“What do you mean?”
“Did she say how he would return? Living? Or on a bier?”
I believe I screamed. Every day, every hour, I had comforted myself with this prophecy, and I had not thought of this! No wonder Niniane had shown relief!
“When Lancelot got to the field station,” Mordred continued, “he sent this message. Rumors of Arthur’s death are sure to flood Britain fast—he advises us to act as if the King were dead, to hold together. Soon—within a week—we will know for certain. There are search parties out every day. But as Lancelot points out, at the battle’s ending, if he lived, he would have sent someone with a message. They waited hours, Gwen. They heard nothing.”
I sat still, hearing his words, but unable to feel them. It could not be true; and yet, how could it be false? Of course Arthur would get word to his commanders, if he lived. The bitter irony of it ate at my heart: Lancelot on his deathbed telling Mordred he must be King! My dearest Lancelot! Lancelot and Arthur—both felled in one wicked day! It was too heavy a grief to bear; I could not bear it; I pushed it aside.
“You had better be King now, Mordred. When they find him—if he is—when they send you his ring and his Sword, we will crown you. But—but you had better take the title, for Britain’s sake.”
Mordred raised me from the ground and kissed my cheek. “What a noble Queen you are,” he whispered, “to think of this amid your great grief. As you say, it must be done. But I want you to know that I would give anything not to have to do it.”
He meant it; for once, his heart was in his eyes, and I read his love for Arthur there. “I will come,” I said without a tremor. “I must. There may be some who would not accept you, else. We must be united.”
So I went before the Council, grave men all, and after Mordred read aloud Lancelot’s brief message and advice, I told them as clearly as I could that this was what King Arthur had desired, that his son Mordred be confirmed as High King after his death, and that all the kings of Britain swear allegiance and fealty to him as they had to Arthur. So it was done.
And after, I left them to their somber celebrations and let Anna guide me to my chamber. But there I bade her leave me. Alone, I stood before the leather curtain and gathered my courage. Slowly I lifted it and passed into his room. It was still and calm and clean, and I drew a deep breath. But my spirit did not lift; the place was empty; he was not there. From below his stairs I heard the sound of weeping. Gentle Bran, no doubt, had just heard the news.
“Oh, Arthur,” I whispered to the air, “do not desert me! Who is left to bring me comfort and help me bear this grief? There must be something of you left here.” I knelt by the trunk and threw up the lid, growing frantic to find something, anything, that bore his smell, his feel, any mark of his spirit. I lifted out his favorite winter robe of plain brown wool, trimmed with rabbit. I pressed it to my face; but of course Varric had sent it to the fuller’s before packing it away, and it was clean, devoid of any trace of Arthur. I shook it out, and a moth flew free. Alarmed, I looked more closely. Over the left breast I found a hole made by the moth’s tooth—and I burst into tears.
Bran flew up the stairs; Anna came running in. Between them, they got me into my own bed. I remember little of it. For days I lay unthinking, unseeing, unresponsive to entreaties, beyond grief and beyond hope.
When at last I arose, I began to accept the fact that Niniane was right: The world had changed. I forgave her for not forewarning me—had I known the truth, we could not have shared that last, sweet night together. As it was, Britain was still whole, and Arthur’s son was King. Now it was time to give thought to where I should spend my future, for I had no doubt that, as soon as he could get the army home and see things settled, Mordred would get himself a wife. I must leave Camelot.
But when at length I went to talk with Mordred, I found he was not there. He had gone, with a troop of men, eastward to meet with Cerdic. The news of Arthur’s death had indeed raced across the Narrow Sea and had reached the Saxons almost as soon as it reached us. They had sent an embassy, asking for a parley. I questioned Ferron, who had stayed as my Protector, and he said simply, “Cerdic has declared the treaties with Arthur void.” Well, I thought, it was not surprising. Cerdic’s treaties had been with Arthur, and now Arthur was gone. Mordred had gone to ratify the treaties in his own name, and it was right that he should. So I said nothing. I spent my days on the turret of the southwest tower, which overlooked the entrance to King’s Gate, and all the lands between Caer Camel and the far woodlands, toward Brittany. Daily I watched couriers ride in, but none from Less Britain. We had no more news.
At last Mordred returned and sent for me. I went to him in the library and curtsied at the doorway.
“My lord King,” I said quietly. He extended a hand, brown from the sun, and raised me. I looked up into his eyes and hardly knew him. He was tanned and relaxed, and happy and vibrantly alive.
“My dear Guinevere,” he said softly, “you need do me no reverence—not you. Are you well enough to sit with me awhile? I would talk with you.”
“Yes, my lord. And I would talk with you.”
He dismissed the other courtiers and led me into the garden. He spoke very gently and watched me closely to see if I attended. When he saw I did, he gradually grew more natural and told me quietly all about his visit with Cerdic. He had been very successful. Cerdic had not only ratified the terms of the treaties he had had with Arthur, but he and Mordred had come to a new agreement. Cerdic’s son Cynewulf was then in his Saxon homeland, organizing yet another “rescue” of his people to Britain’s shores. Cerdic needed more land. Mordred, on the other hand, wanted landing rights in the harbors of the Saxon shores, for trade with the Saxons, with Bretons, Franks, and even the Alemans of northern Gaul. They had struck a deal. Cynewulf would be allowed to land his longboats unchallenged; British ships would have rights of passage along their shores. It was a giant step forward in friendship between the two peoples, a giant step along the road to making them one nation. I congratulated Mordred and wished that, for his sake, I could feel joy. But that part of me that looked forward had died when Arthur died.
Exultant though he was, Mordred was sensitive to my sorrow. “You are pale, Guinevere. How many days has it been since you have ridden out in the fresh air?”
I shook my head. “I do not feel like riding, Mordred.”
“Not feel like riding? It is not the Guinevere I know who speaks! Is there aught that I can do to ease your sorrow?”
I managed a smile. “Indeed, I hope there is. I have come to ask for your advice.”
He looked pleased and bowed low. “Any way that I can be of service—just name it, it shall be done.”
I looked away. “You may think this foolish, Mordred. But then you are not a woman.” I paused. “We women must depend upon men for our keeping. And now my protector has gone from me, I—I am adrift. It is a consequence of childlessness I had not considered, until now. I have thought of returning to Wales, but it is a long time since it has been my home. I cannot go to Gwynedd. Pellinore is dead; Alyse blames me for Elaine’s early death; Maelgon despises me for other reasons. And even in Northgallis—Gwarth has four brothers, all with wives and children. Gwillim is still my friend, but he is married now, and I would only bring disruption to his household. I would go to Ynys Witrin and live with the ladies there, if Niniane would take a Christian, but it lies hard by Melwas’ castle. And nothing will persuade me, loyal to Arthur as he has been, to set foot on his lands again.” I shuddered, and Mordred touched my arm to interrupt me.
“Dear Guinevere,” he whispered, “there is no need for you to go! Stay here in Camelot—it is your home. I will protect you. It will be my pleasure, for as long as you live.”
I blushed under his gaze and looked down. “You are kind, Mordred. Very kind. I thank you for the offer. But you know well that someday soon, perhaps within the year, you will wed, and bring your own Queen to Camelot. I cannot stay here, like some worn-out gown
still hung in the corner, because no one knows what to do with it.”
“Guinevere!” Mordred looked aghast, and he went down on one knee before me. “Guinevere, do not speak so.”
“Rise, Mordred! You are King now, you ought not to kneel before me.”
“I will do as I please, my lady Queen. I will not have you think such thoughts! I beg you not to consider leaving! I have no plans to wed, nor will I make any—”
“What of the mother of your sons?” I asked gently, touching his face.
He trembled and shook his head. “They are by different mothers,” he said quickly. “Those women matter not. They are content as they are. I have seen to that. My heart is—they have not my affection. Please, Guinevere, believe me. You matter much more than they.”
He rose suddenly and paced back and forth before me. “The night before I left Brittany, the King spoke with me well into the night. About what should happen if—if he did not come back. The last thing he said, the last but most important, was about you. He bade me promise to protect you and care for you all the days of your life. I promised him, Guinevere, I promised willingly. So let me do it. It is Arthur’s wish, as well as my own.”
I bowed my head. “All right, Mordred. I thank you from my heart. In a year or so, you may feel differently, but—”
“Never!”
“—but for now, I will worry no longer about it. For this I thank you.”
He raised me from my seat and kissed my hand. “Guinevere,” he said fervently, “you are still Queen here. You need not ever bend a knee to me.”
But I dipped him a curtsy as I left him. He was, after all, High King.
Time passed, and still no news came from Brittany. Mordred told me the reason.
“A summer storm assails the Narrow Sea,” he said. “They say the wind blows out of the north, cold and strong, all day and night. Messengers going south may get across in record time, but no ship in Brittany can sail beyond the harbor. One good thing has come of it, though. Cynewulf is also held ashore. Some on the Council do not like this treaty, and I would win them over before he is here in fact.”
“Then is our army stranded?”
“They are on Hoel’s lands, and safe. The threat to them is past. This gives them time to reorganize and heal their wounds. We should know the truth of things as soon as the wind changes.”
I looked at his face, Arthur’s face, profiled against the sunlit garden. It was a strong, young face, full of authority and promise and the joy of wielding power, and doing it well.
“Mordred,” I said softly. “What if—what if the courier brings the news that the King lives and has landed? What then?”
He turned to me, helplessly, beseechingly. “I—I will yield to him, of course. He is my father.”
I drew a long breath of relief. “Will you, Mordred? Can you? Do you swear it?”
He nodded and swallowed hard. “I have thought of it every night since the news of his death. It would not be easy to give up kingship, even for a time. But he is Arthur. Even were he not my father, I could do no less.”
I went to him and hugged him tightly, my eyes wet with tears. “You are a good man, Mordred. And I love you dearly. You grow daily more like him, do you know that?” I thought to please him by my words, but the joy had gone out of his face.
Eventually, the wind changed, then we had news. Not at first—I later learned that the army’s ships had been caught in a squall and gone astray. The first ships that landed were trading vessels, and everyone on board had heard a different story. So the first things we heard were rumors—the King lived, the King was dead, the King lived but was mad. Lancelot had died of his wounds; Lancelot had recovered but could not yet walk. Gawaine lived and led the army, usurping Arthur’s place. Gawaine lived and had vowed to kill Lancelot before he left Less Britain. Gawaine lived and supported the raving King, loyal to the end, while Bedwyr led the troops. Mordred and I looked at one another and knew not what to think. As we had heard no rumors of their deaths, we took Gawaine and Bedwyr to be living, and so knew that eventually we should have the truth.
But the first messenger to come was not from the British ships, but from the Saxons. The messenger, afraid for his life in Camelot, nevertheless braved the troops to give Mordred his report. Cerdic was furious and called Mordred to account. British ships had landed on his coasts, blown eastward by the fickle winds. This was allowed by the new treaty and so the local people had not panicked, but simply retreated inland to allow them passage. But the same ill wind had blown Cynewulf and his company ashore nearby. Most of those new immigrants were farmers, but some were thegns and fighters. They knew nothing of the treaty, of course, but saw in the presence of the British ships opposition to their landing. However, they had held back their attack, in case the Britons should prove peaceful. But no sooner had the Britons put ashore than they attacked, led by a wild young warrior who cried aloud for Saxon blood. And so battle had ensued, Cynewulf’s men were defeated, and the land about laid waste as the Britons, ragged and weary but still a fighting force, moved north.
Nervously the counselors heard this news.
“What was landed first,” Mordred asked, “horses or men?”
“Men,” the Saxon replied, “and they had lifted the Dragon banner above a tall man with a great sword that shone like light. Everyone there thought it was Arthur.”
Mordred went white. “Are you certain it was Arthur? Were there any there who knew him?”
The Saxon shrugged. It was not certain; nothing was certain, but that the Britons had landed on the Saxon shore and attacked, unprovoked.
Mordred shook his head. “Had it been Arthur, the cavalry would have landed first. If he meant war. Of course, it is possible that they were merely shipwrecked and felt themselves threatened by Cynewulf’s armed force.”
The Saxon nodded. “That is why King Cerdic sends to you, King Mordred. The fault may be on both sides. But the fact is, the Saxons and the Britons are once again at war. The treaty has been broken.”
The knights around the Round Table looked at Mordred nervously. But Mordred had his father’s calm. “Return to Cerdic with the message that I will come to his aid immediately with the army. I beg him to be patient. If this is Arthur, there should be no danger. Was it not Arthur himself who made the first treaty with your people? He would never break a promise he had made. If it is not Arthur but some remnants of the army, they are confused and afraid. I will show myself and bring them back home and make reparations to Cerdic for what damage they have in error caused.”
With this the Saxon had to be content and took himself back to his territories. Mordred gave out orders to gather the troops and prepared himself to set out the next day. But first he came to find me.
I knew from his face he was beset. He looked both pleased and dismayed, relieved and frightened, angry and full of hope. He went on his knee at once and grasped my hand.
“Gwen, there is a chance he is alive!”
I sank into a chair. After all this! After the hard work of acceptance, to have hope given back! I did not trust myself to speak, but squeezed his hand.
“I’ve had a message from Cerdic.” He gave me the report, and finished, “Some among them think it was the High King who led the Britons. I leave tomorrow to find out if this is true.”
But here my courage left me. What I had been through, after hearing of Arthur’s death, I could not go through twice. The scar upon my soul was deep and still bled. I dared not bare myself for another blow. I dared not hope. I turned away from Mordred and withdrew my hand.
“No,” I whispered. “It is not he. It cannot be. He has stood face to face with Cynewulf; he knows the man. He would never have attacked.”
“But Gawaine might have,” Mordred persisted, surprised at my reaction. “From what the courier told us, it sounds just like him. And who else could it be, under the Dragon banner?”
“Bedwyr, perhaps.” I sighed wearily. “Gereint? Who knows? But if it had been
the King, they’d have known it. There would be no doubt.”
Mordred chewed his lip, watching me. “Tomorrow I leave for Cerdic’s side, and we move south together. The defense treaty binds me to this action. But I am not sure it is the best course—it will look as if we march against our own troops.”
He was asking for my advice! With an effort, I met his eyes and gently touched his face, Arthur’s face. “You are High King, Mordred. Of course you must go. Stay Cerdic’s hand and bring our poor troops home.”
He squared his shoulders. The gesture brought fresh tears to my eyes. “When we meet them,” he said firmly, “we will parley. I will show them how misunderstanding has arisen. At all costs, I must avoid bloodshed. For all our sakes.”
That night, after Anna had dressed me for sleep and brushed my hair, I knelt by the open terrace doorway and said my prayers. As I rose and turned toward the bed, I saw light creep under the leather curtain and heard soft voices in the King’s room. Without stopping to think, I pulled aside the curtain and went in. Mordred stood there, just come from hall, and Bran stood trembling behind him, holding a night robe.
I met Mordred’s eyes.
“No!” I whispered. “Not his chamber, Mordred. Not yet. Please.”
“My lady,” Mordred began, and then stopped. He waved his hand, and Bran fled down the stairs. Mordred came around the bed and stood before me.
“Guinevere, I would not alarm you. Have I misunderstood you?” His voice went very low. “Did you not this very day confirm me in my Kingship, while there is yet hope that—”
“Not his bed. No. Not yet.” I twisted my hands together, my eyes on the familiar bearskins. “I still—I can’t—I still remember—” I looked up at him and shook my head. “Then I must go, for I am not your Queen.”
He took my hands and pressed them to his lips. Instinctively I drew back, but he pulled me closer and, before I knew it, held me in his arms and kissed my lips and my face with eager passion. Before I could even comprehend it, he was on his knees, his arms about my waist, his face buried in my skirt.