“He has done worse than insult,” came the cruel reply. “He has done murder. Not directly, but through another.”
“In a good cause,” Lancelot murmured, and I stared at him, astounded.
Arthur frowned, but checked his anger. “A man should not be murdered for calling his God by a different name,” he said firmly, looking around the room and catching everyone’s eye. “I will not have that said of me, nor of any who serve me.” He did not look directly at Lancelot, but the point went home.
“Amen,” I said quickly, praying Lancelot would take the hint and be still. “How did it happen?”
Arthur resumed his slow pacing, his hands behind his back. There was utter silence in the room. The gathered Companions stood in two groups, Kay, Gereint, Gryfflet, Sagramor, and the other Christians by the open window, behind Lancelot, and Villers, Dryaunt, Bleoberys, and Bellangere with the other pagans nearer Bedwyr. Already was Arthur’s council divided.
At last, Arthur spoke. “Did you know a youth named Balyn in Gwynedd? I believe he was the son of one of Pellinore’s nobles.”
“Yes, I think so. There are two of them, are there not? Twins? Balyn and Balan. Rambunctious boys, as I remember, the type to find trouble everywhere. And not very clever.”
“Your memory serves you well. Not clever enough by half. They were very close as children, as twins are, but when they came of age they fought over a maiden. It grew into a feud, they say, until their father split them up in order to protect them from each other. He himself owed a favor to Salowen, so he offered him Balan’s services for a term of years in repayment of the debt. Balyn he sent into Pellinore’s service. Pellinore made him a Christian.”
“Ah, yes,” I said, recalling to mind the rather thick-featured boy with badly cut hair who always said his prayers aloud, at twice of the volume of anyone else. “He was very enthusiastic about whatever he undertook; but he seldom looked ahead toward consequences.”
Gryfflet moaned under his breath. “Aye, my lady, you know the lad all right, may God rest his soul and the Good Goddess preserve his spirit from harm.” Gryfflet, at least, was making an attempt to straddle the fence.
I turned to him. “He is dead? Do you mean he was Maelgon’s agent?”
“He led the raid on Mona’s Isle at Maelgon’s command,” Arthur said shortly. “Nine Druids were slaughtered, including his brother Balan, whom he slew himself, not knowing who he was.”
“Dear God!”
“The priestess Viviane was beheaded,” Villers growled.
“Three Christian lives were lost.” This from Gereint.
“And Balyn himself was slain by Balan, who, at Salowen’s command, had sworn peace with his brother a year hence,” Bedwyr finished sadly. “But he knew him not.”
My hands twisted together as I looked at all their faces. “This is terrible! Is there now a holy war between Druid and Christian in Gwynedd?”
“Not yet,” Arthur said, watching Lancelot from the corner of his eye. “That is what we go to prevent. I will talk sense into Maelgon or remove him from his throne.” Now I saw Arthur’s need of me; Pellinore’s widow Alyse must be kept from interfering in such treatment of her son; she was not a weak-willed woman, and she had been powerful once.
“You had better talk to Salowen, as well,” I said nervously, and was gratified to see Lancelot’s expression soften. “He will want revenge.”
Arthur came to a stop. “I have sent to see him. If I can get him and Maelgon into the same room and talking, there is a chance we can settle this. But if we cannot”— his voice sounded hollow, and his gaze looked far beyond the chamber wall—“then all I have done has been for naught. Once Briton is pitted against Briton, the Saxons need not even lift an ax to conquer us.”
At the mention of Saxons, the two groups of knights drew closer together; Lancelot met Bedwyr’s eyes.
“Arthur,” I said firmly, taking his arm and bringing his thoughts back to the present, “it will not happen. You will see when we get to Wales. I am sure I can make Alyse see sense, and I’ll wager any amount you like Maelgon still fears her. And don’t forget Fion. The tongue he carries in his head can charm anyone with ears. All will be well. I am sure of it.”
We left as soon as the solstice celebrations were ended. Mordred, who had just turned fifteen and been inducted into the army, was coming with us. Being only a new recruit he could not ride with the King, but was stuck at the back of his company where he swallowed dust the whole way. Even so, he was thrilled to be coming, especially as Gawaine, at fourteen, could not.
The journey to Wales was easy and swift; we had glorious weather, the roads were dry and we made excellent time. There was only one incident along the way to mar my joy at setting out for home. I rode the first part of the way with Niniane. She was on her way to the Lady’s shrine at Avalon, and we provided her escort as far as the causeway across the marsh. But she was not good company. She was distracted, barely listening to my attempts at conversation, wincing at the bright sun as if it hurt her eyes. As we left the rolling downs and came to a flat plain by the river Camel, she shuddered and moaned aloud.
“Niniane!” I whispered, putting out a hand to her. “What is it? What is amiss?”
She shook her head impatiently and waved away my questions. “I don’t know. It is nothing. Let me be, I pray you. This—this place stinks of death.”
I looked about, but could see no carcass anywhere, nor any cause for her complaint. “The plain of Camlann?” I wondered aloud. “Why, it is wonderful country for galloping. And the air is sweet.”
But her breath was coming fast and labored, and she cried out angrily, “It is a battlefield, I tell you! There are dead men all about! And so near Avalon . . .” I was frightened, then, lest she be having a vision of some horrible misfortune, and I called to Arthur to attend us. He rode over immediately and spoke to her. But as soon as she heard his voice, her irritation left her, and she faced him calmly. “Beware of false messengers!” she cried, and the voice that came from her lips was not her own, but the hollow, ringing voice of the god. I crossed myself quickly, and Arthur took her arm to steady her.
“What messengers, Niniane?” he asked softly. “Welsh messengers? From Gwynedd?” But she only shook her head, unable to speak, and slumped in the saddle. Arthur made her drink from his flask and soon brought her round. But she remembered nothing she had said, either about messengers or battlefields. I was distressed, but Arthur shot me a warning glance, reminding me not to worry about her Seeings. This was not unusual behavior from Niniane, who carried Merlin’s power within her, so we let her be. At least she no longer felt a horror of the beautiful country we rode through. And I strove to follow Arthur’s advice and put her words behind me, since I could make no sense of them, and I owed him obedience to my promise.
We rode into the forecourt of Pellinore’s castle one fine summer afternoon. Everything was much the same as I remembered, only smaller. The stables, I saw, had been well maintained, and the outbuildings looked all in good order. I wondered, with a secret smile, if Maelgon had discovered and repaired the crack in the wall where Elaine and I had eavesdropped on so many of Pellinore’s councils. Maelgon himself greeted us at the threshold. He was a well-built young man, strong and able, with Pellinore’s stern visage and bushy brown beard, but not, underneath it, his endearing warmth. And though it was a hot day, he was dressed in every piece of finery he owned, from the heavy crown of Gwynedd to embroidered cape, jeweled belt, and gold wristbands encrusted with gems. Arthur, bareheaded and dressed in simple traveling clothes, was much the finer figure as he stood before Maelgon and accepted his homage.
Vainly I looked about for Alyse; by all rights she should have been there, but she was not. Instead, a timid wisp of a girl with thin dark hair and overlarge dark eyes stood trembling at Maelgon’s elbow, overdressed as he was, looking like a child in her mother’s clothes. I covered my shock as Maelgon introduced us to his bride Anet. She was the youngest child of old Caw o
f Strathclyde, whose sons had given Arthur such trouble after his death. Her brother King Hapgar had ruled there since Heuil’s defeat, and although he himself had sworn allegiance to Arthur, he was powerless to keep his quarrelsome siblings in line. The worst behaved was Gildas, Heuil’s pet and now a Christian priest. This arrogant philanderer had studied once in Ireland and now fancied himself a second Plato, a modern Pliny, a poet and a recorder of events, well above the rank of common men. He was more dangerous to cross than a viper; he could, and would, for spite or a piece of gold, ruin a man’s reputation with a single stroke of his pen.
I regarded little Anet with sympathy. What an upbringing she must have had! With twelve wild brothers for companions in childhood, perhaps she knew no other response to life than seeking shelter. Arthur greeted her gently, and she almost smiled at him as she knelt to kiss his ring. But me she could only stare at, trembling, as if I were some demon come straight from Hell to fetch her. Though I spoke softly and chose my words to please her, she could not utter a sound, but licked her dry lips and shrank from my touch.
We were given the finest rooms in the castle, outside of Maelgon’s own. Ailsa and I found ourselves standing in the very chamber Elaine and I had slept in as girls. The bed was the same, and the pearwood chest at its foot, but there were new pieces, as well, all worked in the old Celtic patterns they still cherished in the north.
“I will wager you, Ailsa, that this is little Anet’s room, and Maelgon has turned her out of it on my account. No wonder she hates me!”
“Hates you, my lady? Certainly not.”
“You did not see the way she greeted me. She could not bring herself to look me in the face.”
Ailsa chuckled as she began her unpacking. “Not from hate, you may be sure. I saw her when your back was turned. She could not take her eyes from you. It is not hate, Guinevere, but envy. A little slip of a lass like that would give anything she possessed to be as strong and as beautiful and as sure of herself as you.”
I turned from her, finding the room suddenly oppressive. “No doubt that will end as soon as she finds herself with child,” I said bitterly, and left before she could try to offer comfort.
I went up to the tower to see the sea. None of the sentries were men I knew, but they all knew me and let me pass. How wonderful to look again upon the Western Sea, stretching endlessly blue and beckoning beneath the summer sky! For the first time in many years I longed for Elaine’s company; I could almost hear her eager, conspiratorial whispers in my ear. Her spirit seemed to hover in the salt breeze. I had noted well how much more warmly Maelgon greeted Lancelot, his brother-in-law, than Arthur, his King. I would have to remember that Lancelot had special standing here, on Elaine’s account; he would have to remember it, too. Why, I wondered suddenly, had I come? This was not the homecoming I wanted—Pellinore gone, Alyse in seclusion, every childhood memory of Elaine saddled with the cruel acknowledgment that she was Lancelot’s wife. How could I have thought this would be bearable?
I heard a step behind me and turned. “Arthur!”
Beyond him, the sentries had snapped to attention and stood staring at the sky beyond the parapet with concentrated effort.
“Well, I have found you at last. These are not tears of joy at homecoming, I think,” he said gently, brushing my cheek with his finger. “It’s not quite what you expected, is it?”
I shook my head, and he took me in his arms. At length, when I was calm, he loosed me and leaned upon the parapet, looking out toward the sea.
“This is the view you have always wanted to see from Camelot,” he said with a smile. “I can see why.” He hesitated. “We can always go to Caer Narfon, Gwen. The soldiers would prefer it; there are better barracks. And the King’s house is not bad. It’s been rebuilt since you last saw it.”
“No,” I said firmly. “Not even for you would I give Maelgon such pleasure.”
He grinned. “Good. Then we will stay and make him behave himself.” His gaze traveled slowly over the castle grounds, the paddocks, the meadows, the wooded hills within his view. “So this is where you lived. I wish the Saxons had not landed in the north that spring. I should have liked to come and take you out of Wales myself.” I looked away. And if he had come? Then Lancelot would not have come in his stead. Arthur shifted. “Lancelot suffers more than you do. As kin to Maelgon, he must listen to his bragging and laugh at his jests.” I felt a blush creep into my cheeks, but I had ceased to be amazed that Arthur read my thoughts. “Tell me more about Maelgon. What do you suppose made him choose such a child for a wife? She cannot be much of a helpmate.”
“Maelgon would sneer at the very idea of a helpmate. He is a bully, Arthur, pure and simple. And she, poor girl, must have been bullied her entire life. They are probably well suited . . . But what her life must be like!”
“She is in awe of you, you know,” he said quietly. “Like Mordred. Like me.”
“Flatterer. You are only trying to cheer me up. But how is Mordred?”
He straightened and laughed. “Last I saw him he was covered with dust and sore from the saddle and trying in spite of it all to be dignified.” He paused and lowered his voice. “I have asked him to be my eyes and ears among the men, and in the village. As he is pagan himself, he can go where the Christians will not. And in the tavern, men take little notice of a youth his age and in their cups may let something slip.”
I moved closer to him and watched his face. “And what is it you seek to know, my lord?”
His lips thinned. “I want to know where Salowen is. He has sent no message.”
“And what do you want of me?”
As he turned toward me his features softened. “I leave the women to you. I want Maelgon weakened, even a little. There is no check to his power, I find. No one will oppose him.”
“No doubt he has banished all those who ever offered him advice he did not like.”
“Awe is a powerful weapon, Gwen,” Arthur said slowly. “Use it.” He smiled suddenly, took my hand, and slid it through his arm. “Give Maelgon a wife like mine, and I can leave him with an easy heart . . . Come, come, don’t blush so. This is not flattery, but truth. And now you must come with me, for I am bidden to bring you to Alyse. She has been asking for you, and I offered to act as page.”
That, at last, made me smile. “Well, you haven’t the least idea how to go about it. You must bow your head and lower your eyes. You cannot look me in the face; you cannot touch me.”
With a bark of laughter, he bent and kissed me, then lifted me in his arms and carried me past the sentries and down the tower stairs.
I hardly recognized Alyse. She sat in her rocker wrapped in shawls, small and thin and faded. She who had been a powerful queen and Pellinore’s right hand, the leading force in my childhood, she was an old woman. Leonora and Cissa, who still attended her, did not look half so changed.
She was pathetically happy to see me and rose to kiss my hand, embracing me with tears of joy. “Ah, Gwen, how good of you to come with the King! You grow more beautiful with every passing year! How I wish dear Elen could see you now!”
Startled at the reference to my mother, whom she never mentioned in my hearing, I mumbled some reply, and Leonora hastened to make tea at the grate.
“I looked for you in the forecourt when we rode in, Aunt Alyse.”
“I could not be there,” she said with a spark of her well-remembered anger. “I am not on speaking terms with Maelgon.”
“No?” I was amazed. Of her three children, he had always been her pride. I waited, but she was not ready to talk about Maelgon.
“Let me look at you, my dear. How you delight me! You bring the sweet air of summer in with you—I could almost feel young again.” Her grip on my arm was strong and steady. I sat across from her and observed her closely. She wandered on, remembering the old days, but remembering them quite differently than I had known them. “I always knew you were destined for greatness, Guinevere. Everyone could see it.” This, though she had sche
med and fought to get me married early and out of the way so Elaine could pursue Arthur! I glanced quickly at Leonora and caught her hiding a smile.
I handed Alyse her tea. “I am sorry to learn of Pellinore’s death. He was almost as dear to me as Father.”
“Thank you, Gwen. They say he never felt the blow that killed him. That’s a mercy. He never bore pain well. Always demanding to be cosseted and nursed for the smallest scratch.” I nearly smiled, unable to envision the brawny Pellinore acting like a child.
“And how do you get along with your new daughter-in-law, Anet?”
Alyse snorted unkindly, and the years seemed to drop from her. “Just the type to suit Maelgon. A convent flower, not hardy enough to last a year on this rocky soil, I warrant. Do you know, Guinevere, that since that old devil Caw put her in the convent at the age of five, she had never seen the outside of it until Hapgar gave her to Maelgon?”
“Not even to go home? Do you mean she spent her whole life there?”
“I do, indeed. And by all accounts, it’s no more than a jumble of rubble with thatch for a roof, hidden in some godforsaken valley in the wild mountains of Strathclyde. Her Latin is atrocious, and her speech is thick with old Celtic expressions our grandfathers had forgotten!”
I laughed at her indignation. She was faded and wrinkled, yes, but not old; it was her will that commanded her flesh, and if that could be revived, Alyse could yet become a forceful ally.
“Why did Maelgon choose her, then?”
She looked at me slyly. “Why do you think? Not for her beauty, poor thing. Maelgon’s ambition extends beyond Gwynedd, even beyond Wales. No daughter of Powys or Dyfed was good enough for him. Alliance with Rheged would have suited him best, but of course Urien has no daughters to speak of.” Thus did she dismiss little Morgaine. Alyse was returning to form, and Cissa and Leonora were smiling. “So he looked to Strathclyde. Hapgar’s daughters are eight and ten, but Maelgon had not the patience for a long betrothal. So he took Anet. She is twenty, if you can believe it.”