Guinevere Evermore (28 page)

“It was my stupidity, my own willfulness, that caused this. Now Gareth and my dearest friend, Gawain, are dead because of me. How can you take me back to Camelot after what I’ve done?”

He leaned her head on his shoulder and rocked her for several minutes before he answered.

“I love you.”

She clung to him, saying over and over, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

He went on, “You see, it’s my pride, too. I knew about Lancelot for years. I could have let you go, but I was too selfish. I didn’t want to give you up. You are my weakness; my enemies know it. This was my fault, you were not to blame.”

All at once something in her snapped. She sat straight up, anger pouring forth.

“I’m sick of guilt, Arthur. I won’t hear of it again. And I won’t let you take it all upon yourself. I’m to blame for loving Lancelot; you’re to blame for loving me. Lancelot is to blame for every sin since Cain killed Abel as far as he can see. We’re wallowing in it. It’s enough. I can’t go back to Camelot in sackcloth and ashes. And I won’t let you waste away or throw yourself on your sword because you’re a human being. None of us are blameless. I’ve apologized and so have you, and Lancelot is probably beating himself with branches right now unless someone has the sense to stop him. When you come back from Armorica we can start again, but with no more talk of guilt and blame. People weren’t meant to live so. Can you remember that?”

“Yes, my dear.” He took her by the shoulders. “I’ll remember. We won’t talk of it anymore.”

She slept on his cot that night with him rolled up in blankets on the ground beside her. She woke early but without the energy to get herself up. Looking down at him, she noticed that the stubble on his cheek was nearly white. There were new lines on his forehead and, in repose, the furrows from nose to chin were deep.

“When did we start to grow old?” she wondered. “And why is it happening to everyone but me?”

She felt her face, searching for the dents and ridges that must surely be starting. But there was nothing. It upset her.

“I don’t like it. I don’t want to be left behind.”

• • •

The journey back to Camelot was hurried. Ships were waiting at Portsmouth to take the army to Armorica. Apart from rapturous and tearful reunions with Lydia and Risa, Guinevere was almost lost in the confusion. There was no time for acrimony or explanation. There was too much work to be done. Guinevere simply resumed her place on the balcony, her walking stick beside her and the ivory box in her lap.

Old friends called up greetings to her and Durriken, the poet, took to sitting with her.

“This is the only safe place for a noncombatant,” he assured her. “It also makes a wonderful stage. My harp and I would be quite safe from harassment up here. The dining hall can become quite dangerous if I select the wrong story or if a new one doesn’t please.”

“You are welcome to use it whenever you like,” Guinevere told him. “I have always enjoyed your tales. Perhaps tonight you could recite the one about Gawain and the Green Knight.”

“But, Queen Guinevere! I hadn’t planned ever to sing that again! It wouldn’t be respectful to his memory. I have been working on something else for him entirely, a lament for a fallen warrior. It will be stirring and martial, to remember his great strength and valor.”

Guinevere leaned on the railing, considering. “Well, he was strong and valorous. No one would deny that. But he was also loving and funny, and he had the most amazing talent for getting into ridiculous situations. I don’t want that part of him forgotten. Don’t you think he deserves to be remembered for more than the ability to uproot trees and knock over walls?”

“Yes, but so many of the stories deal with adventures of a . . . uh, lewd character.”

“He told them himself,” Guinevere insisted. “They made us laugh. Please don’t stop telling them.”

“As you wish, my Queen,” the poet replied. “The exciting and eventful tale of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.”

He strummed his harp to keep the meter, and occasionally the rhythm would switch from chant to song. Guinevere nodded; yes, that was Gawain. Brash, sure, good-hearted, rather overeager to please a lady, always dreaming of glory. She hoped that he would be remembered that way.

• • •

The night before they left, Arthur called Modred into his rooms. Guinevere was down with Lydia, helping to make one last inventory. As he did in private, Arthur greeted his son affectionately.

“Sit down, lad. I want to speak with you. You have been very generous about being left behind on this expedition. I know how much you must want to go and fight with the others.”

“That’s all right, Father. I understand. Someone must keep an eye on Britain while you and the others are gone.”

“Quite right, although most of the troublemakers are going with me. Nothing like the smell of loot to make men settle their differences. But I don’t leave you without some forces. You own handpicked troops have offered to stay with you. That speaks well for your ability to create loyalty.”

“Thank you, Father.”

“Now, I need your help with something else. This is a great adventure we are undertaking. Despite everything, I have at least brought Britain to the point where we can go to the aid of our cousins without fearing that our own homes will be destroyed in our absence. Even though I’ve failed in other areas, I am proud of that.”

“As you should be.” Modred felt that he was supposed to make some comment here.

“Yes. Now, I am an old man by most reckonings. I may not return from Armorica. I may not even survive the crossing. There is still so much work to be done that I can’t leave without naming someone as my heir.”

Modred’s heartbeat quickened. He tried to keep his breathing even.

“You shouldn’t think of such things, Father. You’re still strong and healthy.”

“But death comes to everyone, when we least expect it. I’ve been thinking about this for many years now, but I was unable to face it. Now, I’ve decided. There is only one man whom I believe has the wisdom and skill to continue with my dream. That is Cador’s son, Constantine.”

“Constantine!” Modred’s jaw dropped. “He’s not even your kin!”

“But he’s of the old blood. And his wife is granddaughter to Leodegrance, who was one of the most respected men in Britain. More than that, he believes in Camelot, in our ideals. I want you to help him, Modred, to support him after I’m gone. You’ve made friends with many factions and you can lead them to him.”

Modred’s mind was working fiercely. How could the old goat do this to him? His own son! Constantine was a plaster cast of a man, fit only to put in front of a public building. How could Arthur be such a fool!

Aloud, he said, “He’s a fine man, Father, but perhaps not strong enough to keep the tribes in their place. Another man, more skilled at diplomacy . . .”

“But that’s what I want you to be there for, Modred. I’ve seen to it that when I die my private possessions will go to you, apart from a few things for Guinevere. I thought you might sell some of them and get your own land, since I can’t leave you any property openly. It would be an act of selflessness on your part to wait until Constantine is secure in his kingship, before you go. And, I’ve another favor to ask.”

“Anything, Father,” Modred said between clenched teeth. What did he want now? For him to clean out the privies before Constantine used them?

“Since Constantine will be with me in Armorica, it is all the more important that you stay behind and take care of things while we are gone. Don’t worry. I expect the campaign to last only the summer. Especially, I want you to watch out for Guinevere. She hasn’t recovered yet from her ordeal. Take good care of her. Don’t let anyone hurt her.”

Modred had brightened considerably during this speech. He stood at the end of it and placed his hand on Arthur’s shoulder.

“Of course, Father. It will be an honor to serve you in any way. And Queen Guinevere would be a concern of mine in any case. Then will you announce your selection before you go?”

“I have. I’ve told you and Constantine, of course. When the time comes, you will be the one to let Britain know. If I do survive the war, then next autumn I can proclaim my choice to all the lords and kings. I’m telling you now, just in case. I rely on you.”

“You honor me, Father.” Modred bowed and let Arthur grip him in a bone-crushing hug. Well, the old fool did still have his strength. Thank the gods he had not let anyone know his plans. If the arrest of Guinevere had proved a disaster, this would not. He had all spring and summer to establish himself, and there were multitudes of dangers to a king crossing the sea to wage war. He would be willing to wager that Arthur would not survive the campaign.

• • •

The army left in a blaze of trumpets, waving pennants, and dancing horses. It took most of the day before the last soldiers marched through the gate and disappeared around the bend in the road.

Guinevere stood with Risa, Lydia, Brisane, Tertia, and the other women, all waving and smiling as if this were a holiday.

“This is worse than the Grail,” Brisane muttered through her grin. “At least then we assumed they wouldn’t be fighting.”

“I know,” Lydia answered. “I feel like my mouth is starched in this position. How can they be fooled by it?”

They were finally gone. The last flutter was shaken out of the scarves and the women went back to the hall, empty of all but children and old men. Even Durriken had gone, to play the army to glory. Guinevere wanted desperately to be alone in her room in peace. She started to go that way ?'hen she was struck by a thought. What if the other women felt that way, too? Perhaps she should stay and share in the talk and the pretending. It was very thoughtless of her to assume she was the only one who was tired and worried.

Reflected from nowhere, a sunbeam shone in her eyes. For a second, she thought she heard two men laughing.

• • •

Gradually, life settled into patterns, summer progressed as usual. Guinevere began to spend more time with the other women. The snide glances and sudden whispers did not reappear, for all her notoriety. She felt a real friendliness from the women of Camelot that they hadn’t exfended before. It puzzled her enough to ask Risa.

“It’s simple enough,” she replied as she folded summer gowns. “You’ve lost a child and you’ve lost a lover. Now you’re one of us.”

“But don’t they condemn me for Lancelot, for poor Gawain’s death? Don’t they believe with the saints that I tried to destroy Arthur?”

Risa snorted. “Of course not! Sorcery, nonsense! No one credited that. And, as for Lancelot, well, there are still some that say you betrayed your husband. But most of them know what it’s like, married as the family says, never mind if he’s fat or feeble-minded or prefers little boys. I think some were jealous of you, to have it both ways, a kind husband and a handsome lover. But even those don’t fault you now. You paid, and each woman thanks her own private deity that it didn’t happen to her. Don’t think they pity you. It’s not that at all. It’s more that they finally realize that you’re not just the Queen, and a bit spoiled, too. You’ve suffered as much as any woman; now we can be kin.”

Guinevere took this as truth, for Risa understood these things. She wondered if she ever would. When she got back to her own rooms, after Banoit, the first thing she had done was to find her mirror and hold it close to her face. Arthur was aging, Lancelot was older. Risa was a grandmother now, and looked it, despite the herbs and almond milk. Was it true that she had escaped what comes to all mortals?

The eyes that stared back at her were variable gray-green, as always. There were no lines on her forehead, but she thought she saw a few tiny ones at the corners of her eyes and mouth. She had to examine her face intently to find them, but they were there. She was almost relieved.

So there was the promise that someday, she too, would grow old. It was not a prospect she had thought to contemplate before, but now that Morgause was here for Guinevere to study, aging looked better and better.

Morgause had appeared a few days after the army left. Modred greeted her with guarded enthusiasm, the rest of Camelot with undisguised astonishment.

She was like a woman stepped out of legend or the wickedest days of Caligula and Nero. Everything about her breathed color, from her hair to the huge black and brown dogs that followed her everywhere. Next to her Guinevere was bland and the fashionable Brisane hopelessly drab. Her ability to manage men and beasts was watched with an envious awe, but rumors of her other talents caused rowan branches to appear hanging over doorways and cradles.
That
was a sorceress, make no mistake, and no one was fool enough to want to tangle with her.

The precautions and wardings amused Morgause. She laughed about them with Modred in his room as they plotted the final coup that would give them the power they had yearned for for so long.

“I wish that Morgan could see you now, Modred,” she crooned. “She thought you’d rejected her completely.”

“I did. The old whore made this even harder for me. You know how I feel about your petty
vindicta
.”

“What did you feel when Gareth died, and Gawain?”

Modred squirmed. “Nothing, nothing at all. They were fools.”

“So are you if you ignore the blood ties. I never cared about avenging our mother’s rape by Uther. But you can’t ignore the bonds; they’re part of the weaving that holds all things together. Arthur has tried to ignore them with his laws and artificial justice. Even the Romans were smarter than that. They gave the power to the families who had always wielded it, as long as there was order and prompt payment of taxes. In return, Rome gave its civilization. Arthur believes that veneer is enough. But what survived were merely Romanized Cornovii and Dumnonii and all the other tribes of Britain.”

“Morgause, I am very tired of history lessons. I’ll write my own, thank you. ‘Modred, High King of Britain, Conquerer of the West.’ That’s what the bards will sing of and the scribes copy into their books. When Arthur and Rome are just shadows, it is I who will be exalted.”