Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn (3 page)

Chapter I

Midsummer

It was a year of wonders that took us from the simple pleasures of a British spring to foreign realms and thoughts that made my head swim. And it ended with the realization that nothing would ever be the same again.

The winter had been mild, and when the soft green haze of spring began to hover in the branches of the oakwoods, anemone and primrose burst into bloom like stars flung by the handfuls into the leafy loam. By the time the cuckoo was rending the night with its call, whole drifts of bluebells carpeted the rides between the trees, and thrushes filled the day with their buoyant, life-loving song. And as May stole into our hearts, a trio of hedge sparrows flitted gaily through my garden, though they were more often heard than seen. I was sure I’d never known a more beautiful time in all my twenty-six years.

The exuberance of the season filled our household. The youngest pages took to putting frogs down each other’s backs, while the squires stared, moony-eyed and hopeful, at my maids-in-waiting, who often as not stared back. Even the warriors felt the change in the air, turning restlessly from sword practice to dreams of victory and great renown.

I stood in the kitchen doorway, watching Arthur and Lancelot complete their early-morning rounds of the fortress. Matching stride for stride they crossed the courtyard, heads bent in conversation as they discussed the plans for the day.

Arthur—ruddy and solid and bronzed from years in the saddle, wearing his long brown hair pulled back at the nape of his neck. His cheeks were clean shaven as any Roman, but his mustaches grew full and drooping in the Celtic fashion, and he moved with the natural assurance of a man born to be a leader.

And next to him Lancelot—lithe and lean, black hair cropped in the pageboy fashion of the Picts. Set wide above high cheekbones, his blue eyes sparkled like the waters off the Cornish coast, sometimes bright and playful, sometimes deep and sad. But it was the mouth that fascinated me, for an overabundance of teeth lent his lips a full and sensual look quite at odds with his otherwise ascetic air.

Night and day, body and spirit—no two men more different, or more complementary. Surely there was never another more fit to be High King than Arthur, nor ever a lieutenant of better mettle and loyalty than Lance. What woman would not love them both? Or feel honored to be loved by either?

Arthur came through the doorway, pausing to lift the milk pitcher from my hand and downing the whole of it before taking his place at the kitchen table between his foster brothers, Cei and Bedivere. Even when they were growing up in an obscure court in the heart of Wales—long before anyone dreamed of the High Kingship of Britain—the three of them had been a team, with Arthur spawning the ideas, Cei and Bedivere finding ways to make them happen. Now my husband greeted them jovially, wiping his mustaches with the back of his hand.

“Lance and I were just discussing how short-tempered and touchy the warriors are getting,” he began.

“It’s the wages of peace,” Cei grumbled, looking up from a cup of cider. “Fighting men without wars feel cheated of a chance for glory.”

“Then what do you say to hosting a tournament?” Arthur continued, good-naturedly ignoring the interruption. “Maybe make it part of the next Round Table meeting?”

Bedivere nodded thoughtfully. Bedivere—craggy and silent, he was as even tempered as Cei was sharp. Arthur’s best friend since childhood and his lieutenant in the early years, he was a man who gave full measure of his love and devotion, never stinting, never regretting. After he’d lost his hand in the High King’s service, he became our diplomat and adviser, helping to train the boys in swordplay and sometimes entertaining us with the harp. Yet he never looked on Lancelot—the one who replaced him at Arthur’s side—with bitterness or rancor.

“Admirable idea,” he opined, using the gauntlet and hook that replaced his hand to offer the platter of fresh bannocks to Lance. “Give them a chance to turn boasting into action.”

“And if you opened it to everyone in the realm, we could recruit the best of the newcomers into the Companions,” Cei added, his sourness beginning to give way to enthusiasm. As Seneschal of the realm he not only collected taxes and screened the new applicants for the cavalry, he also kept the royal larder stocked and presented the lavish feasts for which we were growing famous. “I’d like to see it begin on midsummer’s eve; hold the peasant games at night and the warrior’s exhibitions during the day. Might be quite a festival.”

Thus it was decided, and every messenger carrying word of the Round Table meeting delivered the news that jousts and drills and examples of fine riding would be featured, and any who wished to compete would be considered for placement in the cavalry. Naturally those who were already Champions to the client kings were welcome, but afterward would return to their overlords. That arrangement assured us of having excellent warriors living throughout the whole of Britain, available should there be a major crisis, yet not swelling our own ranks beyond the level of feasibility. Any one king can only feed so many military mouths. It was a good system, and as Lance noted, it bound the smaller leaders to us, and added to the sense of Fellowship in the councils.

So we set about making plans for the most splendid gathering ever. Cei took charge of the feasts while Lance organized the tournament and Arthur and Bedivere laid out the political agenda. For years Arthur had been trying to establish a code of law that would apply to all Britons, although many of the client kings shied away from it, fearing it would curb their autonomy. Still, he’d be bringing the subject up again this year.

In the Hall I unlocked the trunks and hampers and cupboards under the loft so that my ladies-in-waiting could sort through our treasure trove, picking the best of silver and pewter, ivory and glass to grace the curved trestles we’d put in a circle. And I opened the cedarwood chests which held the precious pennants, personally shaking them out while the smell of pennyroyal made me wrinkle my nose as I checked for moth holes.

The lengths of heavy wool—red and ochre, blue and green, black and purple and maroon—all were covered with silk embroidery as rich and handsome as the tapestry of the Red Dragon which hangs beyond the dais at the end of the Hall. Worked in bright colors and gay designs, each bore the name of a Round Table member, and when they were brushed and sponged and hung over the backs of chairs, they became a badge of honor unique to the Round Table.

As usual the plump little matron Vinnie took umbrage at my wardrobe. “What’s the point of being High Queen if you don’t remember to dress up now and then?” she nattered. “The people expect to see you all decked out and fancy once in a while.”

It was a battle we’d waged, lovingly, since the days when she was my governess in Rheged. Having grown up a tomboy in that wild, northern region, clothes and fripperies were the last thing on my mind. So I was more than happy to leave the matter to her, confident that she’d create something suitable out of bits of lace and scraps of Damascus brocade left over from the days when trade flowed freely throughout the Empire.

On the day our festivities were to begin, I delivered myself to Vinnie and Elyzabel, content that they would clothe my long, lanky frame in regal robes and turn my haystack hair into something approximating a royal coiffeur.

While Elyzabel coaxed my side locks into waves and looped several long braids up on the top of my head, I reached for the ancient torc of queenhood and admired it once again. A twisted rope of gold shaped to fit the neck, it had wonderful pop-eyed creatures worked into the rounded knobs that protected each end. How many adventures had they participated in? How many monarchs, both good and bad, had they observed? They gave this symbol of free-born majesty both humor and elegance, and I smiled at them once more, blessing the memory of Arthur’s mother, who had given it to me as a wedding present.

Vinnie was just settling Mama’s coronet on my head when a trumpet call from our gates announced our guests’ arrival.

“Drat, they’re here already!” I exclaimed, slipping the torc around my neck and jumping to my feet.

“But the crown’s not pinned down!” Vinnie wailed.

“I’ll manage,” I shot back, one hand holding the golden circlet firmly in place as I bolted for the door.

The week to come would see me constantly at our guests’ disposal, feeding and entertaining them, and looking after their every need. I’d have to balance the claims of old friends, new allies, jilted lovers, recent widows, jealous rivals and whomever else the world saw fit to bring to our doorstep. So I climbed up the narrow stairs to the lookout tower atop the Hall, determined to have an early look at them before the formalities began. It would give me a chance to assess who of the Fellowship was coming, who not, and what the mood was likely to be.

“Splendid sight, M’lady,” the young sentry commented when I emerged through the hole in the floor.

“Indeed it is,” I answered, perching on the windowsill and gazing out over it all.

Below the four-tiered walls of Camelot’s hill, the land spreads out like a rumpled coverlet, dotted here and there with fields and pastures, except to the east, where a series of close, lumpy hills are flanked by tracts of forest. The view to the south and west stretches long and far, a patchwork of peaceful farms and occasional belts of wildwood, while to the north lie the marsh and mire of the Somerset Levels, and the odd, flat lake that laps around Glastonbury’s Tor.

Closer by, the trees along the Cam river grow dense and shady, while directly below us a small, ferny brook makes its way between steep banks. Here the woods and meadows were alive with camps. Arthur had set up extra tents around the list since the inn at the village was no doubt packed, and large as our new fortress was, we couldn’t possibly sleep all the nobles who would attend.

The sound of laughter and good-natured banter drifted up from beneath the trees, and I thought of the midsummer frolic that would fill the twilight of the night to come.

The first of our royal guests were making their way through the thick double gates of our topmost wall. Urien of Northumbria was in the van, the black raven on his banner fluttering over the warband that followed close behind. Next came the white boar of Duke Cador, but I searched in vain for the grizzled old warrior who had been the first to rally to Arthur’s Cause, some fifteen years ago. It appeared he would not be joining us, for it was his son, Constantine, who led their men.

Beyond them Geraint rode with his wife, Enid. They both wore the Roman dress of the south and seemed to be in fine spirits, as though marriage much agreed with them. Enid had been one of my ladies at Court, and this would be our first visit since she had left us three years back, so I was looking forward to a private chat.

Next came Pellinore of the Wrekin—dear old Pelli, rough and raucous as they come. He was but one of many warlords whose people had preferred to leave their dying towns and move to the nearest hill-fort after the Legions left. Once the man had been obsessed with a naive quest for the perfect woman; now he took great delight in raising his late-in-life son, Perceval.

The tot rode in front of his father, baby legs splayed across the saddle. Pelli steadied him fondly in the crook of one arm while he lifted the other in salute to the guards at the gate. His bearskin cape came open with the gesture, revealing the enameled hilt of the Welsh dagger he wore instead of a Roman sword.

I glanced beyond him, wondering if his son Lamorak was here. If so, it would be the first time the fellow had returned to Court since his encounter with Morgause. When I couldn’t see either him or Gawain of Orkney, I heaved a sigh of relief—the bad blood between them constantly threatened to unsettle the Round Table.

By now so many people were streaming up the cobbled drive, it was hard to make out individuals. I caught a quick glimpse of Pelleas and Nimue and determined once more that Gawain’s banner was nowhere to be seen before the contingents from farther away pressed forward.

These I recognized by sound rather than sight—an Irishman strummed his traveling harp as he led a batch of immigrants from Fergus’s new settlements around Dumbarton. A handful of Caledonians followed, marching to the skirl of bagpipes while the silvery notes of their flutes announced a small group of dark, sly Picts. After that came the Cumbri, those northern Celts of Wales and Rheged whose singing rang out boldly as they advanced.

Music and color and excitement swirled around them all, and I knew Arthur would be pleased. He wanted our distant allies as well as client kings to come to Camelot and take back news of all the great things we were accomplishing.

“I don’t really care
what
they talk about,” he’d said. “It doesn’t matter whether it’s our feasts or Taliesin’s songs, or the fact that Bedivere is still a splendid warrior, one-handed or not—as long as they’re impressed enough to tell their people what they’ve seen. The desire to share our glory is the best way I know of to get them to join the Cause.”

Looking down on them now, I was confident they would go home full of wonder, for we had planned this occasion carefully, starting with the Round Table council—which would conclude with a twilight procession to the midsummer meadow, complete with village girls flinging garlands of flowers upon the Champions—and ending with the tournament days and final feasting. There was no way they would forget this occasion.

***

When Urien and his retinue reached the forecourt of the Hall, I turned and dashed back down the steps.