Guinevere Evermore (32 page)

She turned her face away at once, but he saw it. He grew very still.

“I had to come see you, Arthur,” she explained, still staring at the tentskin. “To let you know I was not with Modred. I wasn’t sure if you would want to . . .”

“Guinevere!” Very gently, he touched her cheek and drew her face to his. She looked at him and all the tears she had refused to shed came spilling out. She stumbled against him and continued sobbing on his shoulder.

“I left you with him!” he accused himself. “I trusted him for the most illogical reason in the world. It was my stupidity that did this to you.”

She tried to regain control. She had not come to bring him guilt. She had had enough of that. She groped at the belt of the hermit’s robe.

“Arthur,” she begged, still on the edge of hysteria. “Do you have anything I can wear instead of this? I can’t stand it another second.”

“I’ll find something,” he told her. “Wrap yourself in this blanket while I go see. Here, let me take that out and burn it.”

“No,” she said abruptly. “I mean, I’ll hand it out to you.”

Arthur looked hurt. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think you would mind my seeing you.”

“Oh, no! It’s not like that!” She closed her eyes. “I hate to have anyone see me now, even you.”

“Guinevere, give me the robe.”

She took a ragged breath and gave it to him. She winced at his gasp of shock and grabbed frantically for the linen. She couldn’t look at him. It must disgust him horribly to see her so cut and bruised. How ugly she must be!

“Oh, my love,” he choked as he wrapped her tenderly and carried her to the couch. “Until tonight, I’ve been grieving that Modred has forced me to fight him. Despite all he has done, I didn’t want to hurt him. Now I can kill him in cold vengeance and smile.”

“I’m glad of it, Arthur, although it’s an awful feeling. I think that is the worst thing he did to me, I never knew how to hate before. Now it eats at me. I want him destroyed. Oh, Arthur! Don’t go, yet! Please stay with me. Hold me; talk to me. I just need to feel safe again.”

He stayed with her, cradling her in his arms with her face hidden on his chest. Slowly her breathing grew more peaceful, and finally she slept. He put her down with bitter reluctance. Her hair gleamed in the lamplight. He blinked rapidly to stop the blurring of his eyes. Then he knelt and kissed her before gingerly picking up the discarded robe and leaving the tent.

Guinevere didn’t wake when Morgan slithered in, pulled Excalibur from its sheath and replaced the sword in the new one she had brought. She vanished as quickly as she had come. No one saw her at all.

• • •

Risa had explained to Cei what had happened. She was looking for Cheldric, her most faithful lover, when Arthur found her. He thrust the robe at her.

“Here,” he commanded, “have this burned.”

“King Arthur,” she pleaded running after him. “Don’t blame her.”

Arthur stopped. “Blame her! What are you talking about? In the morning, I want you to take her to the hill overlooking the river, the one they call the glass tower. There is an old temple there where the two of you will be safe until it’s over. If we win, someone will come for you. If not, well, if not you will have to decide for yourselves what to do. Risa, take care of her, please!”

He strode on. Risa felt a bit piqued. ‘“Take care of her.’ Haven’t I always? I did the best I could,” she muttered, “while he was off at his wars. And she was the one who got us out of Camelot. Ah, well, poor man! It must be awful for a king to feel helpless, and I’ll wager anything the sight of my dear battered lady must have undone him.”

She held out the robe at arm’s length. Her own had already gone into the fire. “Those saints must all be mad. Three days in one of these filthy things is enough penance for any sin!”

Arthur did not look undone, but grimly determined, as he made the rounds of his army. Cei walked just behind him, afraid to do more than give short answers to questions equally short. The men were ready, seasoned but not worn by their weeks in Armorica. Frankish gold shone from some of their arms. They were satisfied with themselves and looked forward to looting more tomorrow. But most of them would have fought for Arthur’s sake alone. Arthur sighed. He knew that they were here for love of him, but how much more wonderful it would have been if they had been willing to fight for his laws and his dreams.

“Idiot!” he told himself. “Only martyrs fight for ideas. I asked too much of them. But it would be nice if there were one man left by my side who still believed. Not even Cei understands. He is here because he is my milk-brother and we are closer than kin. And the others, because I am their king. I was a fool to think I could change the way things have always been.”

His self-pity was interrupted by a commotion. The guards were leading a man on a white horse across the camp. They had taken his sword and his hands were tied behind his back. He made no resistance.

“Lancelot!”

The man looked up at the sound of his name. “Arthur. I came when I heard what had happened. I beg you to let me join you. My eyes are not good anymore, but my arm is as strong as ever. Send me into the fray first. That way I won’t harm my own side. But please let me fight!”

“Untie him!” Arthur ordered. “Why did you come, Lancelot? Even if we win against Modred, Camelot will never be the same. The Round Table is ended. We’re too divided to ever unite Britain again.”

“I won’t believe it, Arthur.” Lancelot dismounted, rubbing his wrists, and fell into step with Arthur out of old habit. “We would all be speaking Saxon now, if it weren’t for you. You taught the people of Britain that it is possible to live by one law. Not even the Romans could do that. They had different rules for everyone. Even‘more, you’ve showed me what a king ought to be. I couldn’t stay rotting in Banoit if I could help you. Will you have me, Arthur?”

“Yes, Lancelot. Of course! Who else would I want at my right hand?” Arthur paused, then went on. This wasn’t a time to perpetuate old bitterness. “Lancelot, Guinevere was able to escape from Modred. She’s here now. Would you like to go see her?”

Lancelot stopped, then looked away. Arthur’s generosity always shamed him. “Thank you, but I made a promise and it would be better if I kept it. Don’t let her know I was here.”

“All right, but if I don’t survive this battle, Lancelot, I want you to remember that your vow dies with me.”

“If you don’t survive, old friend, then neither will I. Where do you think we will fight?”

“There is a field by the river Cam, not far from here. If Modred brings his men out, then that is the most likely place for us to meet. Ke’ll try to drive us into the river. We have to keep him from returning to Camelot. My men have their orders. Those on foot will circle through the woods and try to cut off his retreat. The knights and other mounted men will attack him face on. It seems too simple to work, but there is nothing else we can do.”

Lancelot ran over the plan in his head. “I remember the place. We used to have picnics there with races in the grass. It makes this whole thing even more like a nightmare, to be killing men in Camlann field.”

The clouds were thick over Britain the next morning, dark and lowering, but unable to rain. Modred looked at them with pleasure and wondered if Morgause had conjured them up. It was easier to fight under gray skies, cooler, with less chance of being distracted by reflection off shield and armor. He had fought with Morgause the night before. She thought it was stupid to leave a fortress to fight in the open.

“Stick to your sorcery,” he told her. “Warfare is my business and I know what I’m doing. We’re stronger than he is now. After a siege, it might not be true. He’d have all winter to gather new forces while we would remain trapped in here. Trust me in this and be ready to welcome me back.”

“I suppose I can expect you, since you let the Queen get away,” she sneered at him, jabbing at a lock with her comb.

“You were a fool ever to take up with her. I should have left you then. No, don’t sputter more excuses. I don’t want to talk to you.”

He had thrown one more razor-cut remark at her anyway and left before the dish hit the door. She wasn’t in a good mood.

Looking at the sky that morning, he decided that she must have forgiven him. It was going to be a fine day, and, at the end of it, there would be no question as to who ruled Britain.

“You wouldn’t give it to me, Father,” he whispered to the wind. “You kept it from me out of shame. Your incestuous bastard. You could have avoided this. But I will take my rights just as I took your city and your Queen. I will stand on your body and proclaim myself your heir.”

Then a chill passed through him, a sense of the sickness destroying him. Briefly, he longed for warmth, for a friendship he would never have.

“Mother!” his mind screamed in anguish. “Look what you’ve done! Are you satisfied now? Why did you drive me to this! You never should have made me!”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Guinevere and Risa followed Cheldric up the tor. At the top was a tiny stone temple, dedicated to Lugh and Apollo, sun gods of two peoples. It was near dawn, time for the priests to welcome the god, but the priests had died out fifty years before and the day was one that wanted no greeting. Fog and shadows made the landscape alien, ignored by the guardians of men. If the scorching summer had not dried the bogs between Camlann and the tor, they might never have arrived at the top. As it was, they turned the wrong way and had to retrace more than once before they reached the overgrown road leading to the sanctuary.

“I should be down there,” Cheldric muttered. “Even with one arm, I could do something.”

“Go on back then,” Risa goaded him. “We’re perfectly safe up here. If you’re lucky, you can run into Modred’s men in the fog and kill them all by yourself. Then we can go back to Camelot and clean it out before the King gets home.”

Cheldric had known her too long and too well to pay attention. “I have my orders,” he stated. He squatted on the ground by the old temple, his back to the eastern wall. “Can’t see a damn thing down there.”

He sounded worried. Guinevere sat a little away from them. She had wakened in semi-darkness to find Arthur still asleep on the ground next to the couch. Even rest could not erase the weariness on his face. She had lain watching him, memories and regrets filling her mind, until Cei’s call awakened him. His eyes opened, saw her, and lighted with pleasure. She leaned down and kissed him.

“Remember, my love,” he told her just before she left. “We’ve done with guilt. Whatever happens today, you’ll not forget that we’ve forgiven each other everything. We did the best we could according to what we knew at each moment. I sacrificed you to my dreams.”

“And I sacrificed you to my desires,” Guinevere answered. “I wonder why we humans are allowed to go blundering through our lives. So many things I should have known but learned too late! I wish this were our wedding dawn.”

“So long ago!” Arthur sighed.

“I was never unhappy because of you,” she went on. “I have always loved you, since the day you kept my brother, Mark, from running away from us in his despair. You are the kindest man I’ve ever known.”

“And I’ve told you ever since then what you are to me.” He raised her hands to his lips. From outside the tent came the rattle of armed men preparing to set out. Without turning his eyes from her, Arthur reached for his buckler and fastened it over his shoulder. Excalibur was cold against her leg as he kissed her good-bye.

And somewhere, buried in the mist below, the battle had begun.

• • •

The Lady of the Lake regarded the wretched woman before her with scorn.

“If you break my laws, you must expect to suffer,” she told Morgan with disgust. “You’ve done more damage today than you’ll ever know. Or perhaps I’ll see that you do know. That would be a lovely codicil to your punishment. Don’t sniff!”

“I can’t help it!” Morgan retorted. “I caught cold on the way back here. I don’t care what you do to me. It was your magic in the first place that meant to kill my Modred. All I did was even things out.”

“And you thought I’d never know. Well, I might not have if I hadn’t been looking for my Lancelot. He’s there now with King Arthur. If your mischief results in his being killed . . .”

She couldn’t think of anything dreadful enough.

“Can’t you stop it?” Morgan pleaded.

“Of course not! What happens up there has nothing to do with us. Interfering in their quarrels will only destroy us all. But my poor, foolish Lancelot! Adon, get my boat ready. We can at least be there at the end. If he survives, perhaps at last I can convince him to return to us. You’re coming too, Morgan le Fay. I want you to see what your precious son has caused.”

• • •

For Arthur, once it began, the fight at Camlann blended in with all the other battles, starting with the first skirmishes nearly forty years before, through that awful, long day on Mons Badon to the recent encounters with the Franks. He hacked, slashed, cut, ducked, parried, wiped his face, slashed again, swore and thrust over and over throughout the cloudy morning. He could feel Cei on his left and Lancelot on his right fending off other attackers. For a moment, there was a silent space; he grabbed his waterskin and drank deeply. Someone yelled that Modred had ambushed the men sent to cut him off. Arthur shouted to Caet to find out what had happened and report back to him. Then a group of warriors made a rush at him, axes swinging at his horse’s legs. Most of them were cut down by the archers but two got through and Arthur was busy again; thrust, hack, jab, parry, duck, slash, slash again, and again, recoil as an arrow hits the shield, hack, jab, parry, swear . . .

Cei was swept away from him. Lancelot stayed close, swinging with a maniacal steadiness at all who came near. Arthur tried to see what was happening. Were they winning? He could hear Constantine exhorting his men. There were no lines; both sides were in a jumble, little clusters locked together in single combat not aware of the turn of battle. Sir Dyfnwal was hurrying toward him, his horse leaping the bodies strewn about like last night’s feast. Arthur kicked the chest of another attacker and went to meet his knight.