Lancelot cried out, “Elaine!” as Arthur recoiled and pushed her away.
She resisted, leaning close to him, her eyes intent upon his face. “You should have chosen me, my lord. All those years ago. I can give you what you want in a wife.”
“Not,” Arthur said darkly, turning his head to wipe his lips against his sleeve, “for the price of my soul.”
Now Lancelot had her by the arm and pulled her roughly away. “Christ, Elaine! Arthur, forgive her if you can.”
Arthur’s eyes were on me. I did not know until that moment that my cheeks, my face, my gown were wet with tears.
“That is not so easily done,” he said in a low voice. He turned to Elaine, who shrugged off Lancelot’s arm with an imperious gesture. “I feel for your condition, Elaine, but not your fate. Don’t pretend you are cruelly treated. You chose this with both eyes open. And it might so easily be worse.” She heard the veiled threat and lowered her eyes. “Lancelot, keep her away from me. Take her to Lanascol and see that she stays there.”
Elaine looked up and flashed him a look of open longing. “Arthur, let her go! She is your death! Ask Niniane!”
Lancelot gripped both her arms and turned her away from the King.
“Tell him, Gwen!” Elaine cried over her shoulder. “Tell him if you dare!”
They were at the door. In a moment they would be gone.
“Lancelot!” The words burst from me, sharp, shrill. “Is this farewell?”
Arthur’s hand came down upon my shoulder. Lancelot paused, his heart in his eyes. Elaine laughed once, cruelly, and pulled him through the door and down the stair.
Arthur turned me to face him. “Dry your tears, Gwen. You will see him again. He’ll be back come spring. I promise it.”
I brought his hand to my lips and kissed his ring. “My lord, forgive me. I should never have brought her here!”
“It is not your fault, Gwen. I forgive her for it—poor girl, young and highborn as she is, she will find no happiness in life. She does not know how.”
“I will never forgive her for it!”
“Yes, you will, in time. Let time pass.”
I raised my head and looked into his dark eyes, warm and comforting. “Hold me, Arthur. Give me strength.” He put his arms around me and held me gently.
“What is it,” he said softly, “you must tell me?”
“Nothing! I don’t know what you mean.”
He laughed quietly. “What a terrible liar you are! Like it or not, you have the gift of truth, and I can read your face. Elaine told you something she wanted me to hear. Something you fear to tell me.”
I looked up at him and wondered how he would feel when he knew. His arms tightened gently about me. “Tell me.”
“Niniane is the one who should tell you.”
“Ahhhh.” Still his face was calm. “It is about the Speaking. I thought as much.”
“Has she come to see you?”
“Not yet. But she will.”
“Are you sure?”
“Very sure. Don’t distress yourself, Guinevere, she has seen nothing Merlin did not see before her. Be brave and tell me.”
“Did he see a great change coming? And a serpent from the sea? And a—” I gulped and clutched his tunic. “—a dark prince of demons who will—who will slay you?”
He caught his breath and let it out slowly. Still his face was calm, but his eyes looked far away. “Yes,” he said at last, “all this he foresaw.”
“And did he tell you—this was all because you chose to keep me? No wonder Merlin hated me all those years ago!”
“What nonsense is this? Merlin hate you? There was never hate in that man, even for my enemies. Is that what Elaine told you? Well, my dear, consider the source.”
“Then—it is not true that you will die because of me?”
He laughed outright. “Certainly not. Quite the opposite. My fate, if Merlin is to be believed, was written in the stars before ever you were born.”
“Then what does the Speaking mean, my lord?”
He smiled at that and shook his head. “This is a distant future, Gwen. Let it be.”
“And—and Lancelot’s son, did Merlin see that, too?”
He frowned and his focus sharpened. “What about Lancelot’s son?”
“He will wield a bloody sword and bring the Light of righteousness to Britain—before she—no, that’s all.”
“To my knowledge, Merlin saw nothing regarding Lancelot. Are you sure this was part of the Speaking, or was it something Elaine perhaps invented?”
“For all I know, she invented everything.”
He smiled and kissed me gently. “Britain will not go down into the dark. You need not fear to tell me what it is you fear the most.”
“You knew?”
“I’ve heard whispers. But this, Guinevere, Merlin has seen, and often. It is a true Sight. Someday, when we are no more than memories in a bard’s song, Britain will be the greatest land in all the world. And you and I, if we are constant, will have a hand in making it so.”
I thought again of Bedwyr’s words. “Everlasting?” I whispered.
His eyes were shining. “If you like. Long-lasting, at any rate. No King could ask for more. So you see why I do not worry about the future.”
I looked up at him and smiled. “Even you, my lord, even you believe in visions when it suits you!”
He grinned. “Every king does. It’s wise policy.”
“Oh, Arthur, bring your son here quickly! If we are to build a lasting legacy for Britain, we must train him now!”
Something moved behind his eyes, and he drew me closer.
“He is coming.” He paused. “Let us pray God he makes a King.”
BOOK II
THE HIGH
QUEEN
23 ALL HALLOW’S EVE
Arthur and I sat silently in the hall after coming from mass. It was All Hallow’s Eve. We had had frosts lately, and the night air carried a tang of sea salt. Down in the town and all over Britain, Samhain fires were burning, honoring the end of the old year after taking in the harvest, welcoming the new with prayers and incantations. On this night, Christian and pagan alike felt kinship with spirits, both blessed and fey.
I looked around the hall. Torches danced in the cool breeze; everyone was robed. Half the benches stood empty, so many were gone from us. The latest band of knights errant had left three days before: Lamorak, Bellangere, Dryaunt, Gillymer, Gauter, Gryfflet, and Agglavall, all good men and sorely missed. Thank goodness the King could not part with Bedwyr; with Lancelot gone, our fellowship was thinned beyond bearing.
The King picked at his food. Even silver-tongued Bedwyr ran out of patter and finally sat silent. We shared a heaviness of spirit that oppressed us like a fever in midwinter, with no escape but through suffering. The three weeks since Lancelot’s departure had dragged by for both me and the King. Although this was an illness we shared, it was not one we could share together. Arthur filled his days with work as I filled mine with riding, and most nights we were too weary to say much more than good-night to one another.
Then, earlier today, a courier had come racing in from Ynys Witrin with the report that the High King’s ship—there was no mistaking the Dragon sail—had been sighted in the estuary, and the long-awaited “shipment” from the Orkney Isles had at last arrived. Beside me, Arthur fidgeted. The knowledge that his son stood on ground that he commanded, so nearby but not yet within his gates, nearly drove him wild. And Arthur was the most patient man I knew.
We had no bard with us. The King called early for the wine to go around, and would, I knew, when the torture of dinner was over, stride off to his workroom to pace endlessly, hour upon hour, until the signal came. I prayed that the commander of the escort would have the sense to ride to Camelot tonight, and not wait on Ynys Witrin until daylight. For secrecy’s sake, the King had sent no orders, and so must wait upon the commander’s judgment.
“Gwen,” he said suddenly, “I near
ly forgot to tell you—we had a courier today while you were out riding. From Lancelot.”
I caught my breath. “So soon? He is well?”
Arthur smiled and covered my hand with his own. “Very well. The crossing was a calm one, and they reached Benoic without trouble. His brother Galyn was there to greet him. They held a great feast in his honor.”
“And to welcome his queen.” I looked up into his warm brown eyes and somehow smiled. “Don’t try to spare me, Arthur. I know full well the nature of the celebration. Lancelot is returned at last to take up the kingship of Lanascol, and he has brought home a bride already heavy with his heir. No doubt they are celebrating all over Less Britain. And so they should, to have such a king in their midst.” The ache in my throat stopped my words.
Arthur lifted my fingers to his lips. “I cannot spare you when you face the truth so bravely. But that is behind you, Guinevere. Now look ahead.”
I tried to smile. “As to that, now that the boy is almost here, I am scared to death to meet him!”
Arthur flashed a grin that lit his face. “And so am I!”
Suddenly we heard a commotion in the forecourt, raised voices and the clatter of hooves. I glanced quickly at Arthur; he had gone perfectly still. Minutes later, Kay entered the room, coughed politely, and went down on one knee beside the High King’s chair.
“My lord, the Orkney party are without. Sir Lukan, the commander, wishes to know if you will receive them tonight or wait until the morning. They are”—he paused, and his stony face revealed a shade of consternation—“not quite presentable, my lord, and he knows the hour is late.”
The hall went quiet. Slowly Arthur surveyed all the faces and then stood. Everyone rose. “Where are they, Kay?”
“In the courtyard, my lord. Dismounting. The wagons are just coming in King’s Gate.”
Arthur drew breath and squared his shoulders. “Take the boys to the barracks. Gereint will assign them sleeping places. He shall have their keeping, and Bedwyr their training. I will give them time to wash and rest. But I will see them all tonight. All five, Kay. Send Lukan to me in the library. Now.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Arthur turned and nodded to his Companions. “Bedwyr, Bors, Berys, Sagramor, you may attend me. Guinevere—” He looked down at me and held out a hand. “Will you come?”
“Of course, my lord. I wouldn’t for the world miss meeting your nephews.”
He laughed, half in pleasure, half in sheer excitement. “I don’t expect much; they’re clearly not up to Kay’s standards. But I can’t sleep until I know what they are made of. Let’s hope, when the night is over, we have cause for celebration.”
It was our custom to spend our evenings with the King in his pleasant workroom, where all the scrolls were kept. It gave onto the big garden, where we would stroll on summer evenings to take the air. In winter, we would sit around the log fire, discussing the day’s events, or making plans for the spring, or honoring a guest. Sometimes I sang to them, sometimes we read aloud from the precious scrolls Arthur had got from overseas. Tonight, the King sat nervously behind his great marble table in the corner, fiddling with his winecup and talking to Bedwyr. The others stood by the fire, or sat on the cushioned benches, making small talk, wondering in lowered voices why a visit from his own nephews, boys not yet near manhood, should make the King so obviously uneasy.
The door swung open. Sir Lukan entered, face and hands wet from a hasty washing. Arthur rose.
“Welcome, Lukan. I’m glad to see you safely back.”
Sir Lukan knelt at his feet and kissed the great Pendragon ruby on his hand. “My lord, I am glad to be back. It was not an easy journey, but we made it without losing a single man. As to your nephews, my lord, they were raised upon the sea and thrive in stormy weather!”
Arthur smiled and raised him. When he had thanked Lukan, served him wine, and sat him near the fire, he paused, his face solemn and intent.
“Tell me,” he said simply.
“Well, my lord, we had good weather going and made Orkney at midsummer. The queen gave us a gracious welcome, and at first I thought it would be plain sailing with her as well. But—” He paused. Nothing moved in Arthur’s face, but his eyes darkened. “She seemed to find a thousand excuses to prevent our leaving. First it was the preparations. Her boys had nothing fine enough to wear to greet the King.”
Arthur snorted. I shot him a startled look, and Bedwyr hid a smile.
“Then it was a pox among the sailors, then the mast was damaged the night before our sailing, and we had to stay to build another.” A thin, hard note of anger crept into his voice. “There is not a tree on Orkney, my lord King, that will make a decent mast. Our sailors had to row the queen’s vessels clear to the mainland and float the lumber back. In midchannel a storm arose and nearly drowned us.” He stopped and took a deep breath. “They do not call her a witch for nothing, begging your pardon, my lord. But we made it back alive.”
“Do not beg my pardon, Lukan,” Arthur replied coldly. “What she is, she has made herself. It is nothing to me.”
I moved closer to his side and laid my hand upon his shoulder. He relaxed a little and beckoned Lukan to taste his wine, which the commander did with some relief. “She’s a beauty, my lord,” he said in a warmer voice. “I can’t deny it, and there’s not a man in Orkney who doesn’t do her bidding. For all that, I believe she’s false at heart.”
Arthur smiled bitterly. “If you have just now learned it, Lukan, you come late to the lesson. How did she take my summons? Well or ill?”
Lukan put down his winecup with care. “Well enough, my lord, at first. She acted pleased her sons were called to Camelot to serve the King.”
“Lukan.” Arthur sat down opposite him and leaned forward, hands on knees. “Lukan, she is my half sister because my father’s lusts got the better of his sense. Understand that she is nothing to me. I neither like her nor trust her; if you call her a venomous viper to my face, I will feel no insult. Now, man, tell me the truth. How did the witch take my summons?”
Lukan sat up straighter. “She was furious, my lord. Mad as a hellcat. Not that the boys were called to court, but that she was not. There was the devil to pay among her women. Half of them carried black eyes for weeks.” Arthur grimaced. “For six weeks,” Lukan continued, “she fought me. First, she threatened to disobey and bring her sons to you herself. She was certain I must have misunderstood the orders, but there it was, on parchment, for her scribe to read aloud. Then she refused to let them go. Beyond her protection, she said, they would fare ill at her tyrant brother’s hands. Or—or—”
“Go on.”
“Suffer poison, or castration, by his barren Queen.”
Arthur’s nostrils flared. “Did she say this in their hearing?”
“Indeed, my lord, these tirades were for their sake more than mine. But I think they knew it.”
Arthur’s expression hardened. “All right, Lukan. Go on.”
“Then she tried fits of weeping, that we might pity her misfortune in losing all her sons at a single stroke, but she is not convincing in the pose of helplessness. Last she tried her witch’s curses. She has cursed my line down to the sixteenth generation, my lord. They are all to be halfwit savages, every one.”
Arthur managed a stiff smile. “I’d say you got off lightly. She has wished much worse on me. Good man, Lukan, to withstand her. She’s known to be chancey to cross, but you have done it for me, and I thank you from my heart.”
Lukan looked relieved. “At the end, my lord, she gave in with such grace and willingness, it quite surprised me. I was even on the lookout for some trick, but in the end, she let us go in peace, if you don’t count the storms that assailed us as soon as we were through the straits.”
“Well, she is nothing if not changeable.”
Or perhaps, I thought, she had some new plan afoot; but I did not say it. They drank together in fellowship and talked about the weather. I watched Arthur’s hands around t
he winecup, lean, strong hands, with nimble fingers, playing nervously with the beaten silver, turning and turning, as if he could not stop.
“And the princes?” he asked suddenly. “Fared they well upon the journey? No seasickness?”
Lukan laughed. “Those boys? Not a bit of it. Why, they were bred upon the sea and know her moods and tempers. They eat like young wolves and are never sated. You’ve no worry with your nephews my lord. A healthier, rowdier lot I’ve seen only in the kennels.”
Arthur smiled and listened as Lukan recounted their shipboard antics, but I knew his mind was in the barracks. At last he rose, and Lukan stood. “I thank you for your service, Lukan. You’ve done splendidly, and I’ll reward you. Go now to your well-earned rest. Tomorrow we’ll speak again.”
“Thank you, my lord. It is ever my pleasure to serve you.”
When the door had closed behind him, Arthur whirled. “Bedwyr, send to Gereint. Say I wish to see my sister’s sons as soon as they are ready.”
But Bedwyr had not got halfway to the door before it flew open in his face. Tall and graceful, dark haired and pale complexioned, the Lady of the Lake herself strode in unannounced and stood before the King.
“Arthur!” she cried. “He is transformed! He is free! He is among us!”
Everyone stared. She was not wearing the white robe of the Goddess’ servant, but her riding clothes—leggings, tunic, and mantle—and her hair had come loose from its braiding, falling in wild, ragged wisps about her face. Without a doubt, she had ridden straight from Avalon to see the King.
“Niniane!” He took her elbow and led her to the bench. “Be still a moment. My lords, I would speak with her alone.” The men bowed and began to file out. I made Arthur a quick reverence and turned to follow, but he looked up swiftly. “No, Gwen, stay. And you, too, Bedwyr. Gwen, what have we to offer her to drink? She’s had a vision of some sort—look at her eyes—and she’s ridden instead of resting.”
I passed him a winecup, and he lifted it to her lips. She drank without knowing it, her dark eyes wide and unfocused, her whole body trembling with some strong emotion.