room, he spouted poetry, sang songs, teased, admired, cajoled, and flirted. He had captivated every woman in the palace, from queen to cook, and although he was rapidly recovering his health, there was no talk of moving him into the dungeon with his fellows. The queen’s ladies waited upon him themselves. King Pellinore seemed glad they had the diversion; everyone was in a better temper.
“Saints be praised,” Cissa said as she sat spinning, “if the rascal didn’t pinch me again this morning! And me old enough to be his mother!”
“He’s a handsome rascal, to be sure,” Leonora added. “And an amorous young devil. Do they breed them so in Ireland on purpose, to conquer our hearts?”
Queen Alyse laughed. “If he is on a mission to subdue Wales by winning its women, he is very likely to succeed. I have seen the way he looks at my daughter when he thinks I do not observe him.”
Elaine blushed and I grinned. So this was what she had been hiding from me! She had an admirer, and this one, it seemed, she did not object to.
“Mother, please,” Elaine protested. “He’s a hooligan. A foreigner.”
“Well, my dear,” Alyse said smoothly as she bent over her stitching, “Welsh princesses have married foreigners before now. To be Queen of Ireland would be a great honor, would it not?”
I glanced quickly at Elaine. It was written on her face as clearly as the writing on any scroll that she wished only to be Queen of Britain.
“Mother!” Elaine cried. “I am British! I will never leave my homeland! I would rather be a British spinster than an Irish queen!”
All the ladies laughed and nodded approvingly, and I saw it had just been a leg-pull. Alyse had been teasing—indeed, I thought, she would be the last one to want to send her daughter across the sea where she might never see her again.
“Such poetry!” Cissa exclaimed. “And such good Latin he speaks. He’s an educated man, you may be sure of it. This morning when I brought him his willow tea, he was on about the angel again.”
“The Angel from Heaven who feeds his soul?” Leonora asked. “He is on about her day and night. You would think a man lying half frozen on a winter beach would see devils and monsters, not angels. He has a vivid imagination.”
“What is this about angels?” I asked. “I have not heard this story before. Is it an Irish tale?”
“No, my lady. The young man had a dream as he lay upon the shore. He claims he saw an Angel of God, a vision of loveliness with hair of white fire, who touched him just as life was about to expire and brought him back from the jaws of death.” She smiled benevolently as my heart began to sink. “He claims he saw a halo of light around her head, the stars of Heaven in her eyes, and the joy of everlasting life in her smile. Oh, he has a way with words, that one. He had Cissa and me believing him, he did.”
Elaine looked at me suddenly and made a face. “He’s probably talking about Gwen. He’s just dressing it up. After all, she saved him.”
“Yes, and in addition to all our thanks, Prince Fion would like to thank you, Guinevere, when you have regained your strength,” Alyse said. “But I warn you, he thinks we are playing upon his credulity. He does not believe a child could save his life. And he certainly does not believe any king or queen in their right minds would allow a ward of such tender years to venture forth alone on a frosty winter morning along a beach where raiders had been slain the night before.”
It was meant as a rebuke, so I bowed my head and said nothing, but I resented it. How was I to know there had been a raid? They told us nothing, because we were young maids. If the weather had been warm, Elaine and I would have sneaked up to the tower wall and learned of the news ourselves, but I did not see how I was to be held responsible for my ignorance as things were. One thing was clear—gone was my freedom with Zephyr.
When Elaine and I went up to our room to change for dinner, we walked in silence. I was hurt that Queen Alyse had referred to me as a child, and here I was only three months short of fourteen. It was the old wound again, and sore still from constant bruising. It was not until we were in our chamber and half undressed that Elaine spoke to me.
“Gwen, if you take him from me, I will never forgive you.”
I simply stared at her. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“Mother will take you to see Fion, and once he looks at you he will never again look at me.”
“Oh, please be sensible, Elaine. Do not start this again. You are Pellinore’s daughter. You’re a woman, and I’m a child. Your own mother said so.”
Elaine was smiling, but her eyes were unhappy. “Mother hasn’t seen you in your undergarments recently.” She came up to me; she was a full head shorter. “Your shape is changing. Didn’t you even know it?”
She led me to the polished bronze we kept by the window, and I looked at my reflection in some astonishment. I had not known it. I had not felt it. But there it was. My breasts were swelling, and my waist looked smaller because my hips, always as narrow as a boy’s, were widening ever so slightly. At last I looked like a young girl on the verge of womanhood, the way Elaine had looked at ten.
“Elaine!” I cried, and hugged her, as the tears streamed down my cheeks. “Oh, Elaine, perhaps old Merlin was right, God rest his soul. Perhaps I shall be a woman at last!”
Elaine did not return my embrace.
“You will be too beautiful to bear when it happens,” she said slowly. “I know already what will happen. Every man who looks at you will love you.”
“Nonsense,” I said, taking her hand. “You underestim
ate youself. You are the king’s daughter. I am an orphan. Anyway, I don’t want Fion. You don’t, either, if it comes to that. Why should it matter what he thinks?”
Elaine would not look at me. “I’m not talking just about Fion.”
But I did not understand her. “Come, I will guarantee you that after I have met him, his admiration for you will be undiminished. Shall we place a wager on it?”
“I am not such a fool as that.”
Her good humor had vanished, but mine simply grew and expanded like a giant bubble, filling all the space between us and gradually, as it enveloped her, she acquiesced to its power and joined me, at least outwardly, in my happiness.
I did not forget Merlin the Enchanter in my prayers that night. Whether he was alive or dead, I prayed to God to be merciful to him, to save his soul, for what he had foretold was coming to pass, and in three swift months I should have my heart’s desire.
“Come, Guinevere, and bring the basket of new bread.” Obediently I fell into the train of waiting women burdened with clean linens, fine silks, and bowls of dried fruit and nuts, who followed Queen Alyse up the staircase to the prisoner’s chambers.
The guard at the door smiled and shook his head when he saw us and, bowing to Queen Alyse, let us pass.