The truth was, I had never stopped to think that I was marrying a man. At twenty, Arthur was already a legend, even among the Saxons. He was an idea, not flesh and blood. I should have to bear him princes, but exactly what that meant I had not considered. As the rains of April fell, and Elaine grew quieter, and the women stitched away madly at the King’s wedding sheets, it began to be real to me. And I was terrified.
I escaped to the stables on dry days and took Zephyr out on the hills, or flew Ebon, or dallied on the beach. They let me go wherever I chose, although I had a chaperone of troopers. Nothing could be allowed to happen to me. I was no longer merely Guinevere; I was King Arthur’s betrothed. It angered me sometimes that the word of a single man I had not even met could so change my life. And it frightened me, also. What was the High King expecting? An ornament to his court? A broodmare? Surely he must realize that Gwillim’s words were poetry and never meant to describe a woman of flesh and blood! Suppose—suppose he frowned on women riding horses? Should I have to take to a litter, like Alyse? Oh, I wept in frustration and pounded my poor mare over the hills in desperate attempts to escape such thoughts, but they were always there when I returned.
Father Martin was useless as a confidant. He could barely hear my confession, so ready was he to bend the knee to me. I prayed to the Virgin, helpmate of women, to give me the strength to endure what was coming. But when I closed my eyes at night, all that came to me was Merlin’s face and the gentle, ghostly voice repeating “what will be, will be.”
My fifteenth birthday came and went, barely noticed in the frantic bustle, and three days later a royal courier arrived. Elaine and I gripped each other on the staircase as we strained to hear him give his message to Pellinore in the hall. Spring had brought new longboats to the eastern shores, and the northern kings could not hold their defenses against an attack of such numbers, should it come. King Arthur was required to show his face there and deal with them and could not come to take his bride to Caer Camel. But not wishing to delay the wedding, which was set for the summer solstice, he was sending in his stead three of his closest Companions and a troop of horses to take me to Caer Camel to await his arrival there.
Elaine and I turned to each other. On her face was writ her disappointment; on mine was sheer relief. The men would be arriving in three days and would stay until such time as we felt ready to depart. This was wonderful news! The building could cease, the cooks could rest, and everyone except the queen’s ladies could be sure that the preparations they had already made would be sufficient. But a bridegift is never finished. There is always one more cushion to stuff, one more gown to stitch, one more slipper to line.
Elaine had made me a nightgown, entirely of her own design and working, of creamy linen lined with silk, and edged with costly laces. On the morning of the third day she bade me try it on for a final fitting. It was a lovely thing, with loose, flowing lines and a low throat. But Elaine was unhappy with the bodice, which she felt should be tighter. She gripped the cloth at the back until it was tight, and then placed her hand upon my bosom to get the shape. Then an odd thing happened. She hesitated and met my eyes. We both thought, at exactly the same moment, of where this gown would be worn, and that a man’s large, brown hand would be where her small, white one lay, and she jumped away as I gasped, and we both turned scarlet.
“Oh, Gwen, I can’t bear the thought of it!” she cried, tears welling in her eyes.
“Neither can I!” I wailed, as we fell weeping into each other’s arms. This is but one illustration among many of the state we were in.
Unable to stand the castle any longer, I dressed in my doeskin leggings and soft boots and my old green mantle and went to the stable. I asked no one’s permission. Today was the long-awaited day, and everyone was too busy to notice me. I took Ebon on my arm, hopped on Zephyr, and rode bareback up into the hills. The King’s men were not expected until nightfall, and I should be back, bathed, perfumed, and gowned before they saw me.
It was a glorious day in May, golden and soft, and the forests were full of birds returning to their summer homes. We had a good gallop, and then we had wonderful hunting, one exciting chase after another, with five kills to Ebon’s credit by midafternoon, when I hooded him because the pouch was full. He could have filled a saddlebag that magic day, had I brought one with me. We stopped at a stream for Zephyr to drink, and I felt it suddenly—the thrill of excitement, the throbbing expectancy of something marvelous that lay ahead and was coming. It was a wonderful day to be alive. For the first time in months my spirit lifted, and I felt like singing. We stood in the silence of the forest with dappled sunlight falling all about, while cool water dripped from the mare’s muzzle and small creatures rustled in the underbrush. In the blessed stillness, the birds began to sing, tentatively at first, and then in full-throated song. The hawk sat hooded and quiet on my arm as the budding treetops came alive with music. I whistled in imitation and then joined in their chorus, and they let me.
The mare walked gently down the forest track while I sang to the birds, happy to be young and alive, glorying in the magic brightness of that special day. We came upon a clearing, and suddenly the mare stopped, threw up her head, and nickered. I looked about, but it was several moments before I saw the young man on the black horse. They stood under the trees where the track left the clearing, and he was staring at me. As I noticed him, he slid from his horse and took two steps forward. He cleared his throat, but no sound came out. He just stood in the clearing as if he had been there always, and my heart began to pound. He wore a strange device on his cloak, and his clothes were cut a little oddly, but that he was a knight there was no doubt. Black hair fell across his brow and shaded his eyes. His face had good lines and would have been handsome if his nose had not been broken and set slightly crooked. It gave an oddness to his face that set his features apart from those of other men. I could not explain why my spirit soared as I looked at him. He was a stranger, yet he set me trembling. He took another step forward and tried again to speak. I went weak inside, melting like butter in the sun.
“Are you—are you a vision or are you real?” he whispered. The question, spoken low and almost out of hearing, did not seem out of place, for I had wondered the same about him.
“I am no vision, my lord. Where—who—what badge is that you bear? You are no Welshman.”
He bent one knee and sank down on the new grass. “I am a poor knight from foreign parts, and this badge is the badge of my homeland. My name is Lancelot.”
10 LANCELOT
Your manners commend you, good Lancelot. Welcome to Gwynedd. My name is Guinevere. My guardian King Pellinore is lord of this land. We are not far from his castle. If there is aught that you require—food or rest or fodder for your horse, I—I am sure he would provide it.”
His eyes widened. They were clear and cool and liquid gray. I stopped speaking. The silence around us seemed to breathe.
“Gracious lady,” he said at last, his voice husky. “I have been there. It is you I seek, if you are Guinevere of Northgallis.”
I was trembling so hard that Ebon shifted on my arm. The pressure of his grip brought me back to myself. “Please rise, my lord. I am the one you seek.”
He stood and came toward me. Then Zephyr did an unexpected thing. She lowered her head and shoved him gently in the chest. He looked at the mare.
“Fina!” he cried. “Is it you, my girl? Dear God, it is!” Then he turned to me, and his smile robbed me of breath. “You are the one! Pellinore’s ward! I remember it now!”
I feared lest he touch me, and I lose my seat on the horse. But he did not. He backed away a pace.
“You—you are the knight who bred and trained her? I—I had forgotten the name. I had always hoped to meet you and thank you for bringing so much pleasure into my life.”
He flushed scarlet. “It gives me great joy to do you the smallest service.”
His lashes were long and dark and lent his eyes a beauty that is usually a woman??
?s gift. He was tall and slenderly built, with a sword hanging in a much-used, plain leather scabbard from his belt. As I looked at him, and he looked at me, the birds took up their interrupted song, and I knew in my soul that he was the magic behind the day. I believe I smiled at him; I know his face lit with happiness.
“What service may this humble maid perform for Lancelot, to repay the debt?” I asked him softly.
He caught his breath in surprise and then sobered suddenly, tapped on the shoulder by the finger of remembrance. He straightened and bowed. “My lady Guinevere, I have come to take you to Arthur.”
It was a cloud across the sun; the cold shadow passed over, and the day darkened. Only then did I see two other horsemen in the trees behind him, waiting patiently. They wore swords and badges, and an indefinable air of self-importance. Of course. They were the King’s Companions, they and Lancelot, who was foremost among them. As I watched, they rode forward into the clearing and, unsheathing their swords, touched the blades to their foreheads in salute.
“Princess Guinevere,” Lancelot said formally, “these are two of the King’s Companions, Kay of Galava, son of Ector, and Bedwyr of Brydwell, son of Boad. Gentlemen, Princess Guinevere of Northgallis.”
They performed their formal greetings, as I did mine. Bedwyr looked worriedly at Lancelot, and Kay looked in some alarm at the hooded falcon on my arm.
“No doubt you could outride us at will,” Lancelot said smiling, “so I beg you will lead us a decorous pace back to the castle, else we lose our way. We are supposed to be your escort.”
I returned his smile, and for a moment there seemed to be only the two of us in the whole world. “Far be it from me to bring shame upon any who serve King Arthur. Have no fear. I shall be ladylike.”
He grinned, and I could see the others were pleased by my response. Lancelot turned and whistled for his stallion, who trotted up and stood patiently while he mounted.
Zephyr nickered, and the stallion’s ears shot forward.
“Not now, Nestor.” Lancelot laughed. “Maybe next year.” And he signaled me to take my place at his side for the ride back.
“That is a trick you must teach me, my lord,” I said to him. “I can see that it would be useful.”
“It would be an honor and a pleasure, my lady. But if my eyes deceive me not, there is not much I could teach you about a horse. You speak their language.”
I was thinking the same about him. One can tell a born rider simply by watching the way he sits his horse. Lancelot’s stallion was interested in the mare, but he controlled the animal effortlessly, without thought, with legs and seat and hand, as fluidly and as softly as the horse himself moved. It must give pleasure to the horse, I thought, to be ridden with such skill.
As we approached the castle, the woods gave way to fields, and I glanced mischievously at Lancelot. “Would my lord care to follow me? I know a shorter way back, but there are obstacles.”
He hesitated, aware of the challenge. “Obstacles for a horse, my lady, or obstacles for a man?”
I laughed. “Follow me, my lord, and find out.”
He glanced swiftly behind him and nodded. “Lead on.”
I took them to my jumping field where I had, over time, fashioned a formidable series of obstacles. I settled Ebon on my arm and sang softly to him for reassurance, for this was new to him. Then I put Zephyr into a light gallop, and we flew over the obstacles. I gloried in the sensation of hurtling through the air, with the salt sea breeze in my face and my hair whipping behind me. I felt like a prisoner granted a last day of freedom before execution, and this was it—my last taste of girlhood. At the top of the field, I cantered the mare in a circle and then brought her to a halt. All three knights were standing where I had left them, watching me. I waited. It had been easy for us, we had done it before. But although the fences were new to them, the animals they rode were trained warhorses, stronger than Zephyr and as nimble, who knew maneuvers on a field of battle and could be a third weapon under a good rider. Lancelot was a horseman. We should see about the others.
Lancelot gathered his stallion and cantered toward the first fence. The stallion shied, but then obeyed and pushed himself over. At the next brush pile he took off too far out and barely missed landing upon it. By the third fence Lancelot had learned to judge the distance, and every obstacle thereafter was an improvement upon the one before. At length he drew up beside me, breathing hard, eyes shining.
“By heaven, that is a sport for kings! My compliments to Pellinore for building it, and to your own skill, my lady—the bird never stirred from your arm!”
“Pellinore had nothing to do with it,” I retorted. “It was my own idea. I like to jump. And as for Ebon, he trusts me.”
He stared. “My compliments to you, then, Lady Guinevere. But surely he built it for you.”
“Certainly not. He disapproves of my jumping. I built it myself.”
“By God!” he cried, his eyes dancing, “You are one woman in a thousand!”
I looked away to avoid looking into his eyes. “Am I odd, then? I do not wish to be.”
“You are perfect! Perfectly suited to the High King, I mean.” I was watching the others when he spoke, and heard in his voice the tenderness I had seen already in his face. I wished with all my heart that he would stop reminding me of Arthur. I did not know then that he was reminding himself.
Bedwyr made a good attempt. His horse refused the obstacle at first, but he persevered and got him over. All was then well until he came to the hen coop, where the stallion slid to a stop at the last moment and tossed Bedwyr over. Kay, who refused the challenge altogether, cantered over to him.
“What manner of man is Kay of Galava?”
Lancelot smiled. “He’s old for his age and always has been. He’s Arthur’s seneschal. His place is at Caer Camel, and he misses it. He worries about it every minute he’s away. Since he was injured at Caer Eden his sword arm is weak, and as he cannot take the field for Arthur, he holds his fortress in readiness. It is his service, and he is devoted.”
It was clear from his tone of voice that Kay was valued for his devotion.
“He frowns upon my hawking.”
Lancelot shrugged. “He believes that women should ride litters, not horses, and should be rocking cradles, not hunting falcons. It is his way.”
I plucked nervously at Zephyr’s mane. “And the High King?”
“What about the High King?”
“Does he disapprove of women hawking?”
Lancelot turned toward me, amused. “Do I hear aright? Are you actually frightened of Arthur?”
I raised my chin in defiance. “Do you blame me, my lord? I have heard so much and know so little.”
He laughed outright. “My dear Guinevere, Pendragon may be feared by Saxons, and rightly so, but you have no need to be afraid. Do you imagine him a cruel tyrant? He is the kindest man in all the kingdoms. Why, Arthur would no sooner keep you from hawking or doing whatever it was you pleased than he would cut off his nose to spite his face. He would laugh at the very idea!”
He filled me with relief. “Then I shall be allowed to keep Zephyr? Is this truth, Lancelot? It has worried me a long time.”
He began to look astonished. “Of course you may keep her. He is not a monster, Guinevere. Your doubts disturb me. Is not the High King known among his people here in Wales?”
“How a King treats his people is one thing. How a man treats his—his wife may be quite another.”
He grew instantly grave and nodded. “That is true. But with Arthur it is the same thing. The man and the King are one.”
I looked into his face and saw his own devotion there. Clearly Arthur was a great leader to inspire love in such different men as Kay and Lancelot.
Bedwyr rode up then, with Kay behind him, and I apologized sincerely for putting them through my little game. It had been a long winter, I told them, with nothing for maids to do but sew and listen to women’s gossip. The high spirits of spring had to b
e played out in some fashion. They forgave me like the gentlemen they were; no one reminded me of my promise to be ladylike; and we approached the castle yard as princess and royal escort, much to Kay’s relief.
Elaine was aghast. “Oh, Gwen, how could you! All these months we have been preparing for this visit, and their first sight of you is bareback upon your horse, in those filthy leggings! And your hair is flying everywhere! Oh, what must they think?”
I grinned at her as Ailsa pulled the shift down over my head. “My leggings are not filthy. I brush them well after every ride.”
“Oh, don’t, Gwen. Think of the report will they send to King Arthur!”
Ailsa sat me on the stool and began to brush my hair. I took Elaine’s hand.
“Forgive me. I see this affects you deeply. But truly,” I said, smiling as I thought of Lancelot standing rooted in the clearing, “I am not worried about the report they will send to King Arthur.”