Queen of Camelot

  “I do not deny it. It is true.”

  “That is a woman’s duty. We do not fight battles, or rule kingdoms. Do not say I am his companion, for he does not take me with him, and he is gone more than he is here. What purpose do I serve? Out of kindness—all right, love—he keeps me. But there is not another like him in the world. I am not whole, Bedwyr— can you not see it? I am but half a woman, and to hear others talk, half a man. I ride, I hawk, I jest with his Companions, I dared to lift the Sword—what am I fit for? Truly, I do wonder: Why am I here?”

  Bedwyr had bowed his head, but now he lifted his face to me, and I caught my breath at the glow of love and compassion I saw there. He rose and looked down upon me.

  “Guinevere,” he said, “I can hardly believe my ears.” He took a turn around the room and returning, knelt before me. “Listen to me a moment. I am going to talk to you about Arthur.”

  Surprised, for I had expected him to try and appease me with the usual compliments, I nodded.

  “I have known him a long time, and I know him well. We were boys together. He was always a leader; I know that is not hard to imagine. He was always the best at games, the swiftest runner, the most daring rider, had the truest aim and the quickest arm. He led and I followed. His bravery astonished me. His compassion won my love. But even at ten I knew he was not whole.” He paused. “There is that in Arthur which drives him to—reach out, to share, to draw in others to him. He has always been seeking something. Back then, though we thought him the bastard of one of Ector’s petty nobles, in my eyes he was a king. He was so able, so confident, so sure.”

  “Yes,” I said quickly. “I know what you mean.”

  “But in his soul, Gwen, he was lonely. He had no one to match him. For a time, Merlin filled that space. Those early years, just after his crowning, they were good ones. Good fellowship with soldiers, planning battles, knowing Merlin was behind him—he was almost at peace. Then, as he grew, Lancelot and I were dearer to him, almost dear enough. But his is a great heart, and a great need. Together, we could not fill it. When he married the Cornish princess, we had hopes—she was bright and gay and made him laugh. But, for whatever reason, he did not love her, and until her dreadful death, she touched him not.”

  “Bedwyr, you are very kind, but—”

  “Hear me out. This is important. I cannot begin to tell you what you mean to him. But I can tell you that what he always sought, he has found in you. Now he is the man it was always in him to be. Now he is whole. Shall I tell you what he was like when you lay on Ynys Witrin, a prisoner of Melwas? Do you think you have seen anger? Or agony? Or cold fury? You have not, if you did not see the King. Do you want to know what he was like when he learned of your abduction? I am a strong man, yet I wept for him. Ask Bishop Landrum if any other of his congregation has knelt two days before the altar, praying, taking no food or rest.”

  I stared. “Arthur did that?”

  “And more. It is not so much a passion of the heart, Gwen, as a need in his very soul. I cannot explain it. But it is real. From the first moment he saw you he has needed you. I pray you will consider this carefully. I am talking about much more than carnal love. You are his rest when he is weary; his joy when he is low; his quiet song when his ears are filled with human pleas and blandishments. What purpose do you serve? You give the King life. Without you, he would not be who he is.”

  “What a gift you have, dear Bedwyr! I see you feel the truth of what you say, and I thank you from my heart. No praise has ever touched me so. But—”

  He gripped my wrist suddenly. “Gwen! Why can’t you see that he would not love you if you were like other women? If you were coy or flirtatious or secretive or light-headed, if you filled your talk with gossip or your days with household chores and cares about children—you know the man! Then would you be like other wives, and then would your barrenness be a curse to him. But you are a woman a man can speak to! Why, even I—” He blushed suddenly and grinned. “Even I cannot speak to my dear wife as I speak to you. This is a gift, Gwen. Do not mistake it for manliness. That you, of all people, could ever think yourself unwomanly!”

  I pressed a finger against his lips to stop him. “Oh, Bedwyr, I do thank you. I take your meaning. You are telling me that the things I do not value in myself are the very things the King values in me. If it is true—”

  “Yes!” he cried.

  “Then I do Arthur a disservice to have such doubts. Then I have done the right thing, after all, in bringing his son to Camelot.”

  “Yes!”

  “Then I can serve him just by—just by being?”

  “Yes, Gwen. Just by being yourself.”

  “Well, then,” I whispered, looking past the window to the young stars, “perhaps the future will be possible to bear. I know his need of me—I have felt it often, although I have never understood it. And if it truly means what you tell me, then—why then, I am able to give to Arthur the gift he gives to me.”

  Bedwyr smiled and uttered a quiet prayer to Mithra. “Blessed are the givers, for they are the bearers of Light.”

  26 THE MEETING

  We rode into Caerleon on the twelfth day of December. It had snowed hard all day, and the going was slow. To prevent our freezing, Bedwyr rode ahead with those of us on horseback and half a troop of mounted soldiers, leaving Kay and the wagons, litters, and rest of the force behind. I rode beside Bedwyr near the front, and the boys rode behind us. They had a hard time of it. I enjoyed talking with Mordred and often beckoned him to come up between us; but I had to be sure and pay Gawaine his due and spend as much time with him, even though he bounced so much in the saddle he could barely talk. Little Gareth had refused to ride in a litter with the women when we separated from those who moved more slowly, and he clung happily to Ferron’s saddlehorn, held by a strong arm, never complaining. The Orkney boys were more used to snow than we were and had names in their own language for all its textures and forms. Of course they argued among themselves which name best applied. It kept them occupied.

  We reached the garrison before dusk. Bedwyr halted at the King’s house and lifted me down from my horse. He brushed the snow from my hood and cloak and offered me his arm. The sentries saluted as we walked to the door.

  “Ailsa and the litters will be hours yet, I fear,” Bedwyr said. “I will send another troop out to escort them, and see the boys safely housed in the barracks. You will be all right?”

  “The King is here?”

  “I understand he is expected. He might be here.”

  “No matter. I will be attended. Join us later, if you can, Bedwyr. He will have lots of questions.”

  “Does he know I know?”

  I smiled. “No, but it will only need a look at your face. Go now. They are waiting. And thank you for all your kindnesses.”

  The house was warm, the tiled floors heated from below by the old Roman hypocaust system of heating water to boiling point in the cellar pit and sending steam through pipes laid under the floors. It was the one advantage the King’s house at Caerleon had over the castle at Camelot, and it was why we always spent the cold months there. The women’s quarters were deserted, for I was the first one there, all but young Hanna and Mary having chosen the litters. I had a hot bath, and Hanna washed my hair. She was shy and said little, but I was tired from the journey and the cold and enjoyed the peace.

  I sat before the grate in my sitting room, while Hanna brushed out and braided my hair, and Mary brewed a hot posset over the fire. I must have dozed off, for I woke to their voices, whispering in the corner.

  “Did you see him?”

  “I saw him well. He rode beside me part of the way.”

  “So? What did he say?”

  “Practically nothing. He is very shy.”

  “He has eyes only for the Queen.”

  “Not in that way, surely. She is old enough to be his—”

  “Hush, she will hear you. She is not. Only eight or nine years between them. Less than between Queen Morgan
and King Urien.”

  “Well, and what are you suggesting? That he is six weeks at court and plans to usurp the King?”

  “Oh, hush, that is treason! I meant no such thing! Only that he admires the Queen and that he is old enough to.”

  “Perhaps. I say, Mary, do you know whom he resembles? I saw it suddenly, when we rode along. It came to me out of the blue—he looks like the—”

  I coughed gently and sat up. At once they came to attend me, but they saw from my face I had overheard them. They were young, Hanna fifteen and Mary a year younger; even so, I had thought them old for Mordred. I made them sit before me, and I took both their hands.

  “Listen to me, for this is serious. Young maids will talk and may be overheard sometimes and perhaps misunderstood. You would not willingly do the High King a disservice by your careless prattle, would you?”

  “Oh, no, my lady,” they said together, eyes wide.

  “Well, then, keep a guard upon your tongues, especially where it concerns the princes of Orkney. They are his kin, and it would not do to start rumors you cannot put fact to.”

  “We spoke only of Mordred the bastard, madam.”

  “Treat Mordred no differently. He, too, is the High King’s nephew.”

  Hanna nodded, but Mary was braver. “We have heard rumors, madam, about a different parentage for Mordred.”

  I looked her full in the face, and she lowered her eyes. “I have heard those rumors, too. Do you find me sharing them with others? Do you know if the rumors are true? Well, then, do not repeat them. They are told by people as ignorant of the facts as yourselves. Let be, child, and keep your own counsel. And never let Mordred get wind of this. That would be cruelty indeed.”

  They were sober after that, and I did not think they would talk. If they did, it would mean an end to gentle service in the Queen’s household and back to their parents in disgrace, and they knew it. But I was unhappy to know that so many others besides myself could read Mordred’s lineage in his face. It would force Arthur’s hand, if he was not ready soon.

  At last came the summons I awaited. The King was home and begged me to sup with him in his rooms. I went gladly, as eager to hear of his doings as I was to tell of my own. He must have just returned, for as I entered the antechamber and curtsied, his chamberlain Varric was hurrying away with his soaking cloak and boots, and a score of knights were leaving, laughing loudly and slapping each other on the back. Lamorak I saw, back from his travels, and Bellangere the Brave.

  “Gwen!” Arthur took me in his arms and kissed me warmly, and the knights smiled at us as they went out.

  “You need shaving,” I told him, rubbing my cheeks where his bristles had poked me. “But even so, I am glad to have you back. You left in such a hurry! Although we heard what happened, tell me the tale yourself. And where is Merlin now? Is he still here?”

  He grinned and called to Varric to bring a bath. “All is well, you will hear soon enough. But first, I must know—how is the boy? What is he like? Will it work?”

  I laughed at his impatience, which was so unlike him. “I have no doubt of it, my lord. Yes, he is worthy. He is good and kind and bright. You need have no fear there. But this I must tell you, Arthur. He has your face. It is stamped upon him as clear as on any coin. I am not the only one to notice it.”

  “Ah. Well, then, matters must be settled soon, I think.”

  He was sitting on the settle, pulling off his wet leggings, when he stopped and looked at up me quickly. “You do not mind?”

  “If you bathe, my lord? No, why should I? I am your wife.”

  “God bless you, that is not what I meant. But if you thought it was, then you are healed at last.”

  As always, Arthur knew my wounds and wished to spare me.

  I went and sat beside him, and placed my hand on his arm. The tunic was icy cold, but his hand was warm. “No, Arthur, I do not mind Mordred’s coming. I am glad of it. If you can deal with him, we will have a family. He and I, already, are on the way to it.”

  He smiled and kissed me again, with love. “I doubt not you have charmed the poor boy right out of his skin. He comes from a wild land where life is simple. He has never seen anyone like you.”

  I blushed. “From what I understand, my lord, he appreciates straight dealing, not having had much of it from Morgause.”

  “Then he and I shall appreciate one another.”

  Varric and two slaves came in with his bath, and as they bathed him, I sat before the fire and heard all about his wild ride north on All Hallow’s Eve. He had ridden all night and had time to reconsider the likelihood of Niniane’s story. It seemed to him, in the cold gray light of winter’s dawn, that hers had been a vision born of longing, or regret, or even guilt. But by then he was halfway there; it was as quick to continue and verify the tale as to turn back.

  When he got to Caerleon Sir Caradoc, the commander, was amazed to see him, having had no warning of the King’s approach. Arthur asked him straight out if Merlin was in the fortress. Caradoc’s jaw dropped, and he made the sign against enchantment behind his back. Swearing under his breath, half ashamed for being so easily duped, Arthur had allowed himself to be escorted to his rooms, and there he ate a good meal and went to bed.

  “Then Niniane’s tale was false!” I exclaimed. “Yet why would she lie? And she had the nerve to follow you here!”

  Arthur smiled, soap suds in his hair. “Stay a moment. You go too fast. Have patience, Guinevere, and let me tell the tale.”

  In the early morning, Arthur had awakened to the quiet calling of his name. When he opened his eyes, there at the foot of his bed stood Merlin, white bearded, white haired, dressed in his familiar dark robe without so much as a fringe of ornament, and with the same black, unreadable eyes.

  “I spoke to him, and he answered me, in his own voice. He came around where I could reach him and gave his hand to me, that I might feel his flesh and know him to be real, and not a phantom.”

  Behind him, the bath slaves paused in their work and exchanged nervous glances. A sharp word from Varric set them rubbing the King’s body with their sponges, but even from where I sat I could see them trembling.

  “Were you not frightened, my lord, to see him?”

  “No. Not frightened. Not of Merlin. He is a father to me, and I am as dear to him as a son. But I was nearly speechless with amazement.” He paused and turned to look at the slaves. “No one who loves me, or Britain, need fear Merlin. Akhet, Menor, do you hear? Whatever he is, man or spirit, he is our protection against the evil men do. Think of him as a lucky talisman and rejoice when he is near.”

  “Yes, my lord,” the slaves mumbled, eyes averted. But I noticed that they stopped shaking and sponged the King with care.

  “What on earth did he tell you, Arthur? How did he escape from the burial chamber?”

  “Ahhhhh, my dear, that he will not say. I, too, wanted practical answers, but he gave me none. He said only that the walls that can hold him have yet to be built. King or no, I could not keep him where he did not wish to be.”

  “Then he was not dead? Oh, my dear Arthur! Did you bury him alive?”

  Arthur shook his head. “He tells me he was living, but not in the world of men. He speaks with a tongue I can scarcely understand sometimes. He says he was with his god, who commands him still.”

  “Then—then he is not a man?”

  “Not as we think of men.” Arthur’s voice was quiet, and his gaze slipped off into the distance. “I don’t know, Gwen, if I can find the words to tell it. When Niniane called him ‘shapeshifter’ she used the ancient term we use for children’s tales—but it will do as well as any other. He is able to assume the shape we knew him by—he can take on flesh and bone and blood, at least for a space of time. But he can also walk among the spirits, pass through time, he says, and sail across the Light. He can do what he wills.”

  “Did he die, then? Or not?”

  “Ah, Gwen, your mind runs like mine. I asked him the same. He told me
not to think of death that way. He gave me an answer that is not an answer: He walks a middle road between the Light and Darkness. How did Merlin put it? The god permits, for a while, his flesh to visit where his spirit will always be.”

  “I don’t understand you, my lord. Is he flesh or phantom? Is he not returned forever, and if not, how long may he stay?”

  Arthur shook his head, sending water flying. Akhet knelt hastily to wipe the floor; not stealthily enough—Arthur turned and begged his pardon.

  “I cannot answer you, Guinevere. He is what he wills to be. In Merlin’s words, his body failed him before his work was done; the god has granted him a gift and has let him return to see it completed. His magic and his Sight he has bequeathed to Niniane. He needs them not. Merlin the Enchanter is dead, indeed. But his power will reach out to us in our time of need: When we need to see him, he will take shape for us; when we need his counsel, his voice will speak into our ears. And when at length we need him no longer, he will vanish.” He paused. “Does that help?”

  “I hardly know. Where is he, when he has no shape and yet he speaks?”

  Arthur shrugged. “In the gloaming. Between the stars. I am giving you Merlin’s words, my dear, don’t be impatient. I cannot enlighten you more. I don’t understand it myself. It is enough for me that he is here.” As he spoke, his voice tightened, and I heard in it the love and pain he felt for the man who had been by his side so long.

  While Varric shaved him, I asked him if it might not be true, after all, that Niniane bewitched him and took his strength, so that he passed for dead but yet was living. Perhaps Merlin’s pride might not allow him to admit this, even to the King. He took a long time to reply, but at last, while Varric packed away his razor, he sighed and shook his head.

  “No. I put this to him, in a fashion, and he denied it. I know Bedwyr thinks it, and Kay, and others; I have wondered once or twice myself—”

  “Do you suspect her, then?”

  “I cannot suspect her and keep her as my counselor. The powers he had on earth she now possesses, but he gave them to her freely. I must take Merlin at his word.” He frowned. His eyes were far away. “There are dangers ahead. For you and me.” He looked at me quickly. “If we doubt him, he cannot help us. And when Niniane arrived at midday, he embraced her with fondness. Had she betrayed him, it could not have been so.”