“And Maelgon a brother.”
“No. I never liked Maelgon, and he never liked me. He always was a bully. That is why Arthur came to Wales, to bring peace between you or remove him from his throne.”
“Ha!” He laughed harshly, and the patterned collar around his neck began to move. My hand flew to my mouth to cover a scream. The collar slowly unwound itself into a great snake, sliding down his arm toward me, its eager tongue flicking in and out.
“Do not move,” Salowen commanded. His long hands stroked the slithering flesh as the snake descended, sliding smoothly across the floor, brushing my feet. Gracefully the snake lifted its head, wrapped itself around my legs, and began to climb. I shut my eyes and held myself still. I was terrified that I might faint. I heard a low-pitched whistle, and at once the snake retreated, uncoiling gracefully from about my ankles and returning to Salowen’s outstretched hand. When he had settled it again about his neck, and I had begun to breathe, he smiled, showing his little cat’s teeth.
“That is a point in your favor. It is well known that the lady Elaine cannot abide serpents.”
“It is well known that Elaine has never left Lanascol!” I retorted angrily.
Something flashed in his eyes, and I shivered. “It is well known,” he hissed softly, “that Guinevere has never left Camelot.”
“How can I prove who I am? Is there no one here who knows me?”
“There is Cathbad. If he returns in time.”
“Cathbad! Then—then it was you who tricked Arthur into leaving Gwynedd?”
Again he smiled, and again a frisson of horror slipped up my spine.
“Tell me this,” he said softly, leaning closer, “if you are not Maelgon’s sister, what were you doing in the forest, alone with her husband?”
I flushed scarlet, avoiding his eyes. There was no reply to that. Pleased, Salowen stroked the snake and regarded me dispassionately. “If you are Guinevere, then are you Maelgon’s cousin. And if you are dear to Maelgon’s sister’s husband, so much the better. You are a woman like any other. The Goddess herself shall judge you.”
“I will not become one of your cult!”
His smile grew broader, and his voice grew softer. “Indeed, you will not. Is that what Kevin told you? Kevin is an acolyte. He knows little. But he will know the truth before dawn.”
He turned away from me.
“What will you do? Be sure you will answer to Arthur for it! Have you not the courage to tell me?”
He whipped around. His eyes were burning slits in his face. “You wish to talk about courage? You will need it. At dawn you will be offered to the Goddess. If She accepts you, She will spare your life and you will owe it to Her always. If not, you will die.”
“It is three hundred years since the kind of sacrifice you speak of was banned in Britain!” I cried, fighting back a sob.
“And it is a thousand years since a priestess of the Goddess was beheaded at her prayers,” he spat.
“I am not responsible for that.”
“And I am not responsible for the Goddess’ judgment.”
“How—how will I be judged?” I whispered helplessly.
“By fire.”
In the still predawn Kevin returned. He carried a tray of food, which he placed carefully on the floor by my pallet. I sat watching him. His hand shook, and he did not want to meet my eyes.
On the tray was a slice of new bread, a comb of honey, and a cup of goat’s milk, warm and fragrant. It was the ritual meal of sacrifice, as I had heard it told in stories when I was small. In the old days, before the Romans came to Britain, the Druids sacrificed once a month to their bloodthirsty Goddess. In the old days.
“I’m sorry, my lady,” Kevin said in a low voice. “I did not know.”
“You are forgiven.”
“I wish there were something I could do.”
“Get word to Arthur. Afterward—somehow, get word to him, and see he learns the truth.”
Kevin bowed his head. Surely what I was asking was forbidden by his vows. “I will do it.”
“Thank you. God bless you.”
“I will pray the Goddess to spare you.” He gestured toward the tray. “Please, my lady, drink the milk.”
“I cannot touch it. I will be sick.”
He looked up briefly, pleadingly. “I have put something in it to help you. That is all. To help you.” Then he rose and left.
God had answered my prayer. I was not to be rescued, but here was something to enable me to endure. Even so, I had not the courage to take it until I heard them coming for me. Then I downed it all in one swallow.
The procession moved slowly. They formed two lines, gray-robed and softly chanting, with me between them and Salowen at the head. The chanting was tuneless, more a gentle rhythm than a song, and they shuffled to its beat, left, right, left, right, through tunnels lit with smoking torches, left, right, up shallow steps, left, right, and out into the damp dark thick gray mist. I hardly felt my feet touch the ground. The beat was in my blood, bearing me onward. My gray-robed companions vanished in the mist; I followed Salowen, the white-robed, who led me into the dark grove where a mystery awaited. The path narrowed, the chanting quickened, trees leaned down to caress my face with their light fingers as I passed. Ahead stood a great circle of standing stones in a wide clearing. The mist gathered strength and swirled around the clearing, bearing me up and up onto a platform in the center. A thick rope was placed around my waist and tied to a pole behind me, pinning my arms to my sides. Before me stood Salowen at an altar. On the altar lay a black stone, hollowed out, and beside it the gleaming knife of sacrifice. So this was Nemet, I thought calmly. In the old days, this is where the victims met their end. I gazed about the clearing. Gray-robed figures huddled at the feet of the standing stones, swaying to their chanting, filing in to take their places. All of them were hooded.
Suddenly Salowen raised a great staff above his head and the chanting stopped. In the guttural language of Druids, he cried out some ritual words, looking to the heavens, and the Druids replied. This he did thrice; then the staff descended and the chanting began again; this time the cadence changed. It was deep, vibrant, dolorous, and slow. Salowen began to speak above the chanting, reciting the wrongs done the Druids over the centuries and justifying the vengeance he was about to take. I did not attend him. I leaned against the pole and watched the thin, bright crescent of the new moon creep above the treetops. How lovely she was, how pure and innocent—how far from earth! Everyone who had ever been dear to me I then remembered, my father Leodegrance, Gwillim, Gwarth, everyone who had been so kind to me in Gwynedd when I was an orphaned stranger; everyone who had welcomed me to Camelot, all Arthur’s Companions, his commanders, and his soldiers. Good Bedwyr, my friend, who now held Camelot in the King’s absence, and Kay, Gereint, Ferron, and a hundred others. But to Lancelot and Arthur, I could not bring myself to say farewell. Heaven held no joy for me without them.
Salowen raised the staff again, and the chanting grew quick and restless. Men began to shuffle about in small knots, circling slowly around me. Three of them held torches. Faster, faster, eagerly the chant beat against my ears, closer, closer came the fire, stinking of resin, stinging my eyes with smoke. The brushwood under my platform must have been damp with Druid’s mist; it took them a long time to light it, but at last, it caught. Through a wall of shimmering heat I watched them slowly back away, hoods falling askew, mouths slung open in excitement, devouring me with feral eyes. They had all gone mad.
A wild yell rent the morning; a black horse broke through the trees bearing a knight with a slashing sword, singing a victory paean. Other voices took up the cry—from the woods came a phalanx of foot soldiers with shields and swords, scattering the Druids, cutting them down. The stallion screamed as he neared the flames, but for Lancelot, he bore them. Down came the deadly sword, the rope fell from me, and I swooned in his arms as he lifted me and carried me away.
I dreamed that I was home at last, or in
Heaven; I was somewhere I had always longed to be.
Slowly I opened my eyes, but could see nothing. As my senses returned to me, I heard sound—no more than a whisper, near my ear. Someone was praying. I lay protected, enveloped by strong arms, wrapped in a cloak, gently held, gently kissed.
I slid an arm around his waist and pulled him closer, until the length of his body pressed against mine.
“Oh, Lancelot,” I whispered.
“Guinevere. Thank God.”
“Is this a dream? Do I live?”
In the dark he found my lips and kissed them. It was the only answer I wanted. Tears welled up and spilled freely forth. He held me while I wept and whispered sweet endearments to me, words that I remember to this day. At length, when I was quiet, he arose. I saw then that we were in a large cave with smoothly rounded walls—man’s work. Lancelot went to the cave mouth and spoke to a soldier there. It was dark beyond. I lay on a mat of leaves and bracken covered by a soldier’s cloak. Lancelot’s own cloak was wrapped about me, and underneath, I still wore the white robe of sacrifice. Where were we? And what had happened to the day? The men spoke softly and dared no light. We could not yet be in Gwynedd.
Lancelot returned with a skin of weak wine, and bade me drink.
“We are still on Mona’s Isle?”
He nodded but said nothing.
“This wine is bitter. Have you any water?”
He shook his head. “We could not find a spring, although there must be one about. This place is clearly used regularly. It was perfectly clean.”
“What day is it? Have I slept long?”
He smiled, and I lifted a hand to his face, that face which I had thought I should never see again!
He caught my hand and held it against his breast. “You have slept since you fainted. You were probably drugged.”
“Yes. Kevin did that for me. I took it willingly.”
“The murdering bastards. There are not so many of them left now.”
“Did you find Salowen? The leader in the white robe?”
“I saw no one in a white robe. Was he there himself?”
“Yes. Lancelot, I told him who I was. He was going to sacrifice me anyway. Arthur must know this.”
“He will know it,” he said shortly.
“He took me because he thought I was Elaine.”
He bit off a cry and bowed his head. “It is my fault he took you for Elaine.”
I kissed his hand and stroked his hair. “You did nothing without my consent. I am to blame, as well. Tell me what happened, from the beginning. Have we time? The last I saw you, they clubbed you and left you for dead.”
“We cannot leave before daylight. There is plenty of time.” He made light of the beating they had given him, but in fact he still suffered from dizzy spells and sometimes saw things double. The troopers had found him and brought him round. They had tracked the Druids as far as the beach, where they found Lancelot’s sword buried with their skins under the rock. Lancelot was all for dashing across the channel at once, but could barely sit on his horse. The troopers sensibly made him return to the castle, where Alyse took charge of his care and would not allow him to rise or speak.
“She probably saved your life.”
“Perhaps. But, Guinevere, I did not want to live. To hand you to Maelgon’s enemies through my weakness—”
“Stop.” I placed my hand over his mouth and leaned into his embrace. “Do not dwell on it. We were both at fault. But God is moving. Can you not feel it? We are part of a pattern. And we are not yet come to the end of the skein. Go on with your tale.”
Gereint had been his lieutenant. Through Gereint, he commandeered what fishing craft could be found in the village; Maelgon’s ships lay at anchor in Caer Narfon, half a day’s ride away. Gereint had canvassed Arthur’s men for volunteers. And even though it meant going through the Druid’s mist on the night of the new moon, every man of them had volunteered. There was only room for thirty in the boats, and Gereint picked men who could swim or row. While everyone was at dinner, Lancelot escaped Alyse’s vigilance and made his way to the stables. He wanted cavalry, but it was a long swim. Five men brought their horses; only his own stallion Nestor survived. While the men took turns at the oars and fought the current, Lancelot spoke to the horse, cajoling and encouraging him across by the sheer strength of his will. Every time they tired and feared they could not go on, they seemed to hear Merlin’s voice in their ears, ringing from the sea, the air, the sky, compelling them to greater effort.
“Merlin?” I whispered, awed. “Did you see him?”
Lancelot shook his head. “No, but he was there, more a shadow than a shape. A voice. A presence. But he gave us the strength to get across.”
An hour before moonrise they struck rocks on the eastern shore. They managed to get everyone safely landed, but lost the boats and nearly lost Nestor on the beach. If they had not stumbled across a stream within a hundred yards of shore, two men might have died, and the horse certainly would. Fresh water and rest revived them; they posted a guard and slept as best they could. Lancelot, who could not sleep, roused them well before dawn, and they scouted the shore for, as he put it, the Druids’ lair. Nestor, stiff and exhausted, hobbled along behind him.
They found the Druids by their chanting. They formed a phalanx, but when Lancelot smelled the smoke, he did not wait to make a battle plan, but spurred Nestor to action and burst in among them. When he had me, he had not dared to return to the clearing to his men for fear of putting me at risk. For although they do not carry swords, Druids are deadly fighters. Their knives fly silently through air, wood, or stone, men claim, and never miss their mark. Indeed, when he met Gereint at the appointed meeting place and gathered the men, he was astonished at their losses. The Druids had scattered immediately upon the attack, offering no resistance, but melting into the misty woods. In vain did Gereint’s men search for them, daring them to step forth. And one by one, as the soldiers hunted them in the brush, they were cut down by swift-flying knives without ever seeing the hands that threw them.
When they regrouped, Lancelot had but twelve men left of the thirty who had come. And although many Druids had died that morning, we were still outnumbered many times. They had taken to the hills to look for a defensible spot where they could tend me. The cave gave onto a ledge of rock that overlooked a small valley. It was easy to defend, if your enemy had swords. Gereint stood guard at the cave mouth; the men and horse rested in a grove below the ledge. They had no fresh water. At dawn, they must scout for a spring or a stream and try to snare a rabbit. The rations they brought with them were all but gone; they had to plan an attack on the Druid’s storehouses if we were to survive until Maelgon or Arthur could mount a rescue. He spoke with confidence, but I knew it was for my sake. Our chances did not look good. Although he did not say it, I knew he was afraid for Nestor, as well. After the swim and the day’s trek into the hills, it would be a miracle if the horse survived.
I told him then about the coracles that lay beached somewhere along the shore and about the sheep meadow and the goats. He dismissed the coracles—he would not trust me to one, he said, and would not ask Nestor to make that effort twice. But the sheep and goats were a boon, indeed, and I heard the relief in his voice. I told him about my conversation with Salowen, and about who Cathbad was, and everything that had happened to me. It all came tumbling out, as I sat in his arms and we waited for dawn.
“Did you arrange with Maelgon to come rescue us if we did not return?”
“The coward says he cannot come himself; he must wait upon Fion. But he sent two couriers after Arthur.”
The shadow at the cave mouth moved, and Gereint approached softly. He bowed to me, smiling kindly. “My lady Queen Guinevere. I am glad to see you awake.”
“Thank you, Gereint. I am glad to be awake.”
“My lord, we think we hear the sound of chanting, far off down the slope. Gryfflet has volunteered to scout them and see what they are up to.”
> Lancelot did not move, but his arms about me tightened, pulling me closer. “Is he strong enough?”
“He is the fittest among us.”
“Let him stay out of knife range, then. I cannot spare him.”
“Very good, my lord. I will tell him.”
“Gereint!” Gereint turned back and I felt Lancelot tremble, and still it. “Is Nestor standing?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Send young Sagramor into the hills above this cave to seek a spring. There must be one about. Guinevere tells me she has seen a meadow where they tend sheep and goats.”
“That is good news.”
“Indeed. It is our best hope.”
Gereint returned to his post, and Lancelot and I sat silent, holding each other in peace, waiting. Before long we, too, could hear the chanting. No more than a murmur at first, it stirred the air and grew into a low hum that snaked around the cavern walls and set my heart racing. Lancelot rose and went out to Gereint. They left the ledge, and when he returned, Lancelot was alone.
“Tell me,” I said, sensing he was braced to give me bad news.
“Gwen.” He sat down beside me and took both my hands. “We are surrounded. They are coming up the valley, shoulder to shoulder through the trees, in a tight ring. They know we are here.”
“Can we defend against them?” When he did not answer, I brought his hand to my lips and kissed it. “Come. Tell me. I can face death if I am with you.”
“Ahhhh, my beautiful Gwen, you are braver than I,” he whispered, pulling me to his breast. “The men are hidden among the rocks. Nestor is set free in the forest. It is all I can do. If only I had brought an archer!”
I took his face in my hands and kissed his lips. “Lancelot. It is not your fault.”
“We have an hour, perhaps. No more.”
He drew me down onto the makeshift pallet and held me, whispering to me between kisses. “We have always known—since first we met—that this was a love sent to us from Heaven— Guinevere—I cannot bear to part this life—without having held you in my arms thus, at least once—at least once—permit me, my dearest love, to lie with you.”