Guinevere Evermore (7 page)

“You’ve been away a long time, Sir Constantine. Letitia is nineteen. She has been eating much better lately and has learned the use of a comb.”

He then left Constantine with his thoughts, and turned to Caet.

“So, you run away from your master and now come back as a lord, you think!” He snorted in disgust.

“I am horsemaster to King Arthur.” Caet looked him full in the eyes. “I am not a lord, but I am no man’s slave. Leodegrance and I made our peace years ago. You have no right to sneer at me now.”

“So why are you here!” the old man blazed.

Caet shook his head. “
She
wanted me to come.”

Pincerna looked at him closely. “I see. It was always like that, though, wasn’t it? You took her punishments more than once, I remember. True enough, Caet, you’re no
man’s
slave. I love her as my own, lad, but even I can see that you’ll only bring yourself grief.”

“And when, Pincerna, have I ever expected anything else?”

They went together to the butler’s quarters and shared a pitcher before the long night of watching in the chapel. That night, also, there were fires along the fields. The shepherds and farmers wanted to be sure the old gods would light the way for their master even to the new heaven he sought.

• • •

Mourning was getting on Guinevere’s nerves. Her father was dead. He was buried. They had said Masses for his soul. They had torn their clothes and beat their breasts until the blood came and then they had rubbed ashes in the wounds. It was enough. Caet had insisted on leaving as soon as he could. He complained that the horses would be neglected if he didn’t watch over the stable boys. Only Constantine seemed in no hurry to go, but he spent all his time comforting Letitia, leaving Guinevere and Rhianna to cope with Guenlian’s deep mourning.

“Rhianna, I can’t stay here much longer,” Guinevere said one morning as they went over plans for the day. “I must be back at Camelot soon. Arthur needs me.”

But it was the music of summer she was thinking of, more than Arthur, and laughter and the jugglers and magicians and the games and dances at Solstice Eve. She had thought she loved this villa more than any place on earth, but it was so empty now, and dim, like the ripples of a reflection in a lake. It belonged to the past, with the evening reading from Vergil or Diodorus and the lush meals served to reclining guests. Guinevere felt that, if she turned her back on it, the house would vanish and, when she turned again, only a peeling shell would remain, roofless and ghosted.

“You’re very tired, Guinevere. Your mother is resting now and Pincerna is going to bring her a long list of decisions to make when she awakes. Why don’t you go for a ride?”

Rhianna was gray with grief and exaustion, Guinevere noticed with guilt. “Come with me. You need to get away more than I do.”

“No, I don’t care for riding. Anyway”—there was a glint of humor in her tired eyes—“I think I should stay close enough to be a proper chaperon for my daughter. And to think that I always remembered Constantine as such a bloodthirsty, girl-hating little boy.”

So Guinevere went alone. She crossed the creek, still rushing with melted snow, and, without thinking, headed for the woods. Long ago she had found something precious there, but she couldn’t remember any more what it had been. Perhaps she had some idea of creeping up on it, for she left the horse at the hut of one of the framers and took the footpath among the trees.

She wandered in the dappled, green light, not caring where she went, until she was deep within the forest, part of the great one that the Romans had sliced through to make way for civilization. They had missed this corner.

She came to a great tangle of bushes in white and lavender blossom. Her hands brushed the tiny petals and she tried to remember to tell Rhianna so they could get the berries in the fall. Then she stared at it, puzzled.

“There is something on the other side of this. I was there once. I know it.”

She began to walk along the edge of the bushes. They had grown wild until they were over her head. They wrapped around trees and clambered into the branches. Halfway around, she noticed that the leaves were not the same. There was a space where no bushes grew, only long, thornless vines which curtained the other side. She spread them with her hands and stepped in.

It was only a clearing, about twenty feet across, covered with wild flowers. Other than that, it was completely empty and perfectly still.

Guinevere felt as if she had found the key to heaven.

Slowly, she walked to the gentle rise in the center of the clearing. Violets were blooming there and alyssum. She slipped off her sandals and felt the soft velvet against her toes. The sun was warm and she pulled off her tunic and let her skirt fall on the grass. After a moment, she pulled off her shift, too. She reached out to the sunlight pouring onto her winter-pale body. The warmth curled into her bones and expanded, releasing her. Her hairpins dropped onto the pile of clothing as her braids fell to her knees and unraveled.

“I have done this before,” she thought. “I was waiting for someone. Was I a priestess then, or only a child?”

She lay on her back on the hillock, eyes closed but still seeing the orange glow overhead. Her arms stretched out along the grass, bruising the flowers so that their fragrance burst into the warm air. Her fingers pressed into the earth and old incantations came into her mind, arcane syllables intoned to her from the cradle by her nurse. They belonged here. A faint breeze started up and blew her hair across her face and shoulder, brushing against her breasts. There was only one thing missing to complete the enchantment. Guinevere concentrated.

The vines at the edge of the clearing rustled but she didn’t move.

“Guinevere.” He had thought he was going to shout it, but he could barely whisper.

She smiled. “You heard me calling. It must be a strong magic to bring you to me so quickly.”

“Arthur sent me to see how you were. I was not far when I felt it. I did not know it was you. I didn’t want to follow.”

She opened her eyes and sat up.

“It’s too warm for all that riding gear,” she said.

He looked around at the entrance, hesitating.

Guinevere laughed. “No one will come. I’ve put a spell on this place.”

Lancelot nodded. He knew about spells. All the women of his childhood had used them as a matter of course. He began to remove his clothing.

She waited, watching him, contrasting the brownness of his face and hands with the whiteness of his body. It was an abstract thought, for his appearance no longer mattered to her. He could have been pocked and scarred from shoulder to thigh and still she would have thought him beautiful.

He walked slowly to her and knelt between her knees. Her hands rested on his shoulders and eased down across his chest. Then, finally, he looked into her eyes. They said more than she ever could. She leaned back and wrapped her legs around his hips, guiding him to her.

“In the daylight,” she exulted. “At last!”

His lips were against her throat. The soft gusts of his breath beat a rhythm on her skin. “Without shame,” he whispered.

And even the most shadowy corner of her soul blazed with joy.

Chapter Six

“The man murdered three of my messengers, including Gereint, who was a knight. Then he ran north of the wall and
Saint
Caradoc won’t send him back because he’s been granted sanctuary!” Arthur roared at the unhappy man who had brought the news. “Ligessauc Longhand would shrivel into cinders if he ever touched a gospel book. It is his father’s jewels, donated to the Church, that Caradoc is protecting. Go back and tell them that I will have Ligessauc and the man-price of my messengers or Caradoc will see an army at the door of his precious church! I’ll not have my authority in Britain flouted by a self-styled bishop. Tell him to offer sanctuary to the Christian slaves Eliman is selling to the Piets. But then it would be no use; slaves have no gold.”

He grabbed the cup before him and drained it as if trying to quench his wrath.

“What else do you bring me today? It’s summer, there must be a plague somewhere.” The messenger cringed and Arthur’s face changed “Oh no! I didn’t mean it. Where?”

“In Cirencester, Sir. They think it may be scarlet fever, brought in by a returning pilgrim. They only sent word for everyone to keep away.”

“All right. Cei, see if there are any volunteers to take food and supplies to Cirencester. They can leave the bundles outside the town limits. Now, has nothing
good
happened anywhere in Britain?”

“Yes, Sir. Gwynlliw reports that he has successfully eloped with the Lord of Brecon’s daughter. They would like you to pay them a visit when the lady has had enough new clothes made and their castle is cleaned to her taste.”

Cei gave a faint cheer and then remembered his position.

“The only obstacle to the marriage was that Brecon wanted Gwynlliw’s prize brood mare in trade for the daughter, Olwenna,” he explained. “Gwynlliw wouldn’t part with it and the lady found the whole idea repellent. She’s a very good horse breeder, herself. I only hope she had the sense to elope on that fine stallion of hers.”

Arthur looked at him in astonishment. “Why Cei! How did you come by such a fund of gossip?”

“Lydia was fostered in Armorica, with Olwenna’s brother. She felt a family interest in the matter.”

“No doubt. Well, then, is that all for today?”

“All of any interest. Will you call the Table together tonight?”

“Yes, now that everyone is here. There should not be an empty seat for long. Also, there are several things we need to discuss. I’m especially worried about the kingdoms in the North. Between the Dal Riada, the Bannauc lords, and the Piets, it’s a constant battlefield up there, and those blasted bishops don’t help a bit. Every one of them wants to rule Britain himself, or give one of his relatives the job. The priests I know are fine men; even most of the wandering monks, but make a man a bishop and he thinks he can take God’s place in the world.”

Cei listened with only half an ear. Arthur had been having run-ins with the bishops in the North for years. They resented every innovation in government Arthur had suggested. They had delusions, too, about the extent of their own power. Less than half of the people outside the towns were even nominally Christian. The Piets had only been baptized to hedge their bets. It was a hard life north of the wall. And when they lapsed, Arthur wasn’t about to charge up with an army simply to punish them for paganism. This matter of Christians selling Christian slaves to them was another thing, though, and something that had to be taken care of. There was another matter that Cei didn’t like to bring up. However . . .

“Gereint’s name is gone from the Table.” He didn’t look at Arthur. Magic made him nervous.

“I know. He’s dead. That’s what always happens when a knight has gone. Have you looked to see if another name is there?”

“Yes, the wood is as smooth as if never written on.”

“There is a full moon tonight. It will be decided then. Those boys of Meleagant are both panting for it.”

“I can’t believe any seed of his would be worthy.”

“Maybe not. They have a fine mother, though, and the younger boy has a quality about him. What about Modred? He’s the only one of my nephews without a place at the Table. Even Gareth finally achieved it.”

“He hasn’t been here long; perhaps that’s why. It’s odd, though. He’s the one I’d pick. He’s strong and quick and could talk circles around any half-brained bishop.”

Arthur considered. “He is all that, and more. I don’t understand it. Gawain keeps dropping dark hints about him. Gareth won’t sit near him. Even Agravaine seems uncomfortable around him. They’re his brothers. What’s the matter with him?”

Cei shrugged. “Maybe some childhood quarrel never settled. Modred is the youngest by quite a bit. The others could feel that he got too much of their mother’s attention.”

“Are you speaking from our own past?” Arthur prodded. Cei drew himself up with dignity.

“We always fought it out like men, Arthur. My father wouldn’t let anyone have favorites.”

“I know. Ector was a good father to me, too,” Arthur smiled. “And he gave me a good foster-brother, even if you did rub my nose in the dirt more than once.”

Embarrassed, Cei shuffled some papers and changed the subject.

• • •

Guinevere had spent the morning properly engaged in a trip to the woods to search for herbs and mushrooms. She had been accompanied by most of the other ladies and all of the younger children. The conversation on earlier such trips had of necessity excluded her, since, after herbs, the main topics were children and the vagaries of husbands. She had no children and common sense forbade her discussing her husband with the wives and mistresses of those he commanded. But now that she had Galahad, the circle had opened to her. Much to her surprise, she found that she liked it, and the women who had been just a pregnant and nursing mass to her before became people with whom she shared more than she could have thought possible.

Still, there were areas that were forbidden. She knew by the discreetly lowered voices, the curious, sideways glances. She pretended that she didn’t notice, but it was a relief to be back in her own room with Lydia to report on the domestic arrangements and Risa to bring her cool cider and gossip.

“What do you think of the last of Arthur’s nephews?” Lydia asked Risa. “Oh, don’t look surprised. Everyone knows he was in your room last night.”

“I’m not surprised,” Risa answered. “There are no secrets here. It seems he had overheard Gawain and Agravaine talking about me and he wanted to find out for himself.”

They waited.

“He’s very talented, but I don’t trust him. I think he wants to use me to find things out about Arthur.”

“But that’s silly, Risa,” Guinevere protested. “What could you tell him that he couldn’t find out elsewhere?”

“Nothing, of course. And even if I could, I wouldn’t. But why should I tell him that? It’s rather amusing. Men are so odd. Modred is just like most of them. They assume that if I’ll go to bed with them, I’ll do anything else they want out of sheer gratitude.”