Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn (41 page)

Knowing that if I stood between him and his God he would feel trapped and unhappy, I turned resolutely away from the shore. It doesn’t mean he’ll leave you, I told myself as I found a broad, flat lump of rock some distance from the bracken and the flies that love to live in it, and sitting down, stared out to the west.

This was a panorama I was more comfortable with. The hills and vales and broad, sweeping vistas were beginning to take on the colors of the day. How Arthur would have loved this view! If he were here, he’d be assessing the landscape, looking at the hill-forts and routes of access, picking out the likely spots to clear, measuring the promise for foresters and swineherds, hunters and ore-diggers. In short, he would see it as a world to shape, a future waiting to happen.

For me it held a different spell, a warmer, more poignant allure. In the shadow of the ragged ridges, along the brow of the constant moors—fragile as a candle flame on a windy night—came the procession of generations past. Who they were, how they were called, what stories were written on their faces I couldn’t see, but the echoes of their lifetimes whispered from them like an ancient hymn. Building their houses in the face of storms, plowing the land with sweat and hope, husbanding their crops and livestock against a future that might never come—in the heart-breaking brevity of their hour they had loved this land, sheltered in its lee, and called it home.

The boisterous bragging of a rooster rose to meet the brightening morning light, and the lowing of cows waiting to be milked drifted up to me and brought a smile. Here was my world, full of the earth-bound dreams of priestesses and mothers.

The realization crept up on me unawares, and I clasped my arms around my knees and rested my chin on them, looking out over the land. No matter what had happened in the past, I was as bound to the people as Arthur was to his Cause…and when they called, I would respond.

Perhaps they won’t call, I told myself, suddenly thinking of Lance. Or if they do, I’ll be deaf. We can go on living at Joyous Gard’s quiet steading like any other farming couple, and the people will have to find someone else to hear their demands.

But even as I clung to the idea, I knew it was a delusion. Sooner or later someone, something, would draw me back…and I would go, just as Lance goes to Holy Isle. The certainty of it stole all my joy away, and I clutched my knees tighter, trying to blot out the realization that what Lance and I had now was only a respite, a dream that might never last the night.

Suddenly a great wave of emotion rose in me—anger, determination, desperation, a force as powerful as that that had made me kiss Lancelot in the barn.

Not yet, I told the Gods silently. I will not give it up yet. You will have to wrench it from me, twist it out of my grasp, steal it when I am not looking…and even then I will fight and barter and bargain for every last second in this paradise.

Behind me the sun had topped the ridge and was warming my back. Down in the fold of land below the cave the men were stirring, and I got slowly to my feet. Gravely and deliberately I raised my balled fist against the sky, against the sun, against the new day.

“Do You hear me?” I demanded, turning defiantly to face each quadrant of the compass. “You will not take this chance away from me so easily. I, Gwynhwyvaer of Rheged, will fight to keep my new life until all hope is lost.”

I was still standing there, staring toward the south and Camelot as the tears coursed down my cheeks, when Palomides came to get me for breakfast.

***

During the rest of the journey to Yeavering I thought about Uwain, wondering what Morgan’s son wanted of me, and if he had been involved in the Carlisle plot. No matter who brought the subject up at Court, it was clear Morgan had instigated the accusations against Lance and me, and I came back—as so often in the past—to the question of why. What was it that drove my sister-in-law to attack me with such ferocity?

When I was young, I thought her hostility was personal and assumed it stemmed from something I had done or said that she took umbrage at. It was only later, after she’d tried to kill Arthur, that I realized how much she coveted power. Personal power, political power, religious power—these were the spurs that goaded her on, the hunger she couldn’t satisfy, the treasure she plotted for. I thought it sad and ironic, for as the High Priestess she had long since been acknowledged as one of the most powerful women in the country. Yet nothing seemed enough.

It was said that she had grown fanatic in her worship of the Goddess, and I suddenly wondered if, living so long in isolation at the Sanctuary, she had convinced herself I was a threat to her new Paganism. Might she have concluded that I was drawing Arthur into Christian ways? The very notion was so preposterous, I smiled to myself; Arthur was far more tolerant of the Roman faith than I had ever been.

But Morgan had jumped to wrong conclusions about me many times before, and no other explanation made sense. Even my death at the stake would not have given her access to the High Throne of Britain or endeared her to her brother. So political gain was not the likely motive.

Except…

Years before, my father had signed a treaty—at Arthur’s insistence—that would allow the King of Northumbria to stand for the Kingship of Rheged if I never had children or never returned there to rule. Morgan may have seen my death at the stake as a way of hastening Uwain’s chance to become monarch of Rheged as well as Northumbria.

It seemed a silly, needless thing to do, since both he and his father before him had been my Regents there, collecting taxes, overseeing laws, governing as monarchs with all but the actual title. I had no intention of returning to Rhegeds and even now thought of it only as a last resort, if Lance and I could not stay on at Joyous Gard for some reason.

Still, ambition has spawned more fantastic plots than this, and Morgan was nothing if not ambitious. So when Uwain and I sat down across from each other at the conference table, I kept my eyes open and my mouth shut, waiting to see where he fit into the puzzle.

“I have far more pleasant memories of dealing with you than with your husband, M’lady,” he began. His mouth smiled, but there was no warmth in either his voice or his eyes.

Indeed, the brusqueness of his manner denied the years I had known him as a youth; one might think we were little more than strangers. I was struck by how much he had grown to look like Urien—less florid, perhaps, but with the same solid build, swaggering air, and drooping mustaches. When I stopped to count, it was a shock to reckon Uwain must be over forty.

Palomides sat next to me, silent and watchful. I reached for the ale mug a servant had provided and waited for Morgan’s son to show his colors, still unsure if he was my enemy or my ally.

“There are many in the north who take your side in this dispute with Arthur, M’lady,” Uwain noted, slowly turning his mug between his fingers. “They remember you are one of them—a daughter of the Cumbri—whereas the High King is a Romanized southerner. The warriors of Rheged would take up arms against him in your behalf if you but said the word. And others as well—Caledonians who aren’t happy with the Pendragon, Fergus’s people at Dumbarton. Of course, if you agreed to lead such an uprising, you’d need a partner—a man who knows the land from a military point of view and could bring his own troops to the battle.”

The thought of my starting a civil war against Arthur was appalling, and I stared at Uwain blankly, too shocked by the idea to respond. Beside me, Palomides was still as stone, never flicking an eyelash as Uwain talked treason. I tried to make my face as unreadable as the Arab’s.

“Then, too,” Uwain went on carefully, “what with Rheged in the west and Northumbria in the east, between us you and I control a sizable portion of the realm. If we merged our holdings…”

In spite of myself, I choked on my ale. It didn’t matter whether Uwain was speaking in political or personal terms, I wasn’t in rebellion against my husband and I wouldn’t consider an alliance with any usurper.

“There is no reason to plan for such an uprising,” I sputtered, furious that my body had betrayed my outrage.

“Ah,” the King of Northumbria noted, raising one eyebrow. “Perhaps you’d prefer to find a quiet niche and retreat from the world, leaving others to mind the dogs of war? Well, that too, might be arranged, though it will take some doing. The followers of Agravain are furious about his death, and they prowl the edges of Northumbria, looking for vengeance. They’ve begun killing my subjects—most recently a crofter named Kimmins and his sons, for supposedly harboring you and the Breton.”

I caught my breath, and Uwain, looking up quickly, pinned me under his gaze. A slow, hard smile tugged at his mouth. “M’lady, you have too soft a heart to be a great monarch…it gives you away. But if the gentler concerns are what you’re looking for…”

His voice trailed off, and he settled back against his chair and downed the rest of his ale, watching me casually across the rim of his mug. I tried to assess how much he was bargaining in good faith, and when he lowered his cup and licked the last of the brew from his mustaches, I leaned forward quietly and asked, “What would it take to arrange that?”

“The price, M’lady? In exchange for my letting you and your lover live safely in Northumbria? Your abdication of Rheged’s throne in favor of me.”

It didn’t come as a total surprise, but one does not hand over the future of one’s people lightly, and I groaned inwardly.

Uwain was taking a righteous stance. “As I recall, by treaty the country was to come to us in the event you had no child to stand for the throne. Surely,” he added with sly malice, “you cannot expect the people of Rheged to accept Mordred as your son?”

It seemed Uwain’s parentage had finally come to the fore—Morgan herself could not have delivered that barb with more skill. My instinct was to give him a royal tongue-lashing and walk out, but his next words stopped me cold.

“Unfortunately, since Lancelot never built those walls, it appears you
must
seek my protection. If I do not keep Agravain’s forces out, you stand little chance of surviving.”

Palomides’s hand dropped to his dagger, but I was in no danger of physical assault; Uwain was doing well enough with words. He was also far more snide than I had expected. I tried to meet him with an equally caustic tone.

“My skin for my country, is that it?”

“If you wish to put it that way, M’lady. I was under the impression that you might consider it a bargain well made.”

“Mayhap.” I backed away a bit. “How can you assure my safety?”

“I’ll tell Arthur that none of his men will be welcome in Northumbria—and I will kill anyone who presumes to disturb you in any way.”

“I see.” I reached for my ale and drained the last of it slowly and purposefully before answering. “In return for Rheged?”

“In return for Rheged.”

“I need some time to think it over.”

“Of course.” Uwain sighed and, putting both hands on the table, heaved himself to his feet. Now that he’d made a bid for my kingdom, he was really quite cordial. “It will be good to see Lancelot again. He’s done well at Joyous Gard, though he should have taken my advice on those walls!”

At a signal a page came scurrying into the room and was given the charge of taking us wherever Palomides and I might wish to go. After touring the windswept heights of the fort, admiring its forge, and noting the sleek, fat cows in the fields, we climbed down the path to the clear waters of the river Glen. Since it was well within sight of the hill-fort, I sent our page packing and, sitting on the stump of a tree, took council with Palomides.

“He’s as sly as any bazaar merchant,” the Arab said, folding himself up to sit cross-legged on the grass. “For all we know the people of Rheged may be on the verge of revolt against him, which is why he needs to have you concede the title
now
. But we have no way to ascertain that, and he’s clearly an opportunist who knows how much you need his help.”

Slowly we went over the details of the situation—how vulnerable I was, how strong Uwain. We also discussed the fact that the people of Rheged considered him a good regent and he was familiar with their problems in ways that I was not.

“Besides, if you don’t mind my saying it,” the Arab concluded, carefully examining his fingers, “there is a kind of symmetry involved. Lance has given up his search for God in order to be with you; it’s fitting you should give up something equally important for him.”

I smiled wanly at the man who so often looked into the more subtle heart of things. There was a fairness and justice in what he said, in spite of the fact that deserting my people was unthinkable. But even though the alternatives seemed to involve war and bloodshed, I was not ready to give over the throne just yet. When Palomides and I returned to the Hall, I still had not come to terms with my choices. If only the Gods would send me some sign…

The evening came on quietly, as northern summer twilights do, but shortly after the sun dipped below the horizon, there was a flurry of activity in the courtyard. At first it was kitchen-women, then the servants from the barn and stable, and finally noble and warrior as well who flocked outside, climbing to the peak of the hill which the ancient hill-fort encircled and staring toward the west. I went out to join them, curious as to what had captured so much attention.

“An omen,” someone said, making the sign against evil.