“Ahhhh, my dear, can you ever forgive me for that?”
He smiled briefly. “I forgive you anything.”
I clasped his hand, and we sat silent for a while.
“I have given the girl a place in my household. She will bring her son to live with us.”
He squeezed my hand. “I thought you might. I’m glad you did. She will feel safer here, although she must still see the bishop twice a week. But he will know she has the Queen’s protection. For her, at least, that should be the end of it.”
“Arthur should know about Bishop Landrum.”
He sighed. “Tell him, if you must. He can do little about it unless the man’s victims accuse him.”
“He knows I have always loathed the bishop, since I first came to Caer Camel. But he has never understood why.”
Lancelot rose and raised me. “And I must tell him about the threat to his nephew. I wish I knew who that woman was. Of a certainty, she is evil.”
“Perhaps I should ask Niniane about her.”
“Or Merlin.”
I shuddered. “I don’t know how to summon Merlin. He appears to Arthur now and again, but never when I am there. Have you seen him, Lancelot?”
Lancelot crossed himself. “Once. Away from court. I’ve no doubt Merlin could put an end to that witch. She thinks he is dead, you know. She boasted to me I could not touch her, for since Merlin’s death she was the most powerful sorceress in Britain. I did not enlighten her.”
“But Niniane has Merlin’s power. She is not afraid of Niniane?”
“No. She is not afraid of any woman. And I fear, Guinevere, she will come back.”
“But if she does, you will accuse her!”
“She might wait until I’m gone. She boasted that King’s Gate could not keep her from the King.”
“She is after Arthur? To do what? If it is Arthur she threatens, then her cause is lost, for Merlin will protect him.”
He nodded, thinking hard. “Yes, but she does not know that. And it was not only Arthur that she threatened.”
I gripped his arm. “Did she threaten you?”
“Oh, yes. And you.”
“Me!”
Lancelot looked away and a flush rose to his cheek. “She said the time would come—despite our vows, despite our wills—she said she had seen it in the crystal—she said you and I will lie together, and so betray the King.”
I slid to my knees and held tightly to his hands. “How did she dare! It cannot happen without our will!”
Then he looked at me with hot gray eyes and his strong hands lifted me to his lap. “No,” he whispered, his lips against mine, “it will not happen without our will.”
I laid my head against upon his shoulder. Arthur! I cried inside my soul, Arthur! Come home now!
31 THE WITCH OF ORKNEY
The King came home the first week in September. The kings of Britain followed within a fortnight, all gathering for a great Council to discuss policy toward Childebert and the Franks. With so many preparations, and so many guests to greet, the events of summer faded in importance. Lancelot told Arthur about the attempted seduction of his nephew, but as he had predicted, Arthur could do little about it; the witch was gone, and Gaheris and his brothers were under a stricter regimen now that the King was back. I told him about the girl Grethe and her lie about Lancelot, and how I had believed it, and why, and what the truth was. He saddened when he heard it and ran a gentle finger down my cheek.
“Lancelot would never hurt you by intention,” he said gravely. “And if by accident, he would confess it. This you know. Had it not been for Melwas, you’d not have given such a lie a second thought.”
“Perhaps not, my lord.”
“As for the bishop, he is a man of many sins, but he is still a man of God. I will let him know, in a roundabout way, I will not tolerate such profligate behavior and will give shelter to his victims if they ask it. I will let him know I am considering sending a courier to Rome. I wager he will take the hint.”
We had little time for private talk, with so many people arriving and so much public ceremony. Niniane arrived with King Pelleas, her husband, and King Urien of Rheged brought his wife, Morgan, Arthur’s full sister. She lodged with her husband in the palace, and I heard from those who saw her rooms that she kept far grander state than I did. Haughty and cold featured, she could scarcely bring herself to speak to anyone lower ranked than Arthur himself. This was fine with me; I did not enjoy her conversation.
The Orkney princes were excited at the gathering of all the men they had learned so much about in Valerius’ lessons; most of these had fought beside Arthur in the Saxon wars. But as the boys were too young to be knighted and made Companions, they could not attend the Council meetings and were usually sent out hunting with whatever King’s men were going that day. So large a host required a constant resupply of game. Duke Constantine was among the guests; he looked to be a proud man, who would not be easily displaced. Perhaps the King sent the boys hunting to keep Mordred out of his way.
The Council of kings lasted a week. It was resolved that the High King should go to Brittany with Lancelot, to meet with King Hoel and send a message of formal greeting to King Childebert. To represent a united front, many of Britain’s lords went with him: Urien of Rheged, Ector of Galava, Hapgar of Strathclyde, Constantine of Cornwall, Drustan of Elmet, and Pelleas, to name a few. My dear uncle King Pellinore of Gwynedd went, also, more to visit his daughter Elaine and see his new grandson than to parley. They were seven hundred men in all, and four hundred horses. The thought of what might happen should storms assail the seas was enough to stop the heart.
Bedwyr stayed as regent and Queen’s Protector. As King of Brydwell he deserved a place among this distinguished train, and I asked him if he did not regret having to stay at home and make sure I behaved myself.
He laughed. “The King does me far greater honor by entrusting you to my keeping. Why is Lancelot always appointed the Queen’s Protector when he is here? Not for the reason you think, perhaps, although Arthur is an understanding man. It is because Lancelot is most trusted and most able. In all the Kingdom, there is no higher honor.” It was a gallant reply, and I thanked him for it; but had I been he, I would have wanted to be traveling.
Parting with Arthur had become easier with so much practice, but parting from Lancelot was difficult indeed. It was mid-October when they set out for the estuary. He would be gone until mid-March, at least. Half the year seemed a lifetime. And since Camelot was full of strangers, we had no privacy for our farewell. Arthur talked long with me the nights of the last week, but Lancelot I bid adieu in the forecourt of the castle, in the public eye.
“Take good care of my lord the King,” I told him, doing him deep reverence, “and God speed your way there and back again. We are not the same in Camelot without you, good Lancelot. And as you are a merciful man, give your lady wife a rest from her labors.”
His mouth twitched, suppressing a smile. “Gentle Queen,” he murmured, “I give her no more labor than she can bear.”
“For my sake,” I countered, “let her lie idle the long winter, that she may labor and bear no more.” Arthur’s eyebrow lifted in warning; I gave Lancelot my hand and let him go.
They rode out King’s Gate and down the broad causeway to the shore road, and left Camelot behind, ringing with emptiness.
Things were not dull for long. No sooner was Arthur gone than his sister Morgan began to seek out my company. I often went riding with Bedwyr or Ferron, and sometimes Morgan and her courtier Accolon, who dogged her like a shadow, accompanied us. She alone had remained after the host had left; the King had made her welcome, having no other choice, and she had chosen to stay until her husband returned. Arthur was not happy about it, but I told him I did not mind. Until he left, she kept to herself. Accolon never left her side, even at night, said the palace gossip. He was younger than she was, well made and strikingly handsome, with light hair, dark eyes, and a fine complexion. That he wa
s her devoted slave was clear; his adoring eyes followed her everywhere. Her husband King Urien was a graybeard, old enough to be her father.
Morgan was Urien’s second wife. His first wife had been dear to him, by all accounts, and had given him four sons, Coel, Uwain, Lyle, and Drian, now grown men who served the King. If he had married Morgan to replace what he had lost, he soon knew of his mistake. She had borne him a daughter, Morgaine, and if rumors could be trusted, had hardly spoken to him since. Her compassion as a mother seemed no greater than her compassion as a wife. Only sixteen months before, at the age of seven, Morgaine had been kidnapped and savagely raped by the villain Heuil, leader of the Strathclyde clan, during a border dispute with Rheged. Morgan’s response to her daughter’s ordeal was to shut her away and treat her like something soiled.
After one of our outings I asked Morgan how the child fared, to see what she would say. She replied, with coldness, that she grew and thrived and had been revenged for her attack. I shuddered at the thought of what she had been through and expressed my deep sympathy to Morgan.
“Well,” she said icily, “you should know.” And turned away.
I stared after her, astonished. No one had heard her remark but I; I let it pass. I realized then that sharp tongues had been at work, and that at least some in Britain chose to believe Melwas had been successful. If any believed it, it only reflected better on Arthur’s mercy, so I said nothing.
When Arthur left, Niniane returned to Avalon. But before she left, she gave the King two words of advice: first, that he should lock King’s Gate against all comers, and second, that he should lock up his Sword. Arthur objected to locking the fortress gates. It was his policy, he said, to make Camelot and the justice dispensed in the Round Hall open to anyone in the kingdoms. To lock the gates would be to cut off Britain from her vital center, and he would not do it. But he did lock up his Sword. He was not taking Excalibur to Brittany, for this was a mission of peace and friendship, not of war. So a guard was posted, day and night, outside the door of the Round Hall, where the great Sword hung in its hanger above the High King’s chair. No one went in or out without Bedwyr in attendance.
One night when the King had been gone a fortnight, Bedwyr and I were sitting before a good log fire in the library, reading from the scrolls of Xenophon. The wind had risen and promised storm the next day. Drafts whistled through the corridors, around the edges of the tapestries, and made the fire welcome. We had fallen to talking about Lancelot when the door burst open, and Kay ran in.
“Bedwyr! Fire! The stables are afire! Call the sentries—in this wind, it will take every man to save the horses!”
I leaped to my feet, but Bedwyr was already at the door. He turned. “If I cannot be with you, Gwen, get to your rooms. Don’t be alone.”
I nodded, and he flew away. Now I wished I were a man and not a woman! To have to hide in my quarters with my women, while my precious horses were at risk! Would they have enough men to man the buckets, build a firebrake, and lead the horses out? Would they have time, with this wind? We were so short-handed, with so many troops gone with the King! But I could do little to help. It was man’s work, and I had orders to obey.
I went silently along the corriders. It was strange to see no sentries line the walls. As I passed the hallway that led to the Round Hall, I caught movement from the corner of my eye. I turned to look. The torch near the Council chamber had gone out. Why had the guard not relit it? I went to see. When I came to the door, I understood. The guard was not there. Remembering Niniane’s warning, I determined to check on the Sword. On tiptoe I grasped the nearest lighted torch and lifted it from the sconce. It was not heavy, but my hand shook, and the door seemed to tremble and sway. I pushed it open slowly, but could hear no sound at all. The chamber was in darkness. Outside the glazed windows I heard dimly the shouts of men, but here was only stillness and peace. I made my way to the great round table and looked up. There it was, still in its hanger, cold and forbidding in the torchlight. I sighed in relief. I did not stop to wonder why the great emerald lay quiet, when usually even the smallest flame set light flashing from its facets; I was so pleased to see the Sword, sheathed in its old scabbard as the King had left it, that I chided myself for my foolish fears and closed the door.
I myself stood guard on it. I disliked to disobey Bedwyr, but the King’s orders came first. The Sword must be guarded. Before long, I heard running feet and panting, and a young sentry came racing toward me.
“Who’s there, in the King’s name!” When he got close enough to recognize me, he cried out and fell on one knee. “My lady Queen Guinevere! What—what’s amiss?”
“Nothing. The Sword is there. But when I came by I found the door unguarded, and so took up the post.”
He kissed my hand with fervor. “My lady Queen, you have saved me from disgrace! Sir Bedwyr was so furious—I was wrong to leave the post, even for fire, but I thought—no matter. You have saved me. I am forever in your debt.”
“What is your name, gentle knight?” I asked kindly, for I saw he was young and frightened.
“Hugh, my lady—and I am not yet knighted.”
“Arise, Hugh, and take this torch from me, if you will. It grows heavy with holding.”
He had it from me in an instant and, relighting the one that had gone out, returned it to its sconce.
“One good turn deserves another,” I said, noting the smudges of soot on his face.
“Anything, my lady! Ask it!”
“Tell me about the fire. What is going on?”
Thus far, he said, the fire was contained in the new additions that now stood empty. It had started in the hay, no one knew how. But the King’s stables, built of stone, were not yet threatened, and already the horses were being taken to the pastures. People from the town had come to help, seeing the smoke, and it was likely that disaster would be avoided.
“Thank God!” I sighed. “This is good news indeed. Now it will be possible to wait for Bedwyr’s report. I thank you, Hugh.”
He was profuse in his thanks to me, but I felt sorrow in my heart for him. He would never make one of the King’s Companions, for he had no sense. And after this, even though no harm had come of it, Bedwyr would never trust him.
Bedwyr came to me after midnight to make his report. He was tired and out of temper, but pleased with the results. He had washed his face and hands and scrubbed his hair, but his clothes were stained with soot and burned with embers. It had been a near thing, because of the wind.
“If we ever find who set it, I shall take his life with pleasure,” he growled.
“Who set it?”
“It was no accident, my lady. The hay was newly harvested but well dried. I checked it myself. And we found the ashes of hot coals. That’s how it was started. If the Sword had been touched, I would have suspected a diversion, but as it is—” He passed his hand wearily across his brow. “I know not what to think. But someone has done evil, and I will find him.”
The next morning, although it had begun to rain, Queen Morgan announced that she and all her train were leaving.
“Perhaps it was unwise to stay and await my lord,” she told Bedwyr in my hearing. “My brother should have left his fortress in more capable hands. After last night, I cannot be sure that we will have mounts left when we wish to go.” Bedwyr took it without flinching, but his eyes flashed. I flew to his defense.
“Sir Bedwyr is among the finest men in Britain. Although,” I added thoughtfully, “I see where you might find his manner of administration somewhat foreign. He metes out punishment only where it is well deserved, and does not blame children for the sins of their elders. As to horses, my husband’s sister is always welcome to animals from his own stables”—I made her a reverence—“that is, if you can ride them.”
Morgan stiffened; Bedwyr covered a smile. Even Accolon looked at me with admiration. I began to feel sorry for Urien.
“Thank you, Queen Guinevere,” she snapped, “for your gentle offer. As you n
o doubt rule in Camelot, your advice about governing is clearly worth having. I would beg you remember I am a lady and do not ride stallions. That is for men, and for ill-bred maidens who wish they were.”
I heard Bedwyr’s indrawn breath and saw the stony faces of the men behind him. When she called me maiden she insulted even Arthur.
“Even were I maiden,” I said slowly, letting the words fall singly into the icy silence, “I would have the mother love to seek healing for a child so abused as little Morgaine and not leave her to suffer nightmares and terrors of the dark all on her own. It has been over a year,” I finished softly.
In fury she turned to Accolon. “We will go,” she commanded. “I will not stay to be instructed by Arthur’s barren wife on child rearing!” With that, she flounced out, Accolon following, and left us in peace. The men in the room were afraid to move. Even Bedwyr glanced at me nervously.
I smiled and took his arm. “Do not fear, Bedwyr. She has not the power to hurt me. If those are her sharpest barbs, I am in no danger. Elaine gave me a tougher hide than that.”
Bedwyr exhaled in relief and returned the smile. “She is known for her sharp tongue and the joy she takes in making people cower. But my lady bested her this day.”
I shook my head. “To be queen of shrews is no honor. I should not have spoken so to Arthur’s sister. I only demeaned myself. Pray, let’s hope she keeps her word and leaves.”
Morgan was gone by nightfall, and Bedwyr and I looked forward to a calmer stretch of time. There was much to do before we moved to Caerleon at Christmas; the harvest must be brought in, beasts slaughtered and their flesh smoked and dried for soldiers’ rations, wool and flax and dyes prepared for winter’s weaving, the festivals celebrated and thanks given before the new year at the Samhain fires. Everyone was busy. At this time of year, there was scarcely a village in Britain that could not have used an extra pair of hands. Each morning we rose early, and often by hall we were so exhausted we bid each other good night as we rose from table and went straight to bed.