Queen of Camelot

  “By all the gods that are,” he breathed, “I bless your courage! Say nothing yet—I see you cannot do it. Let me slip these bricks under your feet.” He lifted the blankets and cried out in horror.

  “Kay! See this! Her shoes are soaked in blood! And the hem of her robe—no wonder the dog was interested. By the Bull, there has been a battle!”

  Kay came over, frowning, and sent for a bath slave, for towels and hot water. “Bring her women here!” he commanded, and I struggled to arise.

  “No!” I cried, my voice a shadow of itself. “No, they cannot come! They cannot—they saw it—they are abed—they cannot—do not ask it of them!” Bedwyr gently pushed me down into the chair. I could not believe how little strength I had.

  Kay turned toward me and spoke kindly. “They saw this bloodletting? Then we will leave them and tend to you ourselves. Dear God, I wish the King were here!”

  I suddenly remembered his letter. He was almost here! He was coming! But it was a secret, and I could not tell them! I looked wildly from Kay to Bedwyr.

  “Gawaine!” I cried, and my voice flew free, echoing off the walls. They jumped. “Oh, find him, Kay! Take Gawaine and lock him in a safe place and let him speak to no one—to no one—until the King has heard it. As you value your life, do this!”

  Kay looked bewildered. “But Sir Gawaine is in Brittany, my lady, with the King.”

  I groaned, hugging myself, and rocked slowly forward and back. “Gawaine will be here. He will be here within the hour. Do not let him speak to anyone. Not anyone. It is as much as his life is worth. If he dies, I shall die with him.”

  Kay stared, astonished, but Bedwyr’s eyes narrowed. He caught the change of reference; he knew I spoke of Lancelot at the last. In an instant, he saw a glimmer of what had happened, and rose, taking command.

  “Do as she says, Kay. Set extra guards at the entrance, in case he rides in. Stop him at King’s Gate and have him escorted. Be sure to treat him with honor, but seal him off from rumor. There is more here than we yet know. Trust the Queen.”

  Kay obeyed and left us. Bedwyr knelt at my feet.

  “What is it, Gwen? Here, take this wine and sip it slowly. It will calm you. Trust me. It is Lancelot you fear for, is it not?”

  I took the wine and nodded, shivering and rocking, my eyes upon the fire.

  “After this night’s work, Gawaine will want to kill him?”

  I nodded again and drank thirstily, emptying the cup.

  He took it from me. “Then Lancelot has slain one of his brothers?” I met his eyes and groaned.

  He gripped me hard, to stop my rocking. “Which one? Agravaine? Gaheris?”

  From deep within me I felt the pain beginning, and my breath came in quick gasps, as it fought its way up and out.

  Bedwyr began to shake me and call my name. “Guinevere! Stop! Oh, Gwen! Please don’t!”

  But it could not be stopped. I heard wild laughing and then an unearthly shriek; it was my voice; it came from me, my body ripped by searing pain, and I bent double, falling into Bedwyr’s arms.

  “Ahhhhhhhh! All! All! He has killed them all! Oh, Bedwyr, what will Arthur do!” I was sick, I think; I lost my senses for a while, but I remember the sweet, sickly smell of it through the fog of feeling, as he held me tightly across both his arms and sat with me close to the fire to warm me. He wept himself; I remember his tears falling on my cheek. He wept for Gareth; he wept for Lancelot; he wept for Arthur and the good fellowship of his Companions, now forever broken. I pressed my face into his shoulder and gave myself to weeping. I lay racked with sobs, I don’t know how long, until I was exhausted and could no longer cry, but only twitched helplessly with grief. I believed myself close to death; I even wished for it.

  Bedwyr groaned and kissed my face.

  “We must believe, my dear Gwen,” he whispered. “It is the will of the gods. We must believe.”

  At last the door flew open, and I heard Arthur’s voice.

  “Bedwyr! Where is the Queen?”

  Bedwyr straightened quickly. “Here, my lord!”

  In four strides he was with me, and I looked up into his face. He paled, and his eyes grew dark.

  “Guinevere!”

  “My lord,” I whispered, but no sound came out. He pulled aside the cloak and looked at my bloodstained robe.

  Gently he took me from Bedwyr and placed me in the chair. Behind him stood Kay, and the bath slave, and a host of dusty soldiers.

  “Get out! Close the door!” he barked. “Kay, do I not still employ physicians?”

  “Yes, my lord,” replied Kay, who was not used to rebukes from the King. “But at present they are with Mordred.”

  Arthur hesitated a fraction, then said shortly, “Is he mortally wounded?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “Then surely he can spare one of them to tend the Queen. Get him!”

  Kay withdrew. Arthur glared at the bath slave, who deposited his burdens at the King’s feet and dashed out. Gently Arthur removed the sodden slippers and washed my cold, stained feet himself. He would not let Bedwyr assist him, and Bedwyr, remembering a time long past when I had bathed the King, did not insist. He dried my feet and wrapped them in the warm towels the bricks had come in, then placed them on the bricks.

  “Why is she not attended?” he snapped at Bedwyr.

  “She would not let us send for her women—she said they saw what happened—I gathered they were in the same state.”

  Arthur’s face looked pinched. “But she is the Queen,” he said evenly, “and they her servants. Go yourself and bring one of them here with a robe. This thing reeks—I will have it off her. Go.”

  It was odd, how I could see him and hear him so clearly, and feel the touch of his hands, but I could not speak, or move, or do anything of my own will. I was empty, drained of strength, and was content to give myself into his care. Slowly, awkwardly, he got the filthy robe off me and rubbed my poor body with the blankets, and wrapped me tightly in them. Bedwyr was back soon after, dragging poor Lise in her nightdress, carrying a blue robe. The child had been weeping, for her face was swollen, and she was frightened to death to find herself face to face with the King. But he had no time for courtesies.

  “Stand at the door, let no one enter,” he commanded Bedwyr. Then he directed the poor child to help him dress me. She blushed a thousand shades of pink at my nakedness, but Arthur was gruff with her and bore no hesitations. Try as I might to help them, my limbs would not obey me. Between them, they got me dressed at last. Arthur tucked the blankets in around me, thanked the girl, and dismissed her, and then called Bedwyr in. Kay and the physician were close behind. God bless Arthur, he would not let the man leech me; he knew I had a horror of it. So the physician contented himself with mixing me a posset and advising more heat to my feet.

  “She’s had a shock,” he told the King. Arthur kicked him out. He stood Kay and Bedwyr before him.

  “Tell me what you know.”

  While they spoke, I began to feel a lazy warmth seep into my limbs, and gradually, as I relaxed, I drifted into sleep. When I awoke, Cabal had his head in my lap, and the King stood before the fire, alone, watching me. I tried my limbs gingerly and found they obeyed me. I pushed myself up straighter. I felt lightheaded, but myself again. Cabal’s tail beat eagerly against the floor. Arthur came and knelt at my feet, taking my hands. His face was grave, the lines of care carved deep from nose to mouth. His warm, loving eyes were desperately worried. I tried a smile, and found that my lips moved at least a little.

  “Oh, Arthur!” It came out in a whisper. “I am glad you are home!”

  He kissed my hand and laid his head in my lap, whispering a prayer of thanksgiving. He did not care that I heard it. I stroked his hair gently. The dog’s big tongue licked my hand in joy.

  “You will want to know what happened.”

  He lifted his head. “There is no need. I have seen Mordred.”

  I shook my head. “He did not see it all. I saw it all, Art
hur. I saw it all.”

  He closed his eyes and bowed his head. “So you did. All right. Tell me.”

  I told him all of it, without a tremor; it was like taking a great burden, which I could hardly bear, and placing it on his strong shoulders. He bore it for me, and I could breathe again.

  When I finished, he sighed deeply, and a smile touched his lips. “And after that, you had sense to give clear orders to the guards and to tend Linet and Ailsa. I tell you, Gwen, you have more courage than many of my soldiers. If you could learn to wield a sword, I would make you a captain of my horse.” Then he rose and paced once about the room.

  “Where is Gawaine?” I asked him suddenly.

  “With Ferron. In the Round Hall. We were met by your orders at King’s Gate. I saw them obeyed. I knew there was a reason.”

  “Have you—have you spoken with him yet?” And he knew by my voice that I did not mean Gawaine.

  “No,” he said wearily. “Not yet. You came first.”

  “He was naked, and they attacked him.”

  “I know, Gwen.”

  “He did not even know Gareth was in the room, until after.”

  “I know.”

  “And Mordred—he thought he was one of them—it was an easy mistake to make, he followed them in. And he had three chances to run him through and let them pass. He only wounded him to disarm him.”

  “So Mordred told me.”

  I stopped, my lips dry. Arthur handed me a winecup, and I took it. My hand was trembling. “What will you do?”

  He looked at me with compassion and then sighed. “I don’t know. But after this, Britain will be too small to hold them both.”

  I met his eyes. “Yes. I see that.”

  He shrugged. “Then they have taken it out of my hands.”

  I said nothing. He was right.

  He could not keep Gawaine waiting much longer, so at last he sent for Lancelot. He bade me keep my chair and himself stood near me, so that we received him together. Lancelot came, scrubbed clean and ready for the road. Grief for Gareth had already etched new lines in his face. He saluted Arthur and kissed his ring. When he rose, he stood with a soldier’s straightness and waited for his commander’s judgment. But Arthur, who loved him, embraced him.

  “Lancelot!” he cried in a low voice. “Was there no other way?”

  Lancelot shrugged, but his eyes were wet. “I am your servant, Arthur. Do with me what you must.”

  Arthur spread his hands out helplessly. “What can I do? I must send you home. You cannot stay in Britain. And keep a guard around you, all the days of your life.”

  Lancelot nodded. “You are merciful, my lord. It is more than I deserve.”

  Arthur swung an arm around him and gripped him by the shoulders. “You are my right hand. My shield. My other, better self. A warrior with stainless honor. A man without compromise. You deserve better of me than banishment. I only do it to save your life.”

  Lancelot cleared his throat. “And Galahad. Will you keep him with you? He is better here than in Lanascol. With me.”

  “Whatever you will.”

  “That’s all I ask. Except—” He paused, and with an effort kept his voice steady. “Except to beg your pardon for wounding your son. I saw his raised sword in front of the Queen—I wanted only to disarm him, but he is too good a swordsman.”

  “Thanks to your teaching,” Arthur said, his voice gone suddenly rough. “Lancelot, I know well all you did was in defense of the Queen. You saved her life tonight. You know what that means to me. It is not a gift I can repay. Were it not for Gareth, I could square things with Gawaine and keep you here. Everyone else deserved to die.”

  Lancelot nodded but could not speak. He would never forgive himself.

  Arthur embraced him again and kissed him on both cheeks. “I will have Ferron arrange an escort. You’d best be gone tonight. The ship we took still lies at Potter’s Bay. I’ll send a courier to the captain.” He looked at us both with sadness. “I give you an hour to take your leave of the Queen. Be gone when I return.” Tears crept from Lancelot’s eyes as Arthur left, setting a guard upon the door.

  Lancelot sank to the floor at my feet, and I cradled his head in my lap. There was nothing to say. Arthur might sail to Lanascol, but unless Gawaine should die, I would never see Lancelot again.

  “Guinevere,” he said at last. “Do you remember when I came to take you out of Wales, long ago, and you did not believe me when I told you the kind of man King Arthur was?”

  “Yes, my dear, I remember it well.”

  “Now you see the truth. There is not another like him in the world.”

  I smiled. “Sweet Lancelot, this is not news.”

  He looked up and held my gaze. “When I am gone, do not grieve for me and pine for what might have been. Give him the love you would have spent on me. He is worthier by far.”

  “Lancelot,” I slid down and sat beside him, and embraced him. “Dearest Lancelot. I would do it if I could. But you know well what is between us is beyond my power. From the moment of our meeting, I have loved you. I will love you always, past parting, past death.”

  He kissed me and held me close. “If I had life to live again,” he said, “I would change nothing.”

  He held me thus and kissed me, and we talked of times long past, of Wales and of Camelot when the Kingdom was young. We even came to laughter once or twice. We had not shared such closeness since I tended him on Ynys Witrin, ten years before. And we kept coming back to Arthur.

  “He has done it,” Lancelot marveled. “He has fulfilled our dreams. Where he has fallen short, it is because other men failed him.”

  So in Arthur we found solace for our souls; and when at last he took his leave of me, our eyes were dry. We shared a pride that Arthur’s honor was untarnished. When he had gone, I wept most bitterly awhile, but these were tears of self-pity, and I soon stopped them.

  I sat by the fire and stroked Cabal, afraid to look into the future, afraid to recall the past. When Arthur returned, he found me thus, and joined me on the hearth.

  “Well, I have done what I could, Gwen.”

  “Was Gawaine wild when you told him?”

  “Indeed. But there is only one door to the Round Hall, and I stood before it. Had I not been High King, I think he might have run me through, to get to Lancelot.”

  “He is safely away?”

  “Yes. With Ferron and an escort. I made it quite clear to Gawaine I want no more killing here. He understands the twins behaved as traitors and, had they lived, must have suffered death. Their lives were forfeit the moment they entered your chamber. But Gareth—” He paused and shrugged. “Gareth’s death is cause for vengeance. Not even Lancelot denies it. I had to allow the justice of his complaint.”

  “Of course, my lord. Where is he now?”

  “I sent him to see Mordred. He wanted a firsthand account; he wants to vent his anger and say his piece. Mordred will listen. I am tired of it.”

  His face, turned to the fire, looked carved in stone; a noble face, but lined with care and weary of the burdens a King carries. Mordred is twenty-one, I thought suddenly. I am glad of it. But will he ever be as strong as this King?

  “I have given Gawaine Orkney. After we bury Gareth with full honor, I will invest Gawaine with kingship. Then he will travel north to take up his rule.”

  I let out a long breath in relief. “How wise you are, my lord! Sending Gawaine north and Lancelot south.”

  He shrugged. “Temporarily expedient. Orkney is a small place for a man of Gawaine’s energy. He will be back.”

  “He cannot go to Brittany without your leave?”

  “He is a king now. He can do what he wants. He can risk my displeasure and the consequences it brings.”

  “But he will swear allegiance to you when you invest him?”

  “Oh, yes. But then, he made an oath to Drustan once.”

  I clasped his hand tightly and, once again, drew strength from him. “Oh, Arthur, how I grieve fo
r your good fellowship of knights, now torn asunder! It is not right that you should have to give your time to these feuds and rivalries, when there is so much else to do.”

  He smiled briefly and lifted his shoulders. “If Kingship were only battles, it would be easy,” he said. “This may turn out well, Gwen. Who knows? They may both live to serve me; the group of rebels is disbanded; our treaties are not affected. And Lancelot in Lanascol makes Less Britain stronger, and that is where trouble will next arise.”

  With a gasp I recalled his letter. “Arthur! Why did you send the letter? What treachery did you fear? Was it this?”

  He laughed bitterly and shook his head. “No, indeed! I wish now I had never sent it! If Lancelot had not been followed to your chamber—”

  “Never mind that,” I broke in hastily. “Why did you send it?”

  “I had word through a traveling merchant that Constantine was on the move, and with troops. To me, that meant only one thing: an attempt on Camelot, and Mordred. But I did not like to say so, in case he had an informer here.”

  “Do you suspect that, my lord?”

  He sighed and passed a hand across his brow. “With Gawaine beside me, I suspect everyone. He sees phantoms everywhere. No one is safe from his suspicion. Not even Mordred.”

  “Why Mordred? He knows your plans for Mordred.”

  “Yes, but he does not like them. Remember, as a child, he was used to thinking Mordred a fatherless bastard, and beneath him.”

  “But now he knows he is your son!”

  “Yes,” Arthur said wearily, “but he suspects him of the same ambition all Agravaine’s friends suffer from—of wishing to supplant their fathers upon the throne.”

  “You know this is not true of Mordred.”

  “Yes.” Arthur spoke gently. “I know it. I did not say Gawaine was wise or knew men. Just that he is eager to see slights everywhere. It is my blessed sister’s legacy to me, this bloodbath, this disruption of my peace.”