Queen of Camelot

  “An omen!” Queen Morgan cried. “See how the sword fails him!”

  But before the words were out of her mouth, Arthur drove the jagged remnant of the blade into Accolon’s face, then reached for his dagger and stabbed him to the heart, all before the poor knight could lift his sword a second time.

  The King knelt down at Accolon’s side and spoke to him and took his hand. When he died, the King saluted him and turned away. Not a single tear graced Morgan’s eye; she was angry and kept declaring that God had sent an omen to Britain, that Arthur was no longer worthy of the Sword.

  Lancelot laughed. “The Sword of Britain, madam? Or that piece of glass? So this is why you came to Camelot!”

  At a sign from the King, a guard formed around her, and she was taken prisoner. That night Urien arrived and learned all that had happened. He was closeted with the King for hours, and when they parted, both men looked at ease with one another.

  “He has put her away,” Arthur told me later. “He has given her into my keeping and is content to leave Morgaine with Niniane. I will send Morgan to Castle Daure to join her sister. The garrison at Winchester can be fortified to supply the troops. Let the two of them match their wits and magic against one another. As long as they are out of my hair!”

  “What did she hope to gain?” I asked him. “Did she think to replace you herself? Surely she knew the men would not follow her or Accolon.”

  “I think she intended to present Urien with an accomplished fact and persuade him to take over the Kingdom himself. I tell you, Gwen, he is glad to be rid of her and would have put her by long ago, but for fear of offending me.”

  He stood behind me, brushing my hair. With the coming of dark the heat had given way before a light sea breeze. I had bathed, although the entire castle thought me strange to want hot water in summer. But it refreshed me more than chilled wine, and for the first time that day I felt at ease. The danger to the King was past, and he had suffered no hurt for me.

  “Will you be in any danger without your Sword, my lord?” I asked him.

  “No, Gwen. It is a symbol now, more than a weapon. It has been years since I lifted it in battle.”

  “Then all is well,” I said with relief. “Niniane told me once that you were destined to be the victor in every field you took—I should have remembered that.”

  “It was Merlin’s prophecy,” he said in a tight voice, “before it was hers.”

  I turned on the stool and clutched his wrist. With great care, he set down the brush. “Like that of today?” I said hoarsely. “Had you heard that before?”

  He shook his head. He was not afraid now. He had already accepted it. “No. The vision came to her there in the garden. It was new to me.”

  “What does it mean, my lord? That—that you will be slain? That cannot be, if Merlin’s vision is true, and you are always victorious.”

  He looked puzzled. “I don’t know what it means. But what is this? Do you try to argue with visions?”

  I stood and slipped my arms around his body. “I mean only that perhaps Niniane is not the seer Merlin was; perhaps it was not a true vision.”

  “She has Merlin’s power,” he said gently. “Don’t distress yourself, Gwen. Put it behind you.”

  “Do you believe these things she sees must happen? Don’t you believe that men’s wills count? Are we God’s puppets, or do we earn His love by making choices for good or evil?”

  He stepped back from me and looked into my face. “We are responsible for our actions,” said the King.

  I swallowed. “Then perhaps these dark fates may be avoided, if we will. I have thought long about this, Arthur. Perhaps these are warnings only, of what will come if we stray from the right path. If we make our own futures, who is to say what they will contain?”

  He frowned and took a turn about the room. What love he bore for Merlin, never to question him! I felt suddenly guilty that, like Eve, I offered him uncertainty, where before he had made his peace.

  “What are you telling me?” he said. “Today, in Morgaine’s embrace, I felt my death blow.” He raised his hand and touched the side of his head. “Do you mean that what I felt was only possibility? One among many?”

  I began to tremble. “I—I think—oh, Arthur! Remember what else Merlin told you! That it should be Mordred’s doing!” The sudden pain on his face brought tears to my eyes. I ran and knelt at his feet. “Forgive me, my lord.”

  He raised me and said slowly, “I had not forgotten.”

  “But he will not do it!” I cried, and then everything I wanted to say came rushing out in a tumble of words. “This was my first thought, when Niniane spoke today, that it could not be true, not that vision and the one of Mordred both, because he will not raise a hand against you. This I know, he has sworn it to me! Morgause terrified him—how evil, to tell her own son he would be the death of his father! But he thought, as Niniane told him, it might be something indirect, like, like falling from a horse on your way to see him, or some such thing. This would be beyond his power to prevent. But this horror of today—this he can and will prevent! For Mordred loves you, Arthur. I know Lancelot thinks him ambitious, but he will not know the boy. He would not harm you if his life depended on it. He has suffered so from this foul prophecy! But if you are to die in battle—and how can that be, if you are always victor?—then by his will, Mordred can be free of this thing! He has sworn not to outlive you.” I gasped. I had gone too far; I had not meant to tell him that.

  He looked at me a long while in silence. “A boy’s oath, that the man must break. He will be my heir.” His voice was flat. I dared not move.

  Rarely was he out of temper and rarely had his wrath touched me. But this time I had offended him deeply. The skin around his nose and mouth looked pinched and white, his eyes cold and black. Slowly he turned his back to me and walked out on the terrace. Only then I felt my knees shake and clutched the bedpost for support.

  “Arthur!” I whispered. Would I never learn to guard my tongue? But for me, he would have peace of mind. I was forcibly reminded of my words to Lamorak—how pompous they sounded now! The King came to me for comfort after the day’s ordeal, and I wounded his heart.

  He stood stiffly by the parapet, staring out at the dark garden below. I knew by the way he held himself that he fought his own fury. I sank to my knees and whispered a quick prayer, for Arthur’s sake. He must get past this anger, and understand that what drove both me and Mordred was nothing but fear for him. He could command fear; could he admit, and forgive, that we could not? I trembled again at the thought of what I had done. If he could not get past it, what then? Surely our close fellowship was ended, and he would trust me no longer. I bowed my head as tears slipped out—how was the Witch of Rheged proved right about me, after all!

  After a long while, I heard his step and felt him touch my hand. “Arise, Guinevere. I would talk with you a moment.”

  I looked up quickly; he was calm, the black anger gone. “My dear lord, please forgive me. Lately I am but a thorn in your side.”

  His features warmed; he almost smiled. “Hardly that.” He led me past the leather curtain and into his own chamber. He sat upon the great bed and beckoned me to sit beside him. “I cannot long be angry with you, Gwen. But I must know this about Mordred.”

  Haltingly I told him about Mordred’s distress when Morgause had told him of Merlin’s prophecy and about the solemn vow he had made.

  “Lancelot,” Arthur said evenly.

  “Yes, my lord,” I said sadly, looking away. “I fear that was the reason. Mordred suffered great anguish, Arthur, and I believe he still means to keep his vow.”

  “He is young yet.” Then a whiplash of anger cut across his voice. “Between you, you have robbed me of my future!” Stilling himself, he took my hair in his hands and slowly let it fall through his fingers. “ ‘Gwen. You must make an effort, for my sake, to ignore these prophecies. They are nothing, really. They do not affect us. They are simply things seen by those who
have Sight to see them. If they are true, they are true, and if false, false. Live as though you had not heard them. My sweet wife, it is the only way. Give up trying to decipher them and reconcile them; you have not that gift, thank God. Forget them.”

  He leaned slowly forward to kiss my cheek and neck and throat. With a sigh, I let go of my fear and my worry—he took them all upon himself.

  “Thank you, Arthur,” I whispered, and found his lips on mine.

  Gently he pressed me back against the bearskin coverlet and leaned over me, filling my vision. “I am a King, and I do what I must. When he is King, he will do the same. Understand this, Gwen.”

  “Yes, Arthur,” I breathed, “you are right.”

  He smiled slowly. “And now, is your fear gone?”

  “Yes, my lord,” I said, reaching for him.

  But he resisted, holding himself away, looking down at me. “Are you sure? A moment ago it consumed you, body and soul.”

  I lifted a hand to his face. “You have the power to dispel it, my lord,” I said softly. “You have always had this power. Since the first day I met you, Arthur.”

  Gently he caressed my cheek with his finger and then ran his hand slowly down my shoulder and over the soft fabric of my gown.

  “Do you remember how frightened of me you were then?” he asked with amusement, watching my face. “You put me in mind of a wild filly; you wanted to run.”

  “I remember it well. You gentled me like a master.”

  He laughed lightly. “No, hardly that. Does it not seem odd to think we were strangers once?”

  I caught his roving hand and pressed it to my lips. “Come, Arthur. I have not your patience.”

  “And now,” he continued, smiling, “you are like dry tinder awaiting the spark. See what comes of overcoming fear?”

  I took his face between my hands and drew him down to me. “If you possess the spark, my lord, bear in mind that too much wind may blow it out.”

  He laughed, bent down, and kissed me.

  35 THE HOMECOMING

  “Well, Gwen,” Arthur said, smiling, “who do you think is coming to see us?”

  Council had just broken up, and the Companions lounged leisurely near the windows in the Round Hall, passing the wineskin and enjoying the breezes of early summer. Lancelot and Bedwyr stood near Arthur. They had been arguing as I entered the chamber, but broke off, and turned to me with lightened looks. I knew a courier had come that day from Wales, and I knew that several of the knights errant had returned to report on their travels, but I could not guess what it was that so pleased Arthur.

  “Who, my lord?” I asked, as he raised me. “An old friend from Wales, perhaps?”

  “Close to the mark,” he replied. “An old friend, indeed, and one you have not seen since well before you came to Camelot. But not from Wales.”

  “Not from Wales? But before I came here I did not know anyone who was not from Wales! Unless you count my tutor Iakos?” I glanced up and saw his eyes were dancing.

  “Someone you liked better than Iakos, I imagine. Someone tall and fair and handsome, to use your words. A king’s son when you knew him. Now a king.”

  “Not Fion!” I cried. “Oh, Arthur! Is it really Fion? Is he coming to Camelot at last?”

  “Not to Camelot. We go to meet him in Gwynedd.” He turned to Bedwyr. “Do you remember him? The Prince of Ireland? He came to meet us along the Glevum road when his countrymen had ransomed him from Pellinore. He’d led a raid on Pellinore’s coast and been caught. Gwen was the one who found him half dead on the beach and wrapped him in her cloak, though it was midwinter, and saved his life, thereby enslaving his affection.”

  Lancelot was watching me, and I protested.

  “It was nothing so dramatic. He would have lived in any event. It would take more than a winter’s night on a Welsh beach to silence Fion. Where have you heard these fantastic tales?”

  Arthur laughed. “Why, he told me so himself. He talked about you a good deal, as I remember.” I looked away, but could not keep from smiling in delight. I had not seen Fion in ten years, since I was fourteen and had stumbled upon him, a wounded pirate with golden hair and eyes of unbelievable green. He was the first man who ever spoke poetry to me, or sang to me, or tried to win me. This was at an age when a grown man’s admiration means more than life to a lass. I would have married him, had he asked me.

  “It was Fion who proposed her for Queen, was it not?” Bedwyr asked.

  “No, no,” I said quickly, feeling Lancelot’s eyes still on my face. “That was my cousin Gwillim. At least, that was what Pellinore told me.”

  “True enough,” Arthur said easily. “But it was Fion’s praise of you that decided me. I knew him to be an honest man.”

  “Just how well did you know him?” Lancelot blurted. “I thought he was Pellinore’s hostage.”

  I grinned at Arthur, delight getting the better of sense. “He was the handsomest man I’ve ever seen! Oh, it will be so wonderful to see him again!”

  Arthur laughed outright as Lancelot colored. “You see, Lancelot, we are but second best. In her heart there is another who comes first.”

  To hide my face I made a deep reverence between them. “Not so, my lords.” The jest had gone far enough, and Arthur knew it. He slung an arm about Lancelot’s shoulders.

  “Things are as stormy in Ireland as they ever were, with six cousins after his throne. Even his marriage to a northern girl did not stay the plotting against his life. So he has sent a message seeking counsel.”

  “But I thought he was not coming to Camelot.”

  “Indeed,” Arthur said, lowering his voice, “he is not. He is setting his enemies a trap. He has given out that he comes to Camelot to consult with me. That is a month’s journey by sea and land and back again. Plenty of time for the pretenders to foment a riot. But he will do no more than touch land in Gwynedd, pay us his best wishes, and return to catch them red-handed. If he is successful, he might be able to unite his realm.”

  It sounded like Fion. He was a better poet than a leader of men; quick and clever, he could charm his way out of anything. Except, perhaps, the ambitions of his relations.

  “Oh, Arthur! Won’t you take me with you? Please, my Lord, just this once!” Ever since King Melwas had abducted me, Arthur barely let me ride three leagues from home without the entire army at my back. To go home again, actually to go home and see the Western Sea and the wooded mountains of my girlhood! My thoughts must have shown upon my face, for Arthur slipped an arm about my waist.

  “Yes, you are coming. But it will not all be pleasure. I have need of your diplomatic skills. Besides—” He hesitated, and smiled again. “I doubt either you or Fion would forgive me if I went alone.”

  “You are right about that! When do we leave? And with how many?”

  “In two weeks. With half the army.”

  “So many? To greet Fion? Ahhhh. I see there is more to it. Do you expect war, then? What is amiss?”

  “No,” Arthur said quickly, “or you should not come. Not war. But the situation is difficult.”

  “What situation?” Their faces grew grave, and Lancelot and Bedwyr avoided looking at one another. I felt a sudden foreboding. “What has Maelgon done?”

  I knew, of course, that Elaine’s brother Maelgon was king now in Gwynedd, poor Pellinore having broken his neck in a hunt the previous autumn. My cousin Maelgon was but a younger, stronger version of the hot-headed Elaine, and was capable of almost anything. He was certainly capable of picking a fight with any one of his neighbors, but the King had said he did not expect war. On the other hand, with half the army along he was clearly ready for it. I thought of the Welsh lords I knew, of my brother Gwarthgydd the King of Northgallis, and the kings of Powys and Dyfed and Guent. They had all liked Pellinore well enough and were loyal to Arthur. I did not think it likely Maelgon could stir them up against Gwynedd in so short a time. But whom else might Maelgon have offended?

  Arthur glanced at me and shook his
head. “I told you both,” he said to Lancelot and Bedwyr, “she knows the man.”

  “I do indeed. You frighten me by your silence. What has he done?”

  Arthur sighed wearily and began to pace back and forth. The men near the windows stopped their idle chatter and stood quietly, listening. At length the King turned and faced me. “Maelgon has taken it into his head to purify Gwynedd. To wipe out the Druids.”

  My hand closed automatically over the crucifix at my throat. This was a thing Arthur had feared for years. Christian power was growing in Britain, and he knew there would be those who tried to win a name for themselves by championing the Christian cause and justifying slaughter in the name of righteousness. And this, Arthur abhorred.

  I looked at Lancelot, but his face told me nothing. He stood stiffly, waiting, looking nowhere. With every passing year Lancelot grew more devout, as if by prayer and fasting and strict adherence to his faith he could purge from his soul our long, deep-rooted passion. But Arthur, an anointed Christian King, respected the old ways and was well known to honor the gods sacred to any place. He had worshipped at the Mithraeum in York; he had honored the Great Goddess; he was known to stop at wayside shrines and leave offerings to the Elder Spirits; he had been formally blessed by both the Archdruid Salowen and the Lady of the Lake. His broadmindedness had been marked and appreciated by his people. Only a small group of fanatics dared to criticize his fairness. But Bishop Landrum was among them and had preached more than once against such tolerance. And the bishop’s power was growing.

  Salowen the Druid! I thought suddenly. The Isle of Mona, the Druids’ Isle, lay but a league off Gwynedd’s shores. Even in Pellinore’s day they had caused trouble with the Christian community, always competing with Father Martin for recruits, their schools and music outshining anything the Christian brothers could produce. Mona was an ancient seat of learning, and her sacred grove of Nemet one of the holiest places in all Britain.

  “Arthur,” I whispered, “do not tell me he has done insult to the Druids on Mona’s Isle.”