Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn (43 page)

I smiled softly, bemused at the notion of anyone defending Arthur Pendragon to me. For all that had happened, I could not blame him, and would always love him.

“That’s why I’m here…He wants you to come back. He begged me to tell you that if you’ll return, he’ll call off the invasion of Northumbria and send an envoy to escort you home.”

“And Lancelot? Can he come, too?” I asked, knowing it was an impossible request even as the words were said.

“No. Lance and his followers are to be banished to the Continent. Arthur doesn’t hold him responsible for the deaths at Carlisle, but Gawain does, and it would not be wise—or safe—to have him return to Camelot.”

“Brittany is a long way away,” I whispered, tears starting to fill my eyes.

“I know…” Tristan’s mistress replied softly. “Of all people, I know. And now, of all people, you know what I went through when I gave up Tris, here at Joyous Gard, to return to Mark and Cornwall.”

I caught my breath, not having seen the connection. In this very room I had had to tell Isolde that Mark was threatening war against Arthur if she didn’t go back to Cornwall. Now she was delivering much the same message, and I shook my head at the intertwining of our lives.

“Either way, there’s heartbreak,” the Cornish Queen said. “And no one can decide for you. But I saw Nimue while I was at Camelot, and she told me to remind you of the Grail—the Goddess and the Grail.”

I nodded vaguely, too caught up in the demand for practical decisions to worry about spiritual matters. “How soon does Arthur need to know?”

“As soon as I can return to him, though I’m sure he’ll understand your taking a few days to make up your mind.”

“If only it were that easy,” I muttered.

Isolde began to cough again, so I left her to rest. At first I had meant simply to retire to the bedchamber, but the presence of the four walls hemmed me in, making me restless and angry, and before long I went down to the barn, intent on going for a long, hard ride.

Flyaway had picked up a stone-bruise during the morning trip to the fisher village, so I put the saddle on Invictus and rode the warhorse out of the steading. Since the wind was coming in from the sea, I headed the stallion toward the west, up into the hills and out along the ridges where there was nothing but scudding clouds and blowing grasses. We raced against the emptiness of the land, leaping gullies, skidding down inclines, wheeling and dashing away when outcrops loomed suddenly before us.

Gradually, with the rushing of the wind and the lowering of the sun, the panic in me wore itself out, and I slowed the horse to a trot. By the time we’d returned to the forest on Joyous Gard’s flank, the sky had filled with storm clouds and Invictus was content to walk quietly along the path between the trees. When we reached the verge of the woods and only the orchards lay between us and home, I brought the animal to a halt, wanting to collect my thoughts before returning to the house.

To the south was Arthur, wracked by conflict. To the north was Uwain, sitting in his hill-fort and promising to come to my aid if necessary. And in between was Joyous Gard, a steading without any means of defense.

I wasn’t convinced that Uwain would honor his promise of protection. If he did, there would be massive bloodshed. If he didn’t—and having already secured Rheged for himself, he might not—then Lance and his men were as good as dead. With a sickening of my stomach I realized that Arthur also might die if there were a pitched battle.

The sun broke from cover just before it set, staining the underside of the clouds a lurid red. The wind had quickened as well, but as I was turning to take the measure of the incoming storm, a bundle of feathers and fluff fell out of the sky, as though thrown down at my feet by the Gods.

Invictus snorted and shied sidewise, and when I looked up, the sky was full of birds—thousands of them, stretching across the water as far as the eye could see. They appeared to be redstarts, borne along on the front of the storm; a hapless flock returning for the spring, overtaken by the gale while they were still out to sea. The sun, catching them from below, splashed their underbellies and wings with crimson as though they were drenched in blood.

Small and light against the storm, they struggled to direct their course, to make this landfall before collapse. Within a minute they were landing all around me, clutching twigs and branches or plummeting to earth. Many were cheeping piteously, and some, too weak to cling to safety, slid, panting, from their perches and lay dying on the ground. All were too frightened or exhausted to move away from us, even though Invictus continued to snort and prance nervously. I held him firm with thigh and knee and stared with horror at the devastation pelting down upon us.

A flock of gulls came wheeling over and, swooping down among the fallen migrants, began tearing them apart, often while they were still alive. A fox stole out of the trees and ran, brazen as you please, across my sight, her mouth full of feathers. Anger and indignation rose hot in me, and I shook my clenched fist at her, though I knew it did no good.

Wave after wave of new arrivals fluttered out of the sky until every tree was laden with this desperately panting fruit. Some had a small red drop of blood hanging from their beaks, like a jewel. Perhaps as many as half of them would survive, but while the tufted bodies piled up on the ground as thick as rushes in a Hall, the fox came back for another round, bringing her kits with her. In the same way, the screaming of the gulls brought others to gorge on the defenseless redstarts.

I sat in the midst of that death and destruction, sick at heart. Even though I had nothing to do with it, I was being splattered by its bloody end. The memory of the dancing bear leapt to mind—the bear and Arthur and these birds, all touched by disasters I could not control. Yet still they happened; mindlessly, piteously, they happened, and I wept for the sorrow of it. How much more horrible to face such carnage in a war I knew I could have stopped!

One of the redstarts hit against me, and I caught it before it dropped away. Light and fragile in my hand, it was still warm, though it lay with its head askew from a broken neck. Gently, hopelessly, I cradled it between my palms, wishing desperately I could bring it back to life.

Slowly, with an infinite sadness and full recognition of what must be done, I knew the time had come—my bargain with the Gods had been fulfilled. Lance’s and my idyll was coming to an end, and I could not ask others to pay in blood for even one more day’s continuation of it.

Under me Invictus was trembling, anxious to leave this rain of death. Still holding the dead bird, I slid down from the warhorse’s back and, talking to him gently, led him out of the forest and along the path that skirts the orchard.

***

“I will return to Camelot,” I said evenly, staring coldly at Gildas, “as soon as Arthur sends an escort for me. You and the Queen of Cornwall can tell him that when you return.”

The despicable little man in the monk’s robe had the sense to keep his satisfaction to himself, but Lance was looking at me in horror. “Come, love,” I added, “we need to talk in private.”

“You don’t have to do this,” he said as soon as the door to our chamber was closed. “We’ll go to Rheged. They’ll be glad to have you back, and there’s more than enough forts there to keep us safe.”

I couldn’t look at him, couldn’t admit I’d given my people over to someone else. “It’s not just my return,” I hedged. “Arthur has ordered your banishment as well. You must leave Britain entirely.”

His gasp of surprise tore at my heart. “Then come with me,” he pleaded. “We can go to Brittany. Bors would be for it, and I’m sure Palomides and Melias and the rest will join us. Howell can always use good men, and you’ll be safer there than you are here.”

He held me in his arms, talking about possible futures as the tears ran down my face. But I was on the ridge with the birds, vowing to stop an equal destruction among men while the power to do so still lay in my hands.

“We have had our time, my dearest,” I said gently, my voice flat with resolution. “I could no more be the cause of a civil war any more than I could lead one. I cannot let Uwain and Arthur massacre each other, and would sooner die than see you and Arthur in combat. There will be no blood spilled over me.”

By the time we went downstairs for dinner, he had accepted my decision.

The storm forced Gildas and Isolde to stay over, and, considering her health, I was just as glad. The monk and I avoided each other, and Isolde spent a good bit of time with Palomides, playing chess, listening to his adventures and travels, or just chatting by the fire.

The weather cleared toward evening three days later, and that night I sat with Isolde in her room while her serving girl packed her things.

“Odd that we don’t necessarily love those who treat us best, isn’t it?” the famous beauty mused. “Palomides is by far the sweetest courtier I have ever known, yet as long as Tristan was near, I had no interest in the Arab at all. When I was young, and still thought in Pagan terms, I truly believed Tris and I were fated to love forever because of the potion we drank. Now I am not so sure. Perhaps it was our own obsession, our own self-destructiveness. Oh, love we did—perhaps still do. But by the will of the Gods? I no longer know.”

I looked at her fondly, the woman who had been ready to throw over everything to be with her lover. That I, who never intended such an action, should be confronted by the same miserable decision she had had to make seemed ironic indeed.

“Tell Arthur I will meet his men by the Lady’s Well at Holystone in three weeks’ time,” I said firmly, determined not to slip into self-pity. “I do not want his men coming to Joyous Gard. In the meanwhile, I’ll contact Uwain and ask him to arrange safe-conduct for whomever Arthur sends to escort me home.”

Isolde was watching me with those great, dark-circled eyes, as though she were reading my very soul. With a sigh she reached out and laid her frail little hand over mine. “No one really dies of a broken heart,” she murmured. “It just seems like it.”

Next morning Palomides helped her get settled in the litter. When everything was arranged, he bent over and kissed her hand tenderly, thanking her for the time she had spent with him. “It is a memory to cherish,” he said simply.

I smiled to myself, glad to know that in this case the reality had not shattered his belief in the dream.

During the next fortnight, life at Joyous Gard balanced precariously between chaos and commonplace. Bors and Ector left for Brittany to make arrangements there, while the rest of the men prepared to follow with Lancelot once I was safely on the Road to Camelot.

Mrs. Badger veered between certainty that the Gods would intervene to keep us from parting and wringing her hands in despair because there was nothing to be done. Her husband, however, went on with daily life in his usual, unruffled way, until the day before I was to leave.

“I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” he hollered that morning from the streamside, his voice carrying up the bluff to the henhouse, where I was collecting the first eggs of the year.

“Got what?” I called back, rushing to the edge of the cliff.

“For Himself,” Mr. Badger responded, thrashing about in the water like a youngster taking a bath. He didn’t sound alarmed, but considering his normal diffidence, I decided to find Lance.

By the time we returned to the bluff’s edge, Mr. Badger was making his way up the switchbacks of the trail, huffing and puffing with every step. His cloak was wrapped around a bundle of twigs and leaves from which an occasional stick poked out.

“Call the missus,” he demanded, once he reached the top of the bluff. “You, there, Lancelot—get to the table right proper now. Won’t have you spoiling this for not knowing the custom.”

By then we had reached the kitchen yard, and Mr. Badger began ordering everyone else to accompany Lance to the main room. “You, too, M’lady—have to keep it right, you understand.”

So we all gathered around the eating table, Lance still muddy from the garden, Kanahins with wood shavings in his hair, and me with a half-dozen eggs in the basket on my lap. Melias came pelting in from the stables and Palomides showed up just as the Badgers emerged from the kitchen, Mrs. Badger beating time on a hand drum while her husband carried a tray on which a fine fat salmon rested on a bed of cress.

“’Tis the first of the season,” the housekeeper announced as Mr. Badger went down on one knee and offered the prize to Lancelot. “It’s known to bring good fortune to the one who catches it. But seeing as how the times are so trying, we thought to give you both the fish and its luck.”

The two of them stood there before us, common and rustic in their simplicity, beaming with pride at contributing something to our beleaguered group.

“What a wonderful present,” I cried, determined to hold on to the simple, earthy joys we had known until the last possible moment. Lance bent forward and took the platter from Mr. Badger’s hands. “We’ll have a party tonight, to celebrate, and make a custard as well,” I added, lifting my basket triumphantly.

By then everyone was laughing and congratulating Mr. Badger, the shadow of the morrow’s parting resolutely turned aside.

In the afternoon Uwain rode up the ridge with a small party of warriors, having come to personally take me to Holystone. “Just to make sure you’re delivered safely, and they aren’t playing any tricks,” he growled.