Queen of Camelot

  “Deal with Saxons!” Lancelot gasped. “Are you out of your mind?”

  I turned to him, startled by my own words. “Am I? How so?”

  “I beg your pardon,” he whispered, coloring deeply and lifting my hand to his lips. “I apologize abjectly. It is a shock to me to hear—from Arthur’s wife—we have only just driven them from the land—”

  I glanced at Bedwyr, who was silent and frowning.

  “Do I speak so out of turn, my lord?” He shrugged. I turned back to Lancelot. “But we have not driven them from the land. The King has drawn a boundary, yes, which they respect. But twenty thousand of them live on Britain’s shores. They cannot be discounted. Would they not be better allies than foes?”

  Lancelot shot to his feet, distressed, and paced the room. “You cannot know what you are saying! Saxons as allies! It is a contradiction. They are uncivilized Northmen. They love nothing more than killing, not even honor. Show me a Saxon, I’ll show you a murderous dog, by God—”

  “Lancelot!” I slid off the settle to kneel before him. “I beg your pardon if I have offended you. I spoke out of turn—I forgot how you have risked your life in battle against them, many times, for all our sakes.”

  The anger went out of him then, and he raised me quickly.

  “I have no right to be angry with you,” he said gently. “It is my fault. I am an old dog who likes to lick his wounds and prefers not to learn new ways.”

  His face was near mine; he held it so, and then stepped away. I sank onto the bench and looked up at Bedwyr, who was watching the fire with no expression at all on his face.

  To save us further trouble, he pulled out his harp and gave us some songs about the Saxon wars and the valorous doings of Arthur’s knights. What with the wine and warm fire and the fresh air and excitement of the day, I am afraid that I fell asleep as Bedwyr sang, with my head on Lancelot’s shoulder and his arm about my waist.

  I awoke to the warm clasp of hands and the gentle touch of lips upon my own. I knew without opening my eyes who it was, by the touch of his hand, by the feel of his mouth, by the very scent of the man.

  “Arthur!” I cried, throwing my arms around his neck as he lifted me from Lancelot’s arms. “Oh, my lord! Thank you for such a wonderful day! Thank you for coming home!” He hugged me tightly, lifting my feet from the ground without effort, and then kissed me.

  “I wouldn’t miss your birthday if I could help it,” he said softly into my hair. “We had a full moon, so we pushed on. How are you, Gwen?”

  I pulled away to see his face. “I have never been so happy, my lord.”

  He smiled. “Then you are easy to please—a good horse, a pretty necklace—”

  I laughed up at him. “And Lancelot is back and you are home. We are complete.”

  Behind me, Lancelot rose, and Arthur turned to greet him. They gripped each other hard and then embraced.

  “Welcome back, Lancelot. We have sorely missed you.”

  Lancelot laughed to cover his emotion. “I have missed events of great moment, I hear from the Queen. Merlin lives? And you have thwarted Morgause and called your nephews into your service.”

  Arthur glanced swiftly about him. The only people in the room with us were Bedwyr, Kay, and Galahantyn, who had come in with the King.

  “My nephews,” he said firmly, “and my son.”

  Lancelot grasped him by the arm and held him. “I congratulate you, my lord, on your mercy. You confer great honor upon him. I look forward to meeting him.”

  Arthur’s eyes were dark, unreadable. “And I congratulate you on the birth of your son. Your lady queen fares well? And you have brought me this fine knight, your brother, for which I am already grateful. See how we increase in fellowship.”

  I made a low reverence, standing between them. “With your permission, my lords, I will retire. You have much to discuss. Arthur”—I met his eyes—“I will await you.”

  He nodded, and I left them. Bedwyr ushered the rest out, and I waited down the hall for Galahantyn.

  He saluted me, and I fell in step beside him. He had been right at the King’s side when he awakened me and took me from Lancelot’s embrace; he heard the words we spoke; he had seen my face and could judge, if he had sense, the truth and depth of my reactions. But his face was carefully void of all expression, and I could not tell what he thought.

  “Good Galahantyn,” I said slowly, “your brother is the finest man I know, next to the King. Have no fear for his honor. I would never shame him. All is well in Camelot.”

  He looked up swiftly, surprised. “My lady Queen! Forgive me, if I gave you cause to doubt me! It is true that earlier today, I was—disconcerted. But I have seen with my own eyes the worship the King pays you, and you him. Britain’s honor is not tarnished, even round the edges, but shines as a bright beacon for others to follow.”

  I smiled. “Thank you for your forbearance.”

  “Not at all. It was very good of you and Arthur to receive us this evening, especially as I understand you have visitors of state.”

  I turned to him, bewildered. “Visitors, my lord? Only you and Lancelot.”

  He frowned. “But surely—I understood—I know I heard them say the queen had at last arrived.”

  I stopped and he stopped with me. “What queen? My lord, what did you hear? Who said this?”

  He shrugged. “Some soldiers. Young men. Outside the barracks as the High King’s troop dismounted. I was flattered the King greeted me so warmly, since the voice I overheard had said the queen would not presume to make her entrance tonight.”

  “Entrance! Whatever did they mean, I wonder?”

  “I beg your pardon if I distress you, my lady. I did ask Sir Bedwyr, but he did not know. He said perhaps you would.”

  “Indeed, my lord, I do not. Do you remember the exact words you heard?”

  “Let me see. One voice said, ‘Listen, brother, the queen has returned. She is here in the city, even as we speak.’ The second voice replied that she would do well to stay away. The first voice then said, ‘Do not worry. She will not make her entrance tonight.’ That was all. It made me wonder if my brother and I had come at an inopportune time.”

  I smiled. “You and your brother are always welcome here, my lord. Any time at all you choose to come. I speak for Arthur as well as for myself.”

  He bowed. “You do us both great honor.”

  “I don’t know who it is who has come among us and is staying away, but I’m sure it will come to light in time.”

  Then I left him to await Arthur in my chamber and did not give another thought to the words I had so casually spoken.

  29 THE SLANDER

  The summer sped by. Lancelot proved to be by far the hardest taskmaster the boys had yet known. Until he came, they had been growing proud of their prowess with their new swords and often fought mock battles in the practice yard with the soldiers watching. As they were the High King’s nephews, the soldiers gave them respect on this account; but Gawaine and his brothers took it for respect for their skill with swords. Not for long. Lancelot was aghast at their clumsiness, and only his great love for Arthur saved them from disgrace.

  As I expected, Mordred and Gareth alone paid him the respect he was due. He gave Gareth his first sword and thereby earned the boy’s undying love. This was a special devotion, one that took Lancelot by surprise. The youngster worshipped him. Mordred was Gareth’s friend, but Lancelot was his idol. By summer’s end, Lancelot loved him as a son.

  Once Gawaine challenged Lancelot’s harsh tutelage, demanding to know by what right he could treat the High King’s nephews with such contempt.

  Lancelot laughed aloud. “By what right? Why, the right to save your skin! I would do my lord small service if I allowed you out in the real world with such skill as you have now! Would you like to see real swordplay?” He had seen the King crossing a nearby courtyard, and sent a page to beg his attention for a moment. When Arthur came, Lancelot tossed him a practice sword.


  “I am a Saxon prince, my lord,” he called out, grinning, touching the sword to his forehead, “and you are a Celtic dog, bred of the Spaniard’s seed, Uther’s bastard whelp, Dragon’s spawn.” The boys gasped in horror. These epithets were well-known Saxon curses, all names for Arthur. Everyone knew them, but no one dared speak them aloud. The King caught the sword in the air, delighted, returned the salute, and advanced, calling “Come, then, prince of godless savages, king of the dung hill, emperor of breeding maggots! Come to me!”

  The swordfight that followed left all the boys amazed; for a tall man, the King moved like a boy, quick, eager, and graceful, but Lancelot was swifter, if not as strong, and parried him stroke for stroke. After the first twenty minutes, when all the strokes the boys had learned were displayed, from every angle, with every dodge and feint, and with every defense, the two men began in earnest to best each other. By this time, soldiers had begun to gather, and then courtiers, and then townspeople. The sun rose high, and they grew damp with sweat, but fought on without stopping, inventing as they went. Lancelot turned and leaped like a dancer. His sword moved faster than the eye could follow, a bright blur in the noonday sun. But Arthur was Pendragon, and driven to be the best; he persisted, cool and furious, giving way when he had to, but always pushing on. They fought beyond fatigue, each determined to outlast the other. At last, close to exhaustion, Lancelot flung his sword to the earth and bent his knee.

  “I yield, my lord.” He gasped, smiling up at Arthur, who stood staggering above him, the sweat dripping from his chin. “No Saxon power can withstand you. You have improved—that quick thrust up from below on my shield side, that’s a new trick. I’m in your debt. You’re the better man today.”

  Arthur grunted and took his hand to raise him. “Today and always. Fatherhood has made you lazy, Lancelot. We have been at it but two hours!” And they fell into an embrace, slapping each other’s backs and throwing punches at each other’s shoulders. The boys, who had cheered at Lancelot’s submission, took it all in and learned a lesson in manners as well as swordplay.

  The King traveled that summer, north to Rheged for counsel with King Urien, then to Galava to see his old friend Count Ector, Kay’s father, thence east to York, and on to Dunpelder to visit Tydwyl. He came home along the eastern borders, skirting the Anglish and Saxon lands. He took Bellangere with him, who knew this area and could speak some Saxon, and he saw for himself what the six years of Arthur’s Peace had accomplished. Arthur’s justice ran the length and breadth of Britain; hill bandits and marauders had been systematically pursued and wiped out. The people of Britain could go in peace about their daily business, could till the land without keeping a sword at their side, and could count on redress for their wrongs. All this pleased him.

  But when he came to the Saxon borderlands and saw the easy communication across the boundaries, the intermarriages, the blood ties that had developed, yes, and alliances, too, he liked it not. A new language was growing there, a broken British-Saxon, that in several valleys threatened to replace pure British speech altogether. He came home thoughtful. I knew from Bedwyr that Lancelot had told him of the words I had spoken in the library, seditious words to Lancelot’s mind, but the King never faced me with this.

  All he talked to me about that summer was Mordred. The boy was ever foremost in his thoughts. He had grown a head in height and now was taller than I was. If he kept it up, in a year or two he would reach the King’s height. His voice had settled in its lower range, and his beard was starting. He soaked up knowledge like a sponge, could ride well, could throw a spear with accuracy if not force, and had grown as skilled with his sword as the least skilled of Arthur’s soldiers. He had grown comely, as well, and I noted my maidens’ eyes followed him everywhere. But in this it seemed he was less Pendragon than his brothers, who lusted openly after every woman they saw. Mordred kept himself to himself, in mind and body, and devoted himself to learning the craft of kingship.

  I had hoped that Lancelot and Mordred would come to friendship and respect. All the princes respected Lancelot for his skill; but except for Gareth, none of them grew to love him. Mordred was always courteous to him, indeed at times he was overly so. I got the impression he respected Lancelot more for his being beloved by King and Queen than for the sake of the man himself. And Lancelot himself would say very little about Mordred. It made me wonder sometimes if he even liked the boy.

  Lancelot was with me all summer as Queen’s Protector. Bedwyr went north with the King and spent two months in Brydwell with his wife, whom he liked well and seldom got to see. We were busy enough in Camelot; Arthur had called a convocation of all his nobles for the second week in September to discuss events in Less Britain and plan the journey; we were all summer getting in supplies. Carpenters built pavilions to house those of the guests who could not be accommodated within the palace; the stables were extended; the smith were busy at their forges, anticipating new demands for horseshoes and weapons. And in the Severn estuary, the King’s ships were gathered and refitted for the hundreds of soldiers and horses and servants they would have to carry across the Narrow Sea.

  One day near midsummer, when the King had been gone a month, Lancelot came to me in the small park Arthur had built between the western tower and the fortress wall. There was an orchard here, which in autumn gave us apples and sweet pears, and a lovely walk between rose beds with benches set in the shade of the trees. Hanna was attending me, but as Lancelot came up, she withdrew to a far corner to give us privacy.

  He had just received a courier from Less Britain, who brought news from King Hoel and from his cousin Bors. The news from Hoel was all about the preparations for receiving the High King, and Lancelot reported all he had said. Then he fell silent.

  “And the news from Bors?” I prodded gently, seeing reluctance in his face. “Is all well at home? Surely nothing has happened to your son.”

  “No, Gwen, all is well. Except—I dislike to tell you this, but you will hear it from others if I do not tell you myself.”

  I smiled, although I was uneasy, and held his hand. “Courage, Lancelot. Surely you are not short of that, who called the High King ‘Dragon’s spawn’ to his face!”

  He smiled. “That was jesting. This is not. Well, you must know it. I have had word that Elaine is with child again.”

  I stared. “She would not dare!”

  Lancelot shook his head, looking a little embarrassed. “You misunderstand me. It is mine.”

  I had no right to feel so, and I knew it, but I shook with helpless rage.

  “So!” I cried, tears springing to my eyes. “What a master of control you are, King of Lanascol! So eager were you to come to see me, you could not keep from her bed—she whom you claim you cannot love, and who was just delivered of your child!” I tried to rise, but he held tightly to my hands and kept me there. He looked ashamed. “Oh, Lancelot!” I whispered. “Forgive me! I have no right, and she is your wife.” I pressed his hands to my lips. “Do not be ashamed, my love.”

  His head went up suddenly, and he pulled away from me. Mordred stood at the end of the walk, observing us. He came forward with a steady stride and bowed stiffly. Lancelot rose. Mordred’s eyes were on the tear tracks on my face.

  “What right have you to treat the Queen so?” he demanded, in his man’s voice. “Your place here, sir, depends upon her husband’s love.” He bowed to me, and his voice was suddenly soft. “Are you all right, my lady? Is there aught that I can do?”

  Lancelot stood straight as a sword, his face a mask. No one, not even Arthur, had ever rebuked him so. From anyone else he would not have taken it. But for Arthur’s sake he kept still.

  “Prince Mordred!” I said sharply, and then paused, lowering my voice. “I do not need protection from my Protector. I thank you kindly for your concern, but I assure you Sir Lancelot has treated me with honor and dealt gently with me in bringing me bad news. There is nothing more to it.”

  “There are tears upon your face, my lady Queen.
” He was adamant.

  “Women do weep, my lord, for foolish things,” I replied, trying to smile.

  Mordred stood his ground. He had poise, had Arthur’s son. “You, my lady, are not foolish.”

  “Well, Mordred,” I said gently, reaching out to place my hand on his arm, “I am a woman and can grieve for things a man thinks nothing of. Sir Lancelot would never willingly distress me. I do assure you of it.”

  I could read nothing in his eyes, and he had learned to school his face like any courtier. But his body twitched as if I had slapped him.

  “You would do well to believe the Queen,” Lancelot said evenly.

  Mordred looked from one of us to the other and bowed deeply. “My lady, my lord, I apologize. I will honor and obey you, for my father’s sake.” With that, he turned coolly on his heel and withdrew.

  “How dare he!” Lancelot muttered, furious. “The nerve to throw Arthur in my face! I tell you, Gwen, he is ambitious—” He stopped, seeing my distress. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly, sitting down beside me again. “I know he is young, but—what is it?”

  I shook my head. To my own surprise, I was shaking from head to foot.

  “He knows now that you love me,” I whispered.

  “All the world knows that.”

  “In a general way, perhaps. But Mordred saw it here, between us. And he saw that I love you.”

  “Will he misunderstand it? Galyn did not.”

  I spread my hands helplessly. “I do not know what he will think. It is not a secret, God knows. I don’t know why he did not believe it before.”

  “Ahhh,” said Lancelot, “I know that.”

  “You do?”

  “Gwen.” He took my hands again and held me firmly until I was still. “The boy is head over heels in love with you. You must know that.”

  I cleared my throat. “So Arthur told me. I—I had hoped he would outgrow it. He is my son.”