Queen of Camelot

  “Arthur!”

  “I am here, Niniane. Take a moment.”

  “I must speak to you alone!”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Arthur, I have seen him! He is living!”

  “Who, Niniane?”

  “Merlin.”

  I gasped. The King went white. Slowly he slid to one knee and took both her hands. “Niniane. Calm yourself.”

  “Arthur, I have seen him! In the flesh!”

  “How can that be? I buried him myself, there in the hill, and filled the cave mouth with stones not a company of my strongest men could move. He is dead, my dear, and beyond our call. You have said so yourself.”

  She met his eyes, and her breathing slowed a little. “Yes,” she whispered, “I know it. When he lay dying, with his head in my arms, he told me to trust the Sight we shared. He—he must go to his grave, he said, and I must bear his mantle in the world of men. But—” She paused and looked at Arthur pleadingly. “I can’t be sure. I thought I felt his death come. But as much as I took from him—I did as he bade me, Arthur, when I entered his mind. You must believe that! I did not steal his thoughts; he offered them to me—I did not take all. There was something else I could not reach; the god we serve forbade it. I don’t know what it was.”

  Arthur held her hands firmly between his own and spoke kindly. “I know he wanted you to take his power. Don’t torture yourself with the rest. But as you love him, Niniane, let him rest in peace.”

  “But Arthur! I saw him tonight. Tonight! He is alive!”

  Bedwyr moved closer to me; the candles flickered in the draft. Arthur’s voice came cool and calm and steady. “Tell me what you saw.”

  “In the workroom at Avalon, I sat before the peat fire, mixing herbs. Suddenly he was there with me. Not in the fire, Arthur. In the room! He spoke, and it wasn’t a vision voice; it was his own. He bade me bring you to Caerleon and said he would see you there.”

  “Niniane—”

  She fumbled with her pouch and drew forth an old copper ring. “He gave me this, as a token of the truth. He said you would have trouble believing me, else.”

  Arthur shot to his feet. “This was on his body, that we buried!”

  “I know.”

  “But it cannot be!”

  “It is.”

  In that moment his whole being changed. He lit from within. “Niniane, tell me only this—is it possible?”

  “Not with ordinary men,” she whispered, “but if he is, or was, or has become—a shapeshifter—then—”

  Arthur tossed the ring in the air and let out a whoop of joy. “Bless you, Niniane! A thousand thanks! Bedwyr, stay here as Queen’s Protector. Guinevere, I leave the boys to you.” He strode for the door. “Geoff! My horse! My sword! Five minutes!” He turned. “I shall be back in ten days, or a fortnight, or whenever I can. Think of it! Merlin is alive!”

  He was gone; the room still rang with his echoes.

  Bedwyr whirled and whistled sharply. Men came running. “Sagramor! Tell Gereint to send an escort after the King! Quickly, man! Or he’ll ride all the way to Caerleon alone!”

  “Sir Bedwyr.” Niniane spoke quietly. “Would you arrange an escort for me, as well?”

  “Do you wish to accompany the King? If so, we must hurry—”

  “No. Let them have their private meeting. As soon as you are able is soon enough for me.”

  “It will be done, my lady. I will see to it directly.”

  “Thank you.”

  Bedwyr turned to me and hastily bowed. “My lady, I will attend you in a moment; I want a word with Gereint before the escort leaves.”

  “Of course, Bedwyr. Go on.”

  The quiet castle came suddenly alive, with sentries running through the halls, pages fetching swords and cloaks, the calls of soldiers and the clatter of shod hooves on the courtyard stone. Niniane rose, looking more herself again, and thanked me formally for the wine and the escort.

  “Anything we can do to please you, Niniane, is our pleasure to perform. You have brought the King great news.”

  She shrugged lightly. “Great news, indeed. But it is not without danger.”

  “What do you mean? Danger to whom?”

  “A gift from the god is a double-edged sword. There is always another side. There is always a price to pay.”

  “Do you mean Merlin?”

  She nodded slowly, her eyes, normal now, looked far away. “So long as Arthur walks on middle earth, the serpent shadows him that will one day strike at his heel. If my lord Merlin hopes to save him from it—if this is why he has returned—he risks disaster. He may not interfere. It is forbidden. He knows it well, but”— she sighed—“he loves the King.”

  I went up to her and took her arm. “Niniane, I understand your words but not their meaning. What is it you are telling me?”

  She shrugged again and smiled. “Only that on occasion, love gets the better of sense. But this you know already, my lady Queen . . . I should be going.”

  “Will you tell me what a—a shapeshifter is?”

  She laughed lightly. “What have you heard from bards’ tales? An ancient spirit, neither god nor man nor beast, and yet all three. Never mind it; I don’t even know if it is true. Perhaps, after all, he did not die. With Merlin, all things are possible.”

  With that, she left me, but I paced about in agitation. I never understood enchanters’ talk, so garbled and so dire. Where lay the threat to Arthur? Who was the snake? How everything had changed in the space of a lightning flash the instant she appeared! Here I was, alone in the library, when so short a time ago, Arthur and his Companions had sat here and interviewed Sir Lukan about the High King’s nephews! Who would have believed that he would ride from Camelot without so much as speaking to them? To have his own son here at last, to be on the verge of meeting him face to face—and to leave everything, without a look back, just on the chance Merlin might still live! How he loved the man! How he trusted Niniane!

  I sat in the King’s favorite chair, near the fire. The King’s hound Cabal raised himself from the hearth and shoved his wet nose under my hand.

  “Well, Cabal,” I said, scratching his ears, “here we are, we two, sitting in the corner, waiting upon events. How often, my old friend, has it been so? Men ride in, and men ride out, and we two are ever faithful, waiting. Always before when the King left, I had Lancelot for company. But I suppose I must count myself lucky, to be married five years to a traveling soldier and not find myself lonely until now.”

  Bedwyr returned within the hour. The escorts were gone, he reported, and the princes housed in the barracks, though not abed. They were far too excited for sleep.

  “Well, I’m glad someone remembered them. But tell me, Bedwyr, what did Niniane mean? What is a shapeshifter? It is possible Merlin could endure death and return?”

  He shuddered and covered it with a scowl. “Old wives’ tales, if you ask me, my lady. I hope Arthur’s not gone off on a goose chase. Haven’t you ever heard the term before?”

  “When I was a child my nurse told me tales at bedtime, about elves and witches and fairy people and such, who lived when the world was young. I think I remember a tale about a wolfboy who was a shapeshifter. But I thought these things were fantasy only and not something a grown man, or woman either, could seriously believe.”

  “Well, I suppose no one really knows. When our ancestors were children, when gods lived in every tree and rock and stream, people believed in spirits who had strange powers and who lived between the worlds of gods and men. They were real to touch and sight, and yet were creatures of the nether world, who came and went at their own bidding. In the songs I’ve heard, they were more evil than good. Nuisances, mostly. But really, Guinevere, it’s been ages since anyone believed in them, much less saw one. I can’t image what possessed Niniane to say that—perhaps it’s true she stole Merlin’s powers from him and is now pursued by guilt?”

  I nearly laughed. “Not Niniane. I don’t believe she betrayed him, but
if she did, she’d never suffer a backward glance. No, I think she truly believes what she told Arthur. And how quickly Arthur accepted it!”

  Bedwyr shrugged. “Well, he knows Merlin best. Perhaps it’s possible. I’ve heard him say often enough, anything is possible with Merlin.”

  “Well. I suppose we will have to wait the arrival of a courier to know the truth. Now he has flown off without greeting his nephews, and it is left for me to do it. You must tell me what you know about them, Bedwyr. What are they like?”

  With relief, he plunged into a subject much more to his liking. “They are a wild lot, which is not surprising, since they’ve grown up far from civilization and worship outland gods.”

  “What do you mean, ‘outland gods’? You are a pagan yourself.”

  He grinned. “Mithra is a soldier and a gentleman. But in Orkney their gods are animals, as well. I have seen the Mother represented as a pregnant fish!”

  “Not so strange,” I murmured. “In Wales, I have seen her likened to a pregnant boar. But I mean, what do the princes look like? How did they fare on the journey? Did you speak with them?”

  “Oh, yes. I felt it was my duty to get them settled, since Gereint and Kay had so much else to do. They are strong boys all, and none of them the worse for the journey. But then, as Lukan said, they have all but grown up on the sea. Fight like dogs they do, the redheads. Gawaine is first among them, although he is not firstborn. The eldest is a bastard. Half-prince, they tease him. They are all five safely stowed away.”

  I was nervous and pressed my hands together to keep them still. “What did they look like?”

  Bedwyr’s eyes narrowed. “Short and thickly built, my lady, red-headed with high color and short tempers. Except for the youngest, Gareth, who is a pleasant, cheerful child, and the bastard, who is of a different breed.”

  “Oh?” I failed in my attempt to sound casual. “And what is he like, this strange one?”

  Bedwyr’s gaze sharpened. “Altogether different. Tall and dark. Restrained. Thoughtful. A boy who keeps to himself. A comely lad, too, by the look of him, but not of warrior stock.”

  “You forget yourself!” I cried indignantly, and then flushed, biting my tongue too late. Bedwyr’s eyes were alive with excitement. I rose and turned away from him, fighting to calm myself. Bedwyr waited, silent, until I came back and sat beside him.

  “Another cup of wine, my lord?”

  Gently he laid a hand upon my arm. “Guinevere, if I am to protect the Orkney princes, don’t you think you had better tell me what you know about them?”

  “I know nothing about them.”

  Bedwyr smiled. “Who is this dark lad you’re so sure is made of warrior stock?”

  I bit my lip and lowered my eyes. “Please, Bedwyr, do not ask me. I cannot tell you. I have sworn it.”

  “To whom?”

  I shook my head.

  “It is true, then,” he said softly, unable to hide his elation. “So, it is true! I have often wondered. There was talk about them at Caer Eden, I remember. Ector’s fosterling and Uther’s daughter. But he was so young, and she already a woman. Few believed it. Anyway, it was long ago and nothing came of it, I thought, so I forgot it.”

  I raised my eyes to him. “It is better so,” I said softly.

  “He does not know who his father is,” he said, smiling. “They tease him about it.” I said nothing. “I will not press you for the truth, for clearly you have promised not to tell. But I have seen the boy. And I think I know why Arthur sent for him.”

  “Bedwyr.” I looked into his eyes. “Whatever conclusions you come to, will you keep them to yourself?”

  “Of course I will.” His voice was gentle. “I swear by the Light of Mithra, all of the King’s secrets are safe with me.”

  24 THE DARK PRINCE

  I rose early the next morning and went to the stables. I was far too excited to sit and do nothing; I did not want to ride out and perhaps miss a glimpse of the boys. So I went to Lyonel, Lancelot’s apprentice and now Master of the Horse in his absence, and bade him make ready the young bay stallion Rajid.

  Lancelot had three years hence begun to train the war stallions along the lines set down in an old book the King had procured for him. It was a short scroll written by a Greek, one Xenophon. This man knew horses, and gave instructions for gentling them and training them for war. Lancelot had begun to follow his methods, and Arthur was well pleased with the result. Now he had developed a system of training that began when they were colts in the field, just weaned from the mares, and continued until their full maturity at the age of five. Lancelot and two others, Lyonel and a lowborn stable boy named Griff, were the only riders good enough to do this training. But Lancelot had desperately needed another pair of hands and, over time, had persuaded the High King to let me try. For two years now, I had helped them, and indeed, although it was ring work, I loved it nearly as much as a fast gallop over the downs.

  What the soldiers thought of a woman riding a war stallion, I did not know. But ever since I had lifted the High King’s Sword and lived, they had been more accepting of the strange things I did. They saw I was not like other women: I rode astride without a saddle, and hawked, and raced, and bore no children. They shrugged, and muttered to one another that it was Arthur’s problem, thank God, and not theirs.

  The young horse was put through a series of simple exercises to supple and strengthen him, and increase his willingness to obey. There were bending exercises, changes of gait, and turns and sprints and calm halts. Like dancing, it required control and was hard for young stallions whose instincts were for running, fighting, and breeding mares. It always took all my concentration, and it was for this reason that I went to the stable that morning. I could not bear the thought of Arthur’s son so near—I, unable to go to him, and he, not knowing who he was.

  By the time the rest of the palace was up and about, Rajid and I were hard at work in the big paddock. He moved like a dream, easy and fluid, and when he outgrew his fits of temper, would make one of the best fighting stallions in the High King’s stable. We were doing changes of pace at the canter, and he sweated freely, lathering the oiled reins and chewing the bit as he worked. Suddenly a group of rowdy grooms burst from the stable door, shouting and pushing; the horse took fright, reared, spun, landed and bucked twice, and tried to bolt. By the time I had him in hand again and made him stand, trembling and blowing with fear, the shouting match had progressed to a fistfight. I turned, furious, to give the grooms a tongue lashing—anyone who worked around horses should know better than that!

  But I saw instantly, in a single glance, who it was. Three red-headed boys in outlandish clothes wrestled in the dust of the stableyard, cursing each other in barely intelligible speech, scratching and kicking, fighting by no rules at all that I could see. At the fence, staring open-mouthed, stood a slim, dark-haired boy holding the hand of a small, red-headed imp, who looked up at me with wide green eyes and grinned delightedly.

  “Dred,” he said, tugging at the other’s hand. “Dred, it’s a girl.”

  I stared back at Mordred, Arthur’s son. His father’s face was so clearly stamped upon him, I did not see how anyone could doubt his birth who had ever seen the King. The wide brow, the straight planes of the face, the strong chin, generous mouth—these were Arthur’s. Even his hands, well shaped and strong, were not his own. But his eyes were black; his hair, cut roughly by someone unskilled, was blue-black; his body slender without the promise of breadth—these belonged to him alone. He looked so like Arthur that I expected to feel the familiar warmth flow from him, of greeting, of recognition, or just of joy of living. But the eyes were fathomless and gave nothing back. He had run up with the child when the stallion was misbehaving, but now he just stood and watched me, whether in admiration or disapproval it was impossible to tell.

  I saluted him gravely. “My lord,” I said slowly, in case he had trouble understanding cultured speech, “can you not exert some control over yonder unruly bro
od? This is a stableyard, not a battlefield. They are frightening the horse.”

  His eyes widened. I could see he was pleased to be taken for the eldest, the man in charge.

  “My lady,” he began bravely, and then faltered. His voice was just changing; it had that tentative quality, as if he never could be certain when he opened his mouth which voice would emerge, the man’s or the boy’s. Suddenly he squared his shoulders in a gesture so like Arthur’s, it brought a blush to my cheek. “My lady, please forgive them. They—we—are from a foreign land, where customs differ. Besides”—and suddenly the boy was back—“they cannot keep from fighting five minutes out of six.”

  “Hey, Gawaine!” cried the little imp, leaving Mordred’s side to run toward the tussling boys. “Gawaine! Look at the lady on the horse! She rides just like a man! And better than you!”

  At this the fight stopped, and the three boys all turned toward me. Two were identical: red-headed, green-eyed, and freckled, with the type of short, blunt nose that begs for a blow. Gawaine, a little taller and stronger featured, but no less unkempt, had at least some shred of dignity about him. As I was to learn, he always knew what was due him and saw that he got it.

  He gaped at me and approached the fence.

  “What’s this?” he cried. “Since when do maidens ride the High King’s horses? And without a saddle, no less! This is a bit high-handed—whose woman are you? Who’s your lord? Why don’t you answer? Do you think you can insult my uncle, the High King, without redress?”

  “Shut up, Gawaine! Can’t you see she’s—” Mordred whispered, and was cuffed for his pains. I nearly cried out in indignation, but stopped myself in time. Mordred was used to such treatment, it seemed, and took it with even temper.

  But Gawaine saw my anger and smiled. “There’s more where that came from. Now give me an answer or get off the horse.”

  In a flash I understood why they did not know me. I had bound up my hair and covered it with a scarf, to keep it secure during the workout. And it was by the freakish color of my hair that strangers knew me. Only children had hair of such pale gold it was nearly white, but at twenty, I had yet to outgrow this color.