Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn (49 page)

“But what about my offer?” I spoke hastily, jolted by the realization that because statesmanship had been forgotten, the chance of averting war had been lost.

“Can you
guarantee
Arthur will support my cause? That he will make worship of the Goddess mandatory throughout the realm and tear down the churches?”

“I will do my best,” I pledged, knowing I could only commit myself, not my husband, to her demand. “I will work tirelessly for you.”

“Not good enough.” She got to her feet. “There’s no way to hold Arthur accountable for your pledges.”

It was obvious her outburst had wakened resentments more important to her than either political or religious ambitions. With dread tugging at my soul, I pressed on.

“What would satisfy you?”

Morgan gathered her cloak around her shoulders and stared down at me like the Goddess in Her hag aspect. Our eyes met, and I saw scorn turn to curiosity, then real interest. No doubt she saw, for the first time, just how desperate I was.

“You want my help
that
much?” A half-smile crossed her features, and she sat back down with a graceful gesture. Lifting her teacup from the table, she stared at me over its rim, dark brows knit in contemplation.

“There may, in fact, be something I can do,” she said at last, her rich voice going low and thoughtful. “Mordred is counting on me to raise an army in the north for him. If he realizes I could just as easily take it to Arthur’s side…perhaps he could be convinced to negotiate.”

A long silence followed while Morgan continued to study me. She was now completely in control of the situation, and I waited, fascinated, wondering what the price would be. “And in return?” I finally prompted, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Something only you can give.” She held the teacup in one hand and let the fingers of the other rub slowly around the rim. “Yes, an agreement we can make between us—one that doesn’t need Arthur’s approval—in return for my coming to his aid.”

I held my breath while she continued to play with the cup. At last, quite certain of herself, she nodded and looked at me pleasantly.

“I swear to protect Arthur in every way I can; to attempt to dissuade Mordred from battle, or act as his mediator; even to bring my healing arts to Arthur’s side if he needs them…all this I promise to do, once you abdicate as High Queen of Britain.”

“What!” Disbelief shattered my reserve, and Morgan smiled outright.

“Of course not,” I exclaimed, shock ricocheting through me. “I can’t just up and leave my people.”

“Oh, I think you can. You abandoned them when you fled from Carlisle, and later you abdicated your position in Rheged for Lancelot. Of course, it may be you secretly want this war—if Arthur dies, Lancelot could return to Britain. That is, if Mordred doesn’t kill him as well.” Painting such grotesque futures seemed to amuse her, and she shrugged eloquently as she put the cup on the table. “In the end, I suppose it all depends on how much you want any of them to live.”

Outraged at her proposal, infuriated by her jibes, utterly powerless to deflect the demands she was making, I glared at her like a cornered animal.

“There is nowhere for me to go,” I temporized, “unless Uwain will let me come back to Rheged.”

“A popular Queen who has only recently given over her crown? No, my dear. Uwain may be awfully like his father, but he’s not so dumb as to allow that.” Morgan’s voice turned to silk. “I’ll make sure that Arthur doesn’t die, provided you write out a statement saying you are renouncing your position at Court…in order to go live in a convent.”

“Convent?” A wave of panic engulfed me, and I said the first thing that popped into my head. “I’m not even Christian.”

“Oh, I think something can be arranged, as long as you promise to stay there for the rest of your life. Until you die. Otherwise Arthur’s life will be forfeit.”

Terrible carnage, Nimue had said. Blood and gore and all the horror of civil war that I had so long tried to avoid. No matter what I did, the specter rose again, spattering me with death and the knowledge I could have averted it.

Yet the concept of knowingly, willingly entombing myself behind walls for the rest of my life was worse than facing the stake. My mind darted frantically here and there, trying to find a way out of the predicament.

And all the while Morgan sat in silence, watching me wrestle with my love of freedom and my love for Arthur. No doubt she knew what the end would be.

“If I agree to this, how do I know you’ll do as you say?” I asked finally, hoping to gain some last advantage in the bargain.

The Lady of the Lake drew her head back and gave me a haughty look. “I am a Celt, and I do not lie,” she intoned, sounding exactly like Gawain.

“Of course,” she added, getting to her feet again, “if you are unwilling, I must be on my way—Mordred is waiting for my answer.”

It took every ounce of strength and dignity I could muster, but I rose and looked my sister-in-law in the face. For a long moment we stared at each other, the fear and loathing lying naked between us until I finally bowed my head,

“I will go to the convent in the Chiltem Hills,” I said slowly and distinctly as the world constricted around me.

“Good. You’ll write out your abdication now and leave for the holy house immediately thereafter,” the High Priestess ordered. “My lieutenant will escort you, to make sure you arrive…safely.” She paused a moment more, eyes on the golden torc around my neck. “By rights that should be mine.”

“Igraine gave it to me as a wedding present,” I objected, instinctively reaching up to touch it.

But Morgan was too quick for me. Grabbing the lovely rope of gold that had been the badge of freedom since time began, she jerked it off my neck, springing it out of shape and abrading my skin at the same time.

Without another word she turned on her heel and left, while I stood there, a woman bereft of both past and future.

So it was done. What I had treated as a matter of diplomatic barter had turned into personal revenge for the Lady. And the bargain I struck to save Arthur’s life became the agreement that destroyed my own.

I wondered if he would ever know the final gift of love I’d given him.

Chapter XXXVII

Camlann

I stood in front of the only entrance in the convent wall and waited, dry-eyed, while Morgan’s lieutenant used his sword hilt to reach the knocker.

It was a stout oaken door, banded with iron straps. A small square panel was set into the wood at head height so that visitors could be identified without compromising the barrier of the door itself. The novice who peeped through the panel in response to our knock was young and timid, and lacked the authority to let us in, so we waited while she ran off to find an older nun. Security here was nothing if not thorough.

When it was decided we posed no threat, there was much scraping of wood against metal as the door was unbarred from inside.

“Ah, you wish to see the Abbess,” the sister responded when I asked for Brigit. “Whom should I tell her is here?”

“Gwenhwyvaer of Rheged,” I answered. “Tell her Gwenhwyvaer is here.”

The nun looked at me critically, noting my fur-trimmed cloak and soft leather boots. But these were no more than any noble lady might wear, and if she recognized me, she kept it to herself. There was no point in upsetting the peace of the holy house by announcing who I was—or rather, who I used to be.

I waited, my heart in my throat, while the novice went off to fetch my foster sister. Morgan’s dwarf pointedly took up a position between me and the door and began flicking his riding crop against his palm. At last there was a commotion at the end of a far corridor and the sound of footsteps running toward us.

Brigit burst into the room, veil flying and wisps of red hair escaping from her coif. “Holy Mother be praised, it
is
you!” she exclaimed, enveloping me in a joyful hug, as though she’d expected never to see me again.

I leaned against her, grateful for the support and welcome. Suddenly, with nowhere else to go, nothing left to be done, I felt utterly and completely drained.

“Enid’s waiting in the courtyard,” I murmured, “…the one who married Geraint.”

“Both you and your company are always welcome,” Brigit said gently, but I felt her stiffen as her eye fell on Morgan’s lieutenant.

“I’m here to make sure your new charge is settled properly,” the man announced. “I’ll be returning to London once you agree to accept her lifetime pledge to stay in your house.”

“Lifetime?” Brigit pulled back to look at me, incredulity written all over her freckled face.

“Aye, I’ve come to seek asylum. I have promised to spend the rest of my days with you.” The words came out in measured cadence, though I had no volition to say them.

Brigit stared at me long and hard, then turned to the dwarf, “You may tell your mistress that we will take care of her,” she said firmly.

So she remembered, and knew who was driving me to this. I looked at her gratefully.

“Come, let us get you settled.” Brigit sent a novice out to fetch Enid, then gave Morgan’s lieutenant a curt dismissal before leading me down the hall to a guest room. “There’s been rumors of all kinds that you were dead and buried already! I can’t tell you how glad I am to have you here, safe and sound!”

When we reached the guest room, she offered to have a tray of food brought, but I was so weak and tired, all I could do was shake my head.

“You just rest—rest and sleep now, Missy,” my foster sister said, taking off my boots and handing me a sleeping robe. “There will be plenty of time to talk tomorrow.”

So I crawled under the simple wool blanket and, pulling the covers up over my head, slid into the deep, dreamless sleep of exhaustion.

The next fortnight was a time without measure, a waking dream in which real and unreal blurred into a kind of trancelike blur. The nuns might live behind stout walls, but events in the outside world filtered through to them. Refugees streaming north for fear of the battles to come, worried holy men and busy clerics, even the farmer’s wife who delivered milk and cheese—all brought bits and pieces of news, and I hung on their words as though they were messages from the Gods.

Arthur’s landing at Dover was much spoken of, along with the death of Gawain. The very audacity of landing in Federate territory seemed to have worked to the High King’s advantage, for Mordred had not bothered to reinforce the troops along the Saxon Shore, and among the Federate commoners there were as many for Arthur as against him. It was said that the initial skirmish had put Mordred’s troops to flight, though no one knew what would happen next.

“We always remember him in our prayers,” Brigit consoled me, “and now we’re including you and Enid as well.”

“And Mordred,” I said. “Ask your Father God to make him change his mind.”

“Perhaps the Son would be more appropriate,” the Irish lass quipped, and I smiled wanly, warmed by the wit which had sustained me all through childhood. If I had to be imprisoned, I was glad it was here.

Like one in a trance waiting for the release that might never come, I moved through each day, taking part in the pattern of work and worship that makes up convent life. Since I had not been baptized, I was not expected to join the sisters in chapel for the midnight prayers, though I was often awake when the bell rang to summon them from their beds.

My sleep was fitful at best, and beset by nightmares—the old, familiar terrors now shifting from known fear to unpredictable grotesquery. When I dreamt of my father dancing in the flames of Beltane, it was myself I saw, though nowhere could I find Lancelot and safety. Sometimes Gareth’s dying face rose to haunt me, or Morgan came to call, her voice high and cold as she laughed at my heartache. But by far the worst—and most common—was the nightmare of Arthur dying in battle. It was this vision that haunted me every night.

I’d been at the convent for almost two weeks when the farmer’s daughter, coming in her mother’s place, stopped by the kitchen, full of news about the warriors gathering near the bend of the river on the Plain. “Camlann, we calls it. Dog-leg, you might say. Proud men on proud horses, with shields and helmets, and swords all shining in the light. Thousands strong, they say.”

“What insignias?” I asked eagerly.

The girl shrugged slightly. “White horsetail standards swishing in the breeze…Saxon, someone said. And the High King’s Dragon.” She frowned, trying to remember. “And maybe a White Boar, from Cornwall.”

“Constantine,” I whispered thankfully, my mind seeing rank after rank of men spread out across the Plain, as in my dream.

“Dear God,” I prayed, suddenly going weak in the knees, “give Morgan a tongue of gold. Give Arthur all the strength and courage he needs. And Mordred…give him some sense to see the futility of what he’s doing.”

That afternoon the first of the autumn storms passed through, soaking the woods and making the streams and rivulets spring to life. Come night, I lay on my cot, listening to the distant honking of geese moving down from the north, and wondered if the redstarts had left Northumbria for the winter. High in the dark sky a curlew’s call fell to earth, wrapping me in dreams.

I was on a high, mossy upland, wide and free under the sky, standing beneath its blue dome with my arms held out like the crucifix I saw each day above the altar. Far away there was a tramping sound, at first a mere vibration that grew to thunder in my head. Eight abreast the warriors came, all unknowing that I lay beneath their feet, crying out like the earth herself against the death of her children. Only when the great auroch’s horns boomed, their deep voices moaning over the land, did I dissolve and fall onto the shadowy edges of the Plain…onto the known, familiar place of death I visited nightly now.

Here were the two armies drawn up, horses pawing impatiently, carrion crows and wolves waiting for the carnage to begin. Here the future—death and life—and in the center, locked in silent, ghostly combat, a pair of Champions struggled.

“No!” I screamed, hearing my own voice break away as I ran, dodged, flung myself toward them in a long, desperate effort to cross the rolling land.

My lungs were bursting and my muscles ached, as though I both dealt and received each blow, while slowly, with infinite grace, the two combatants went through their ghoulish dance. “Stop,” I cried, though the words carried no sound. “No more, I beg you, no more!”

Deaf to all but the beat of their moira, drawn to each other in deadly embrace, the warriors moved in and out of my sight as in the past. But this time the sky turned red, my vision blurred, a gale whipped my hair into my eyes—and when I shook it free, the ground was littered with bodies. Dead, dying, moaning with the pitiful voices of lost children, screaming against the savagery of their slaying, I saw the messy wake of war, the tangle of guts and limbs and twitching hands, the red drop of blood hanging from each mouth like a jewel.

The scene went slack, sliding into repose, and my sight narrowed to the two in the center. Bloodied, hacked, and weary to the point of blindness, one slumped morosely against the trunk of a nearby tree, the other on a pile of fallen friends.

“This time,” I cried, “this time it must be different!”

But even as I willed it otherwise, the warrior with the sword stirred and rose from the shelter of his dead comrades. Like a hound that has just found the scent, his aching body responded to the enemy presence, collecting all faculties, centering on the exhausted man beside the tree.

After a long moment’s scrutiny, the swordsman began the slow, inevitable advance toward his opponent.

“Leave be!” I cried, feeling the panic, knowing already the result, begging my love to turn aside from this last, fatal encounter. But there might as well have been a wall of glass between us, for he heard me not at all, and I was powerless to sway one little moment of the confrontation.

The warrior at the tree tensed, sensing danger, and straightened slowly. He moved his head from side to side, as if he could not see clearly, and without taking his eyes from the threat, reached for the spear shaft that stood upright not an arm’s distance away. Wrenching the spearhead free of the corpse, he hefted the weapon for balance and crouched as he faced his opponent.

It was then I knew, as I knew every night, there was only one ending to the tale; only one victor over us all, regardless of the many forms I saw him take.

Usually, in the past, the man with the spear had been Maelgwn, grinning at Arthur with the same cold triumph as when he had raped me. Sometimes he wore a masking helmet, such as Accolon had when he almost killed the High King for Morgan. Once I thought it was Lance standing there, poised to kill my husband, and I had sobbed hysterically at the thought.

This time both figures were in silhouette against the crimson sky, and I saw neither face, though the dance was horribly familiar.

Closer and closer the swordsman came, slashing and feinting with a growing vigor. The spearman, however, moved like a man worn thin, hoarding his energy, using the length of his weapon to keep the flashing blade of his foe at a distance. Yet in spite of the spearman’s longer reach, the swordsman would not be deterred. Risking all things mortal for the chance—the one last chance—of felling his nemesis, he made a ghastly dash toward the heart of the matter. I saw him leap forward and screamed as the cold iron spearhead plunged through armor and warm flesh.

The thrust I had seen so often before pierced my body as well as my dream, pinning me in helpless horror as I watched the warrior begin to die. But this was a new, a different dance, and I stared at the tableau, sickened to the soul, yet unable to look away.

Writhing in agony, shape against shadow, black against bloody heaven, I saw the impaled man lean forward and, using his free hand, pull himself along the ashwood spearshaft. His lungs gurgled; his hands were covered with sweat, and where it had come out his back, the spearhead took blood and entrails with it. Yet hand-hold by hand-hold, he drew his own death closer. The whole of his life’s purpose was brutally, horribly focused in that one act, and when he had sufficiently narrowed the space between himself and the slayer, he lifted his sword in both hands, high above his head.

A light suffused his face, as cold as marsh-fire, as burning as lightning. It leapt eerily between the two men, casting first one and then the other in relief, and I gasped in that terrible heartbeat when I realized that this time the man on the spear was not my husband.

Arthur crouched beside the tree, his face twisted with anguish and disbelief as he gaped at the opponent who had clawed his way close enough to strike.

“Say it, damn you!” the skewered man begged, his upraised blade wavering as his life ebbed. He was glaring at the High King with every passion known to humankind, but Arthur was struck dumb by knowledge and despair.

“The word is
son
,” the dying man sobbed, bringing the blade crashing down on his father.

“Mordred! Oh, Mordred!” I screamed, flinging myself upright on the pallet. I was drenched with sweat and horror and nausea.

“There, there now,” Enid cried, rushing to my bedside from her room across the hall. “It’s all right, M’lady, it’s all right. It’s only a bad dream.”

“No,” I whimpered as she wrapped her arms around me. “Not this time. This time it was real.” And I began to shake uncontrollably with the sad, miserable certainty of it.

***

So we played out our eternal dance—fathers and sons, mothers and daughters. There was no way I could have changed the patterns of those fates any more than I could undo Camelot, or will the Breton to never cross my path, or keep from loving Igraine, or make Morgan less needful of power and revenge.