“The moon! The moon! It dies!” The shout was echoed by others up and down the line of people. “The moon! It is being eaten!”
Tegan looked up, her heart thudding.
The bright, white disk of the moon was no longer a perfect circle. One edge had disappeared, leaving a black curve. The moon itself had dimmed to a yellow, baleful glare.
As Tegan watched, the black space shifted, taking away more of the moon.
“It’s a sign. A sign! The Goddess save us!” a woman wailed.
Others muttered. Tegan saw from the corner of her eye a great many old and powerful signs made to ward off the portent, gestures which were generally not seen in Camelot these days, among the many Christians of the court.
Guenivere gave a soft, weak sighed and slumped against Tegan. Tegan caught her and strained to hold her up, as her father leapt to help.
“The Queen! The Queen has fallen! The portent has arrived!” the same woman screamed, as panic spread out from where Tegan and her father supported the unconscious Guenivere.
“All this business about signs and portents ridiculous,” Merlin raged, where he paced before the big fireplace, his cloak sweeping the floor behind him. “I’ve taught you better than that, Cai. Let them beat their chests about magic. They don’t know what magic is. It means nothing.”
Gawain glanced at Cai, to see how he was taking this admonition.
Cai, as usual, placidly accepted the correction. Arthur, next to him, kept his arms crossed and his chin down. He was stewing about something.
Bedivere stirred and said with a diffident tone, “But the moon, Merlin…”
There were only a handful of Arthur’s senior officers in the family hall, drinking wine that had been hastily mulled when Arthur yelled for it, while Vivian and Merlin tended to Guenivere in her chamber. Arthur had curtly ordered Lancelot and Gawain to stay—and Bedivere, too. “It’s near enough to dawn and I’m in no mood to sleep,” he told them.
Lancelot shrugged. “Sleep is for the lazy, anyway.” His tone was cheerful, as he pulled a chair up to the fireplace and held his hands out to the flames.
When Merlin returned to the hall and announced there was nothing wrong with the Queen, even Arthur had relaxed and sunk into thought in the corner.
Then Cai asked Merlin what the disappearing moon really meant, prompting Merlin’s scathing reply.
Now Merlin looked at Bedivere with a vexed expression, to which Bedivere simply stared back, unmoved. Bedivere was quiet, always, but he was also difficult to ruffle or intimidate.
“This thing happens to the moon once or twice a year, Bedivere,” Merlin said. “The druids had charts which predicted when it would happen, but they are lost to us now. Still, even an old farmer could predict more or less when it will come again.”
“It is a…thing?” Cai asked.
“It is a natural event,” Merlin replied, his tone calmer. And firmer.
Lancelot, staring at the fire, said, “They say the blackness swallowing the moon is merely the shadow of our world falling upon it.”
“Shadow?” Cai said, his voice raising. “Shadow from what?”
“The sun,” Lancelot replied.
Merlin pointed at him and nodded in agreement.
“But the sun goes out after sunset…” Cai said, bewildered.
“Or goes behind us?” Bedivere asked. “For us to cast a shadow upon the moon, it must be behind us.”
The Lady of the Lake, Vivian, moved into the room with a sweep of rich gown and fine jewels at her neck. She moved directly to Arthur, who sat up. “Guenivere sleeps,” she told him. “As far as we can tell, there is nothing wrong with her.”
“It is not…a child?” Arthur said hesitantly.
“Not this time,” Vivian said, with a gentle smile. She turned to face the room and glanced at Merlin, who nodded.
Vivian said to Lancelot: “With the King’s permission, I would ask you to sit with her, Lancelot.”
Lancelot stirred and looked up from the flames. “Me?”
Merlin nodded. “There is nothing wrong with her, yet she ails. You have a way about you with those who do not mend when they should.”
“You have a healer’s presence,” Vivian added, her smile warm. “It is a quality that may help her now.”
“Yes,” Arthur said shortly, sitting up. He reached for the wine jug, which still steamed gently. “I remember that about you, Lancelot. Merlin has mentioned it before.”
“Lancelot was a great help in the war years,” Vivian replied. “Nimue told me about your visits during the night,” she added to Lancelot.
Gawain watched with curiosity and some surprise as Lancelot’s face colored. “I will sit with her, of course, if Arthur wishes it,” he said quietly.
“Go,” Arthur said. “Make her well, if you can.”
Lancelot got to his feet. “Lady Vivian, can you show me the way?”
Vivian turned and moved back out of the room, with Lancelot following.
Merlin turned to Gawain, his gaze unwavering. “And you, my northern friend…you learned a great deal from your mother about ways with herbs, some of them I am sure I’ve never heard of. Would you remember what you can about tonics that might help the Queen?”
Surprised, Gawain rubbed his jaw. “I will recall what I can, but I warn you, Merlin, my mother’s interest in herbs and elixirs had little to do with helping others.”
Merlin nodded. “Even a single plant with some virtue might help, especially if we present it to the Queen as a guaranteed cure.”
Gawain understood. “I will see what I can recall,” he promised.
Merlin rested his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “I am an old man. I need my sleep.”
“Sleep then, old man,” Arthur replied, his tone gruff. “And thank you, Myrddin.”
Merlin smiled at Arthur. “Good night, Emrys.”
Then he nodded at Cai, Gawain and Bedivere and strode from the room with the energy of a much younger man.
The door was shut behind him.
Arthur stirred. “A mugful each, then I will let you all sleep, too,” he told the three of them.
Gawain moved over to the table to take the cup Arthur poured and murmured his thanks.
Arthur looked up at him. “What is this I hear about you and Guenivere’s lady…Tegan, yes?”
Gawain froze. He made himself take the mug with as casual a movement as he could manage. “It is nothing you need concern yourself with,” he assured Arthur.
“Bricius’ kingdom is in need of an heir, now Cadoc is dead. That is not my business?” Arthur asked.
Gawain grew cautious. That blankly smooth tone of Arthur’s was a trap for the inexperienced. It made Arthur sound as though he was being amenable and reasonable, even polite. Whatever the subject he broached in that way was one he intended to pursue to the end.
Gawain shook his head both in answer to Arthur and in resignation. He would be forced to discuss this, so he let down his guard and spoke freely. “I agree the match is a good one,” he told Arthur and added bluntly, “Lady Tegan, though, is not amenable.”
Arthur sat back. “What did you do to her to make her detest you so?”
Gawain peered down into the steaming wine. His throat closed over. He longed to take a drink but could not while Arthur engaged him in conversation. “I’m not entirely sure.”
Cai laughed. “That’s not like you, Gawain. Most ladies sigh after you, days and months after you’ve won them over.”
Gawain grimaced.
Arthur waved Gawain back to his chair. “Sit and drink,” he said. “And consider how you might change her mind.”
Gawain studied Arthur’s face, trying to measure his mood. “Is that an order, my lord?”
“As the lady in question must agree to the match and I have yet to learn the trick of making ladies change their mind, I won’t make it an order,” Arthur said. “Let us say that I encourage the union.” His smile was small. “It is long past time you found a wife
and sired sons, anyway. Tegan is easy on the eyes and Guenivere names her a loyal and supportive friend. Both are good qualities in a woman.”
“So is womanly charm and gentleness,” Gawain growled. “Neither quality of which the lady possesses.”
Arthur’s gaze was direct and relentless. “We all must compromise, one way or another,” he said flatly. “You have long been acknowledged a champion of the ladies. Woo the girl, marry her and make it work. Your kingdom and hers depend upon it.”
Before Gawain could speak, Arthur turned the conversation to a different matter, deflecting any further protest Gawain might make.
Chapter Eleven
Once dawn arrived, Tegan found it impossible to sleep any longer, despite firmly closing the shutters against the morning light. She rose and dressed for training and wondered how many fighters would attend today. Most of Camelot had been up all night, saying farewell to Elaine.
She hacked off a piece of cheese from the wheel on the table in the main room and replaced the cloth. For a moment she let her hand linger upon the cloth. Cadoc had been fond of cheese. The more aged, the better.
Tonight at sunset, they would again assemble at the spring, for the priests to welcome Cadoc into the Christian heaven…
She closed her eyes, feeling dizzy.
Drills and training and mock bouts would stop her from thinking for a while.
She hurried out into the pale morning. As she made her way to the arena, she heard her name being called and looked back along the wide high street that ran directly to the palace, in the opposite direction to the arena.
Lancelot waved at her, gesturing that she wait for him, then broke into a jog to catch up with her. He wore the same black clothes he had been wearing last night.
“You should be asleep,” Tegan told him.
“Speak for yourself,” Lancelot said, falling into step alongside her. “I wanted to speak to you about Guenivere.”
“Jenny is not recovered? I thought Merlin said she was fine. And why do you ask?”
“Merlin said there was nothing wrong with her,” Lancelot replied. “But a person can have nothing wrong and still sicken.” He shook his head. “Merlin and Vivian asked me to sit with the Queen, to see if I could…help.”
Tegan halted and faced him. “I remember how you used to sit with the wounded after battles. What is wrong with her, Lancelot? She did not seem to recover properly after the loss of the last child…” She bit her lip.
“I was hoping that you might give me some insight,” Lancelot said. “I have sat by her bed for the last hours before dawn and watched her. She does not sleep normally. Something makes her twist and turn.” He frowned. “It is not a natural sleep.”
Tegan pressed her lips together. “The loss of another child…it weighs on her.”
Lancelot frowned. “A sickness of the mind? I have heard that the mind can make the body ill, if the matter is heavy enough.”
“Only, she has not been brooding,” Tegan said. “Guenivere works, Lancelot. All the time. She chivvies Cai, she directs the ladies of the court, she arranges and cajoles. I have even seen her sweep and sew to ensure arrangements for a feast are as perfect as she wishes them to be. She has been working as hard as she always does, lately, and her conversation had not lingered upon the lost babe.”
Lancelot shook his head. “Something gnaws at her. If it is not the mind and Merlin says it is not the body, then I do not know what it might be.”
Tegan drew in a quick breath. “Raspberry leaves.”
Lancelot tilted his head. “It is too early for raspberries.”
“Yes, I know, but Guenivere asked me to find some, the first day she rose from her sick bed after the child was lost,” Tegan said. “Red raspberry leaves. I presumed it was for a potion to help her succeed with the next babe.”
Lancelot rubbed the back of his neck. “Red raspberry leaves are potent…and if none are to be found, what else might she have turned to instead?” He dropped his hand. “Thank you.”
Tegan nodded and turned to go.
“‘Jenny’?” Lancelot added, behind her.
Tegan looked over her shoulder and tried to smile. It formed. Just. “I teased her with the common man’s version of her name and the jest lingered. Just between us,” she added quickly.
Lancelot considered it. “Jenny…” he repeated softly. Then he nodded and turned to walk back along the high street to the palace.
Tegan turned and hurried to the arena, eager to erase all worries from her mind for a while, for now those worries included Guenivere.
Guenivere had never been as startled in her life as she was when she woke and found Lancelot sitting on the stool by her bed, with no other companion or nurse or guard in the room.
His black eyes were steady upon her, measuring her reaction. “You have worried a great many people, my lady,” he said gravely.
Additional discomfort built in her. “Oh, dear,” she said, and tried to sit up and found it difficult. Frowning, she poured effort into keeping her arms steady beneath her, until she could sit without propping herself up. “That isn’t good. I don’t like to worry people.”
“Yes, I know,” Lancelot replied, startling her all over again. “I have been sitting here while you sleep, sorting it out for myself.”
“While I slept?” She wrapped her arms around her. “Why?”
Lancelot gave a grim little smile. “Merlin holds the belief that my sitting with people helps them heal. As Merlin is perplexed by what ails you, he has fallen upon any solution at all. I was handed a stool and told to sit by you.” He gave a tiny shrug.
Guenivere swallowed. “Nothing ails me,” she said quickly. “I was…I was simply tired, and the sight of the moon disappearing was…was…”
“You were weak. You have been growing weaker every day and hiding it,” Lancelot replied.
Guenivere’s middle tightened. “I beg your pardon?” She made her tone icy.
Lancelot gave her a vexed look in response. He turned and reached down to the floor. Then, still silent, he placed upon the bed covers beside her knee the little pot with the cream that the witch who lived behind the arena had assured Guenivere would make her womb inviting to a child, if she massaged the cream into her belly each night.
Then the bottle with the comfrey and the other mysterious and quite disgusting compounds, which she had been directed to take every morning and night.
The jar of dried raspberries and lavender joined them.
Then the last, the pot of golden-brown liquid which smelled of nothing Guenivere had ever sniffed before. A spoonful of that, also every morning and night. The old woman who lived under the shadow of Avalon had almost tossed the pot at Guenivere and refused her coins, too. “It will give you want you want,” the old woman growled. “More’s the pity,” she added and turned away.
Guenivere stared at the array of pots and jars, her heart thudding. She could not bring herself to look at Lancelot. Shame gripped her throat.
Breathing hard, she forced her chin up and retreated to anger. “You dare search my room? I will have your guts for that, Prince.”
Lancelot did not react. Instead, he reached for the pot of comfrey and lifted it. “I know the herb in this.”
“Comfrey,” Guenivere said, her tone cold.
“That is there for the scent,” Lancelot assured her. “The herb with the real virtue in this concoction is red clover, and it is strong. Very strong. That is why the comfrey was added—to disguise the strength.” He put the pot down. “Your head has been aching, yes? All the bones in your body, too.”
Guenivere forgot to be angry. She forgot her shame and stared at Lancelot.
He gave her a small smile. “You have failed to remember who raised me,” he said gently. “I do not possess nearly as much knowledge as Nimue or Vivian, but I have enough to know that all of these…they have been making you ill, Guenivere. They are too strong and there are too many, taken together.”
Guenivere drop
ped her gaze to the pots and jars, her heart working too hard.
Of course, he thought this to be excessive. He did not understand the pressure she was under. He was a man.
“I know why you have been dosing yourself in this way,” Lancelot said gently.
Guenivere looked at him, horrified. “You cannot have even the slightest idea,” she shot back.
Lancelot shook his head. “You want a child. One that lives. Only, none of these will help you keep a child and carry it to birth. They will only help you create one. Did they not tell you that?”
Guenivere’s horror was complete. “But…but how am I to…” Her vision blurred. “You do not understand. I must have a child!” Her voice wobbled. “Arthur wants a son. He must have a son…” Her throat ached. “The future of Britain depends upon it,” she finished, her voice hoarse.
Lancelot made a soft sound, one that seemed full of warm sympathy to her starved ears, but she could not see him properly to be sure.
The pots and jars were swept aside. She heard them clatter.
“Promise me you will stop using these things,” Lancelot said, his voice low and urgent, and close by her. “You will die if you do not. Nothing, not even Britain itself, is worth that price.”
“He must have an heir,” she whispered. “He will put me aside if I cannot give him one. Then I will have failed.”
There. The very heart of the truth which burned in her gut each and every day. It had been spoken aloud. Admitted.
Guenivere wept as she had not wept before.
When Lancelot’s shoulder slipped under her cheek, she let her head rest weakly upon it and took solace in the first man—the first and only person—to give her this simple, warm comfort.
Gawain arrived at the house in the hour after sunset, not long after Tegan and her father had returned from the sunset ceremony at the spring, where the Christian priests had muttered their prayers.
Not even Arthur had been able to offer her father comfort, this time. Instead, he had squeezed Bricius’ shoulder, patted it, and moved on.
Her father worked with focused attention upon getting as drunk as possible, so Tegan answered the knock at the door and stood back, confused, when she saw who it was.
Abduction of Guenivere (Once and Future Hearts Book 7) Page 12
