Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn (25 page)

Without a word he headed for the door, murderous rage writ across his face. I rushed after him, but he flung me to one side without even breaking stride—as much the wild, bloodthirsty Celt as Gawain had ever been.

I lay where I had fallen, awash with the memory of seeing the redhead dancing over his foe’s body after a battle—a gleeful, giddy maniac whacking off the head and brandishing the wretched thing by the hair. It was terrifying to realize that Arthur, too, was capable of that kind of savagery.

“Dear Gods,” I whimpered. “Protect him, as well as his son.”

***

Arthur did not return at all that night. When it was clear that he’d left Camelot and that Mordred was still among the Queen’s Men at dinner, I relaxed a little. At least Arthur’s vengeance was not focused on his own offspring.

Indeed, it was only next morning, while I was at my gardening, that I learned what my husband had done.

“Dead.” The word fell flat in the morning air, followed by the thud of something dark and gruesome landing on the ground where I knelt. “And here’s her head for proof.”

I jumped back and stared up at Arthur. He was as worn and haggard as Mordred had been, and splattered with blood and gore besides. When he spoke, the words were wrenched out of him. “Bury it if you wish—or set it out for the carrion crows, it’s of no mind to me.”

He heaved a ragged sigh and turned to look out over the countryside like a fevered man reaching for a cup of water. Farmers were burning the stubble in their fields, creating the soft gray haze that always ushers in autumn’s gold. High above, a skein of ducks was heading for the winter on Glastonbury’s lake, their distant calls conjuring long nights and warm fires. Closer by, the hips on my rosebushes were beginning to ripen. Slowly, inevitably, Arthur’s gaze came home to me, and when I opened my arms and took him into them, tears coursed down his cheeks.

“It’s done,” he whispered. “The old witch will never again preside over her stream of sorrows.”

I’ve often wondered if he truly thought killing the hag had solved the problem of his son, any more than Lance’s disappearance had made me cease to love him. Perhaps it was simply a matter of at last having someone to take action against, a clearly defined foe he could confront. In the months that followed, my husband acted as though the question of his relationship with Mordred did not exist, and we entered a time of irony, for each man knew—and knew the other knew—but weighted silence filled the space where understanding could have grown.

Chapter XX

Winter

I was confident that Arthur would not renege on his promise to make Mordred his envoy to the Federates and that Mordred would do a conscientious job. They met several times to discuss the problems of the Saxons, but there was no warmth or personal trust between them and each would be silent for some time afterward. When Lance came back from Joyous Gard, I told him about it, decrying the fact that being open and truthful hadn’t made things any better.

“They’re only open and truthful with you, Gwen, not with each other,” the Breton pointed out. “Arthur is a long way from being able to acknowledge his son. But give him time. Now that Mordred’s an adult, things may begin to change—fathers and sons have different relationships at different ages, I’m sure.”

Then suddenly Arthur realized that his son had a keen interest in developing the law code. Before long Mordred was taking dictation, organizing information, and making suggestions as they went along.

“He asked Cynric about the way the Saxons handle trials,” Arthur mused one night. “Seems they choose a committee of men from the area—a jury of one’s peers—and together they judge the case. It’s an interesting idea…would take the pressure off the king to adjudicate everything.”

I listened and nodded, pleased to see a working partnership developing between them; hopefully it would help heal the wounds in each.

Winter was a delight that year—crisp and cold, with days of diamond brilliance and nights shimmering with sheets of color they call the Great Crown of the North. Since Mordred was so busy with the law, it fell to Lance to escort me on my morning rides, just as in the old days. We coursed the countryside, laughing and playing in the snow with a group of children, relaying messages from Gwyn about the training of our horses, and taking baskets of food to those crofters less fortunate than the rest.

One morning I carried a joint of venison to a tanner’s wife who was abed with childbirth. The hut was little more than a hovel. A single pot bubbled by the fire; there was but one chair to sit on; and a passel of children clambered in and out of my lap. The woman who was recently delivered lay on a pallet in the corner of the room, the swaddled babe in the crook of her arm.

“I’ve got a new brother,” a young tyke announced, happily tugging on my sleeve. His little sister crowded in, caroling, “He’s mine, too,” at which the boy made a face and pulled her hair. She ran to hide behind me, and soon both children were circling me as they swatted at each other until one of them hit the baby I was holding on my shoulder.

“No you don’t,” I admonished as their granny bore down on them, scolding everyone for inconveniencing the Queen.

“That’s all right, Carwen, I understand,” I assured her.

But afterward, as Lance helped me mount Etain, the Breton gave a short laugh. “Raising children makes managing a court look easy, doesn’t it?”

“Probably not all that different,” I allowed. “Just that the first are young in years while the second are childish by nature.”

His marvelous full lips compressed in a secret smile, and his eyes began to sparkle. “You’re the most amazing woman—running a country one moment, burping a baby the next. And beautiful…no matter what you’re doing, you’re so beautiful.”

I looked down at him, dazzled by the outpouring of love and appreciation. Once I’d have leapt from my horse and flung myself into his arms with joy and tenderness and all the openness of my heart. But years of caution, of duty, of keeping a distance between us, held me in check, so I leaned down and putting my hand against his cheek, simply said, “Ah, love, I could not do the half of it without you by my side.”

He caught my fingers and pressed them to his lips, a bright, fine laughter playing in his eyes. It was enough to sustain me through a myriad of duties, a month of conferences, half a year of boring routines. And I never, never took it for granted. That kind of soul-touching happens too rarely to be cavalier about.

***

When springtime came, Cei and I began the necessary preparations for the Court’s progress through the Saxon Shore. I was in the midst of packing baskets and panniers, saddlebags and wicker trunks the day Dinadan returned from Brittany.

Dinadan—closest friend and cohort of the Cornish warrior Tristan, he was the sleek little terrier to Tris’s wolfhound. For years, whenever Tristan blundered into love and combat, it was Dinadan who hauled him out, mopping up the mess and trying to mend the fences. In that sense, he was a shining example of what a best friend is.

“Nice to be back in the most civilized Court in Christendom,” the Cornishman announced with a knowing smile. “Howell’s a fine man, of course, and treats his warriors well, but it’s just not the same as being with you two.”

This last was directed at both Arthur and me, and I smiled at the compliment. Dinadan was best known for his droll and sometimes wry sense of humor, but I’d often thought he could have been a diplomat as well.

“What news from the Franks?” Arthur inquired.

“Ha! Each of the sons is chewing on the others, trying to wrest some larger portion of Clovis’s kingdom for himself. Thank God, it keeps them out of other mischief.”

“And Tristan?” Lance inquired.

“Quite the most effective warrior around—saving perhaps yourself,” the little man added, nodding comfortably to Lance. “And well beloved for his music. He still plays the harp like an angel. It takes a bit of talent, you know—being able to whack off heads in the morning and sing ballads in the afternoon.”

It was such an apt portrait of Tristan, we all burst out laughing.

Next day Dinadan accompanied me on my ride, for in spite of the piles of clouds skimming toward us, I needed to leave the tree-maker an order for the wooden bowls, trays, and utensils I’d be wanting in the kitchen when we came back in the fall.

“Never knew a queen who took such a personal hand in running the Court,” Dinadan commented. “Now Isolde of Cornwall, God bless her, let the housekeepers manage all that while she sat, pretty as a picture, working on her embroideries as Tristan played the harp for her.”

“She’s a far better needlewoman than I,” I shrugged, remembering the many times I’d seen her deftly decorating some bit of cloth with bright flosses. “As good at that as Morgan le Fey, I think.”

“And getting to be as famous a healer,” Dinadan said. “Even in Brittany she’s said to be one of the best. Of course,” he added, “her mother was a famous shamaness in Ireland—a real wizard at curing illness and cleaning wounds.”

Isolde’s Pagan background had been one of the problems between her and Mark, but Dinadan now assured me she had become the model Christian. “And not just for show. She’s really quite devout, they say.”

The White Christ was popping up everywhere, it seemed, and as we talked, it became clear that Dinadan himself espoused the belief.

“What of Tristan?” I inquired. “Is he, too, bending the knee to Rome in spirit as well as body?”

“Ah, poor Tris. Sometimes I think the big lout doesn’t know whom he wants, or what he believes. Take his marriage, for instance.” The Cornishman scratched his chin and stared thoughtfully at the sky. “I suspected something wasn’t right when he told me the bride’s name was Isolde White Hands. After declaring a lifelong passion for Isolde of Cornwall, asking White Hands to be his wife seemed”—Dinadan cocked his head and squinted thoughtfully—“shall we say, a bit inconsistent?”

I grinned at the understatement. “We thought perhaps it was a political union. Isn’t White Hands Howell’s sister?”

“Aye, that she is,” Tristan’s friend nodded. “And a dear girl. But love is a very tricky business: catches you entirely off guard and makes you see only the things you want to.”

“Is he that besotted on his bride?” I asked, wondering if Tris had truly forgotten his earlier love. The first drops of a summer shower were pattering around us, so we reined our horses into the protective shelter of a beechwood.

Dinadan shook his head. “Rather the contrary. Oh, I think he wanted to love White Hands; certainly he courted her assiduously and made all the usual protestations. But the wedding night didn’t go well, if you get my drift, and it’s gotten worse since. He blames his inability to function on his love for the Queen of Cornwall.”

“You mean the marriage was never consummated?” Tris was a big, uncomplicated man, who saw both himself and life in purely physical terms. The idea of his becoming impotent was more than a little surprising.

“Ah, M’lady, it happens to the best of men at one time or another, and for some more often than not,” Dinadan noted wryly as the rain pelted the leaves above us. “It’s as unfair to judge a man by his randiness as it is to judge a woman by her looks.”

I laughed at the astuteness of the comment. Lancelot might see me as beautiful, but he was looking considerably below the surface. I knew full well that any courtier who praised my looks was indulging in flattery for some design of his own. “But how does Tris’s bride take his lack of interest?” I inquired. “Is she very upset?”

“The poor girl is totally devoted to him, trails around in his wake, sees to his every need—clean garments, mended hose, his favorite foods at every meal.”

“Sounds like a servant,” I quipped, remembering Uwain’s assessment of Christian wives.

“And all this for love, M’lady. Does it all for love. I found her in tears one day, thinking there must be something wrong with her, that she isn’t attractive enough. In the end I told her about Tris and Isolde having drunk the love potion by mistake, and never being able to love another.”

“What a dreadful thing for White Hands to live with,” I blurted out. “Unfulfilled love is painful enough without knowing the person you love will
never
love you. That’s plain cruel.”

“I tell you, M’lady,” Dinadan mused, craning his neck in an effort to see how soon the shower would pass, “the Greeks knew what they were talking about when they said love was devised by the Gods as a punishment for mortals, and no intelligent human goes looking for it.”

“Has it never found you?” I cast my companion a sidewise look, suspecting he was not as impervious to romance as he would have us believe.

“I never said I was immune.” Dinadan smiled crookedly, and blushed when he met my gaze. “It’s precisely because I loved so much, I know how foolish it can make us. The lady, unfortunately, loved someone else, so I’ve never mentioned my feelings.”

“Ah, friend.” I reached over, putting my hand on his arm. “Surely you can find another?”

“Could you find another Arthur?”

“No, of course not,” I laughed, caught once more by his cleverness.

“And I’m far from the only man whose love has never been expressed. There’s Cei, for instance.”

“Cei!” I was so astonished, the name leapt out of my mouth, sounding louder than I meant because the rain had suddenly stopped. I’d always assumed the Seneschal was uninterested in love, not that he cherished one who didn’t return his feelings.

“I talk too much, and it seems to be clearing,” the Cornishman announced, abruptly urging his horse back onto the Road. Patches of rainfall were still sheeting down on a nearby field, but my escort was determined to be moving. “I trust you’ll forget my last comment, M’lady…I’d hate to have the Seneschal mad at me.”

“Of course.” I laughed as a gust of wind sent a downpour over us, plastering my hair to my head. “Provided you leave the forecasting of weather to others.”

***

The day before our journey to the Federates was to start, one of the Royal Messengers came loping up the hill, covered with mud and carrying the long pole such youngsters use to vault from tussock to tussock in the marshes of the Somerset Levels. He rushed past the sentry, crying out for the High King. I was just coming back from the stables and joined Arthur on the steps as he came out to see what all the fuss was about.

“It’s Yder, Your Highness,” the lad panted, his words tumbling out breathlessly. “Went to Brent Knoll alone, to get rid of the bandits. Hacked to pieces, he was.”

“Alone, you say?” Arthur growled. “I told him to take a cadre of men with him.”

“Why would he do such a foolish thing?” I asked, shocked at the news.

“Wanted to gain your admiration, M’lady.” The messenger bobbed his head in deference to me. “At least, that’s what his brother, Gwyn, said. Yder went off yesterday, and the bandits left his body where it fell. Gwyn went looking for him this morning, since he hadn’t returned.”

The realization of what had happened hit me like a punch in the stomach. The same miserable helplessness I’d felt when the bear died at Caerleon settled over me and I swayed unsteadily on my feet. “There was no reason…I never meant…so pointless…”

“Here now!” Arthur exclaimed as I grabbed his arm to keep from falling. “It’s not your fault, Gwen—by Jove, it isn’t,” he swore, catching me up and carrying me inside.

“Never meant to cause such death,” I sobbed, clinging to my husband.

Arthur put me carefully on the cushion of a windowseat and called for Enid, then began to pace in front of me. “You know how the warriors are nowadays—bored with peacetime endeavors. Too little to keep them busy, so they get restless and go off doing foolish things. You mustn’t blame yourself because the man wanted to look grander in your eyes.”