Queen of Camelot

  Recognizing the threat that Constantine posed, he at once set about raising an army to replace in some measure the one that had gone with Arthur. He sent messages to every reigning ruler in the Kingdom and frankly explained his position. While Arthur was away, the stability of Britain was threatened by an ambitious lord. He requested men for the common defense. Where lords demurred, saying their numbers were depleted past bearing, Mordred paid them a visit, a courtesy call, he said. But afterward, he always got his men. Soon we were five hundred strong in Camelot. And I confess that I breathed easier with such strength at hand.

  He kept his word to me and talked to me of all his plans and all his dispositions. He worked hard every morning and after Council at the King’s desk in the library; he got quickly through the written work that Arthur so disliked. He kept two scribes busy at these times and could have used a third. The men drilled daily; when he had time, he liked to drill them himself, but usually it fell to Ferron. But almost every day, he made time to take his exercise with me and Ferron and Anna when we rode out. He was kind, attentive, and always courteous. Even so, without the daily running of the Kingdom to keep me occupied, and without Arthur, or Lancelot, or Bedwyr, I grew lonely.

  I often found myself standing alone in Arthur’s chamber. It was kept clean and swept and aired, just as when he was at home. I stood on the polished wood floor and let my gaze travel over the few pieces of simple furniture, the bare walls, and the old silk banner above the great bed. It impressed me now as it had on my first day in Camelot: a soldier’s room, simple and direct, a place of stillness and of peace. I would stand there and feel my loneliness drain from me; he was still there, in that room. I felt his presence. And I came away with an easier heart.

  Sometimes I went to the top of the northwest tower, for privacy and a chance to think. Arthur and I had often gone together, remembering our first time there, on our wedding night, and smiling at it. But sometimes I would go alone, and sometimes in the past had found him there, studying out some problem or simply surveying his dominion. Now that he was gone, I found it restful just to stand where he had stood and look at the fertile lands all about me, giving thanks for the peaceful beauty of the country. From this tower I could see the old Roman road that ran up from the river Camel and would watch the troops drill, or the men go forth to hunt, or a messenger ride in.

  On the day of the solstice I went to the tower, feeling lonely and ill at ease. On this day of all days I wished Arthur were there. Twenty years ago we had been married. Sometimes it seemed like yesterday to me—except that at fifteen I had known nothing of men, had feared Arthur, and had thought I could not live without Lancelot. I smiled to myself, as I watched a dusty courier galloping along the causeway, heading for King’s Gate. How I wished he was bringing the message that the High King’s ships were in the estuary and that before nightfall he would be here! When I recalled his last night home and his great tenderness toward me, I was filled with the ache of longing. What I would not give to hold him in my arms again!

  I put these thoughts aside, as they led only to weeping, and I wished to feel the joy that this day always brought me. I thought instead of Britain, and how she prospered, and how lucky I was to be alive in Arthur’s time. He had been crowned at fourteen and had led Britain for twenty-six years! And for twenty years we had not had so much as a skirmish! Imagine, an entire generation growing up in a land at peace! It was almost beyond comprehension that such a miracle could happen in such a wartorn land as Britain. God must indeed love Arthur beyond all others.

  I heard a soft tap at the tower door and turned to find Mordred behind me. I knew instantly it was not good news—not from his face, which was always well schooled and unreadable, but from the mere fact that he had come himself and not sent a page.

  “My lady Guinevere,” he said quietly, “please forgive the intrusion. But it is important.”

  My hand crept to my throat, then I straightened, stilling myself. “What is it, Mordred? You have had news from Less Britain?”

  “Yes, my lady. Would you not prefer to come down to the library to hear it?”

  “Certainly not. Tell me now. Is my lord well?”

  He cleared his throat. I thought he looked uneasy. “Yes, my lady. This letter is from him.” He handed me a scroll, and I recognized the flowing penmanship of Arthur’s favorite scribe. “It is short, as you see, and dictated in haste. It is as we feared, Guinevere. Gawaine’s embassy ended in disaster, and they are marching to war.” I scanned the note, but it gave just bare details. Mordred would have the complete message from the courier’s lips. I drew a deep breath and bade him tell me all he knew.

  “It seems they had no sooner ridden into the Roman camp when trouble broke out. While the diplomats in the party were meeting, Gawaine accosted some Roman youth he thought showed him arrogance; an argument arose over a trifle; Gawaine ran him through on the spot.”

  I gasped. “He killed him? How did he dare? He was sent to talk, not to fight!”

  Mordred’s shrug was eloquent. “The youth turned out to be a nephew of Hiberius himself, so the insult is not likely to be forgiven.”

  “I should think not. Is Gawaine in disgrace?”

  “Well,” Mordred said slowly, “he has forced Arthur’s hand. I should tell you, perhaps, of the conversation we had before I left.” He paced back and forth a bit, then came to the parapet beside me and gazed across the rolling fields toward the Tor. “When you asked why Arthur sent Gawaine instead of someone more level-headed, I did not tell you all of Arthur’s reasoning. He knew it would come to war. The embassy was only a stalling tactic, to get a look at their strength. But in his heart he felt that the sooner they met in battle, the better. The Burgundians were mustered, but Hiberius is lately come from Rome and probably does not have all the reinforcements he would like. Thus he agreed quickly to the proposal of an embassy. When Arthur chose Gawaine, he knew there was a chance there might be trouble. But if they fought the sooner for it, so much the better. Now it has come to pass. He says in the note they have gathered their forces and are marching to meet the Burgundians at Autun.”

  I shut my eyes and said a quick prayer to God for his safety.

  “I knew it,” I whispered. “I knew he would take the field himself. Oh, Mordred!”

  He took my hands. “Do not fear, Gwen. He will not lose. You know Arthur.”

  “Yes,” I cried, “and so do they! They will not come against him unless they outnumber him three to one—and even if he lives, what of those who fight with him? Mordred, if they meet in battle, so many will die!”

  He nodded. “Perhaps. But fewer than if they waited until the Romans were ready. In a way, perhaps, Gawaine’s hotheadedness has worked to advantage. It is unlikely they could outnumber him three to one.”

  I leaned upon his arm and tried to smile. “You would give me courage. Thank you, Mordred. But I think I will go to my chamber. When—when does this dreaded event take place?”

  He looked at me with compassion; I remembered Arthur’s words to me once when I had expressed horror at war: “How can war be evil? Fighting is as natural as breathing to men; and if your cause is just, where is the dishonor?” Mordred was Arthur’s son, I saw. To him it was a matter of honor and glory, and certainly not a dreaded event.

  “My dear Guinevere, it may be taking place even as we speak. The courier has been on the road a week.”

  “Dear God!” I whispered, feeling faint. Mordred bent toward me in concern, and I fought to collect my wits. “Then we may hear—within a week—all the world may change!”

  He felt how I trembled and slipped an arm about me to support me. “Please, Guinevere, take courage. The King will be victorious. All that will change is that the Romans must leave Gaul, this time forever.”

  I straightened and stepped out of his embrace. “You will keep me informed, Mordred? Do not let this show of weakness make you fearful of sharing news with me. I will be braver next time.”

  His features soften
ed. “You are brave enough now. I will indeed keep you informed of any messages I receive. Now, shall we go down together?” He offered me his arm.

  “No. No, thank you. I have changed my mind. I would like to stay here awhile, and pray.”

  He bowed and left me.

  Life went on unchanged. Daily Mordred sent for me and went over what news there was from around the Kingdom. Daily he rode out at my side. I had every chance to see him at work and see how Arthur’s men took to his leadership. He was respected and admired. He was an able man, known to be clever and far-seeing. These weeks of being sole regent were the first chance he had ever had to rule. It had so long been his heart’s desire, and he had had so many years of apprenticeship, it was as if a sleeping plant had at last turned its face to the sun and started to grow. It seemed to me he grew in stature daily.

  At first I was elated—when he came to be High King, he would be a good one, as I had always known he would, and Britain would not suffer under his leadership. But then I grew uneasy, for an oak can never be put back into its acorn, or a falcon, once flown, go back into its egg. During these weeks, Mordred tasted power, and it agreed with him. When Arthur returned, he would find his son a king in all but name; he would have to find him some territory of his own to hold, for I doubted now that Mordred could go back to being merely his advisor and his heir. But what lands could Mordred, bastard prince of Orkney, call his own?

  I pushed aside these thoughts, for no one could settle it but Arthur. I kept Anna by my side all the day long, and read to her, or sang to her, if I could bring myself to it, or rode with her and talked. She had more thoughts in her head than weddings and beddings and the catching of husbands. She was a great comfort to me.

  It was Anna who told me that the young men of Britain, the sons and nephews of Arthur’s friends and Companions, and even their grandsons, were growing restless under Arthur’s rule. They thought the High King grew old and set in his ways, she said, and they were eager for a younger man to lead them. She knew this hurt me, and she told it to me gently, but I could hear the truth of it in her voice.

  “All young men feel so, I believe,” she said. “In your youth, my lady, young men had the Saxon wars to fight and a young King to lead them. But these young men thirst for power and are tired of peace and civilization.”

  “Tired of civilization? Anna, what can you mean?”

  “I mean only that they want to be kings in their own lands and set their own laws and run their affairs as they see fit. They care nothing for Arthur’s way of governing. They laugh at the notion of justice for common folk.”

  Was it possible? That young men raised in Arthur’s Peace should wish to push us back into the violent dark? Why, we should be no better than the Saxons, with each kingdom at the other’s throat!

  “Oh, no, Anna, I cannot believe this! Simply because they are impatient for glory, they would tear down all the High King has built? It is wild oats, surely, and nothing more. And do they think that Mordred will be different from his father? He is a civilized man—none more so.”

  Anna was fond of Mordred; as fond as she had ever been of any man, although he had never so much as cast his glance her way. She could speak of him without blushing or growing shy, but she admired him and often followed him with her eyes and let affection warm her voice when she said his name.

  “Sir Mordred is from Orkney, where ways are different,” she replied. “These young men I speak of are all from the wild lands in the north and some from Wales. However Roman he behaves with Arthur, they think it only one of many cloaks he wears, and that in his heart Sir Mordred is of their blood. After all,” she added softly, “he is a pagan.”

  “Do they accuse Arthur of being Roman? Why, at this very moment he risks his life to drive the Romans out! Can they not see this? Are they blind?”

  Here she patted my hand and smiled. “Yes, indeed they are, my lady. Blind to anything they prefer not to see. Perhaps your assessment is the right one, and these are wild oats. In time they will settle down, as their fathers did, and be glad to be part of Britain.”

  I shuddered. What future was left for Britain without a strong King at her center, giving her laws and granting justice, protecting her from enemies without and within? Why, without Roman civilization, we should be back in the time my father used to speak of, when there were twelve kings in Wales alone, each fighting with the other while the Saxons rowed their longboats up our rivers!

  “Dear Anna, keep your ears open, and tell me what you hear. It seems the times are changing fast. Arthur will need to know this, when he returns.”

  We had six days of rain; then the sun broke forth in splendor and the heat of summer was upon us. A week went by, then two weeks, and still we heard nothing from Less Britain. I began to sleep better. No news is good news was a saying older than Merlin.

  Between the stables and my gardens, I kept myself busy. And after hall, when I went with Mordred and Anna and Ferron and some others to the King’s library, I would sit quietly in the scented cool of the summer night. I’d let my thoughts wander and see the King’s face in Mordred’s features and hear his voice in my ear.

  One brilliant morning I walked in the library garden with Anna. Some of the younger maids were learning the art of caring for roses, and they laughed gaily together and chatted with the gardeners as they had their lessons. Anna and I stood some way from the fountain and spoke quietly together. The door into the library was open, and we could see Mordred in the dimness, at the High King’s desk. Even as we watched, he rose and stood at attention. A page backed away; a courier approached, filthy with the dirt of travel, and went on one knee. I gripped Anna’s hand—I dared not breathe.

  “Victory is ours!” I heard him hoarsely cry. “My lord, the Romans are defeated!”

  I began to weep in silence. Anna gently led me away to the back of the garden. I knelt where once I had knelt with Lancelot, and gave my thanks to God for answering my prayers. So great was my relief, I could not rise, but stayed leaning on the bench, hands clasped, for a long time. I never heard Anna leave me. But when I heard Mordred’s steps approaching, and I turned, Anna was gone, and the maids and the gardeners, as well. We were alone.

  I looked up smiling and had opened my mouth to speak, when I saw his face and was struck dumb. There were tear tracks on his cheeks! Mordred, who never showed but a fraction of what he felt, Mordred had wept.

  My throat went dry; I could not find breath. Mordred sat slowly on the bench and took my hands between his own. He himself was barely in control, and he trembled.

  “Guinevere—”

  “Victory,” I whispered, “I heard him say it. We won the day. I came to give thanks.”

  Mordred nodded slowly, but his eyes were full of grief. “Yes,” he managed. “The day was ours. Hiberius himself was killed, and his forces recalled to Rome. The Burgundians are defeated. The threat is—is past.”

  “Then why—no! Do not tell me!” I cried, as he opened his mouth to speak.

  He held my hands hard. “The King is—Arthur is dead.”

  I simply stared at him. I felt nothing. Wrapped in numbness, I could neither weep nor speak. I shook my head.

  Mordred sighed wearily. “I will tell you what the courier said. I have a—a dispatch from Lancelot, written in haste from a field dressing station, before he—while he could still speak. He is badly wounded,” he went on quickly, “and not expected to live.” I closed my eyes in pain and bowed my head. “They took the field ten days ago, with the High King leading the troops from the west; it took all day. It was a long and bloody fight. You were right, it seems, about their numbers. They dared not face Arthur of Britain without a force superior to his. But still he beat them. He broke them, Gwen, by midafternoon, and they retreated. The rest of the fighting was desperate skirmish only, with ragged bands of men putting up resistance here and there. Lancelot and Bedwyr were near him; Bedwyr was wounded, but is able to stand. At the end of the day, they could not find the High Ki
ng. Lancelot lay gravely wounded on the field, and in the field hospital, after he had dispatched this message, he told the courier what he had seen. The High King was fighting with Gawaine near the banks of a small stream to Lancelot’s left, when a small force of savage Burgundians burst out of ambush; one minute the King was there, and the next not. The Dragon was seen to fall. From the litter, Lancelot directed troops to the spot, and they searched but could not find him.”

  I found my voice. “Then he is alive. Somewhere.”

  Mordred looked pained. He swallowed. “It is possible, my lady, but not likely. You see—I don’t think you know what happens after a battle. Men crawl out from nowhere, it seems, like ravens, to strip and rob the dead. Sometimes the troops, too, if they are not well led. Within an hour of falling, a man is cleaned of all his belongings, his weapons, his jewelry, his clothing. Sometimes they take his life, if his own men have not yet found him. When—when Lancelot sent men to search the place, scavengers had already been there.” He reached inside his tunic and slowly drew forth a torn strip of crimson silk. It was the sash, hacked to ribbons and stiff with mud and dried blood. I took it in my hands. There at the ragged edge were the golden, interlocking letters, AR. “They found this by the stream,” Mordred whispered, choking.

  I seemed to feel a great cold grow inside me; my limbs were lifeless, my lips so stiff I could barely move them.

  “Even naked, the King’s body would be known,” I whispered. “He lives, Mordred. He lives. The lady Niniane told me he would return.”

  His eyes flashed, then grew dull once more. “Did she? Did she say how?”