Guinevere's Gift

by Nancy McKenzie

  “My dear girl,” he said gently, “it was a lucky day for us when you came to Gwynedd.”

  “Yes, it was,” Elaine agreed. “Gwen is the best friend anybody ever had.”

  “Hear, hear,” Gwillim breathed.

  Queen Alyse rose once more to lead the women out, but the king laid a hand on her arm. “One moment,” he said. “I have brought home a birthday gift for Guinevere, and there is no better time than this to present it.”

  The queen looked at him sharply. “Not jewels,” she warned. “She is far too young.”

  King Pellinore smiled. “Not your kind of jewel, Alyse. Guinevere's kind of jewel. The High King himself gave it to me.”

  The chatter in the hall died away. The king had everyone's attention now.

  “The High King?” Elaine whispered, wide-eyed. “He honored you with a gift?”

  King Pellinore's eyes were dancing. “Arthur's a generous man, and one who appreciates honest service. I sprang the trap he set, and he asked me what I would take in return. He said people would think poorly of a king who did not reward such loyalty. So I asked him for something I thought my niece might like for her birthday treat.”

  Guinevere's mouth went dry. She felt Gwarth's eyes on her and Gwillim's, shining like shield bosses. Elaine could hardly contain her excitement.

  “Pellinore, for heaven's sake,” Queen Alyse said irritably. “Stop teasing the girl and tell her.”

  King Pellinore winked at Guinevere. “I brought you a mare from the High King's stables. You can finally turn poor old Peleth out to grass.”

  Guinevere stared at him. A thousand thoughts raced through her head, but the foremost was, it wasn't possible. She must have misunderstood. Stannic had told her all about the High King's breeding program, how King Arthur had sent one of his best knights to southern Gaul early in his reign to bring back horses of exquisite beauty and stamina to cross with their own sturdy native breeds. Now and again, when a stallion didn't measure up, they gelded him and gave him away. Stannic had seen one once. The horse had made an impression on him. But they never let go of mares. Mares were the very heart of the breeding program and much too valuable to part with. “ A —a mare, my lord?”

  King Pellinore laughed. “Well, a filly, then. She's only two years old. You can have the training of her. Sir Lancelot du Lac didn't want to part with her; she's the best of her year, but the High King said a valuable gift bestows more honor than one they'll not miss much. Now, how's that for a courteous gesture?”

  Both Elaine and Guinevere looked at him with shining eyes, and Guinevere spluttered out her thanks. For the third time, Queen Alyse rose to lead the women out. As they moved from the table, Guinevere ran to King Pellinore and hugged him. He laughed, patted her in his fatherly fashion, and wished her joy of her gift.

  “Well,” said the queen with a little smile as they moved to the door, “it's just as well you earned back your riding privileges. I'll never get you away from the horses now.”

  “Oh, Aunt Alyse, may I not just run down and have a peek at her tonight?”

  Behind her, Ailsa tugged sharply at her sleeve.

  “No,” said the queen, “you may not. It's only a horse. It will keep until morning.”

  “I won't get a wink of sleep,” Guinevere pleaded.

  “But, Mama, it's the High King's gift,” Elaine said in an awed voice.

  Queen Alyse stopped in the doorway and looked sternly at them both. “It is King Pellinore's gift. And tomorrow is soon enough.” In a swift and unexpected gesture, she bent and kissed Guinevere's brow. “You may go as soon as it's light. Happy birthday, Guinevere.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Promise

  In the still predawn, Guinevere slipped silently out of the castle and darted downhill past the outbuildings to the stable. Entering by the side door, she went right to the box stall, keeping her breathing as normal as she could. Surely, Stannic would have put her in the box, a filly among so many stallions and geldings, a new filly in a strange land. With her heart hammering in her ears, she lifted the latch, opened the plank door, and slid inside.

  It was dark as night in the stall. The single, high window looked west, toward the sea and the fading stars. She stood perfectly still and waited. Around her, she sensed only utter stillness. The straw lay ankle-deep and would rustle at the slightest movement, but she heard nothing. For a frantic moment, she thought the stall must be empty—Stannic had housed the filly elsewhere—the animal had died overnight, and her body had already been removed—King Pellinore had been pulling her leg; the High King would never part with a mare from his own stable—the master of horse, the knight with the strange name, had put his foot down. And then she heard a soft exhalation that was not her own, could not be her own, for she was holding her breath. Again it came, a drawing of breath, a testing of the air, and another gentle exhalation whose warmth reached her across the bed of straw.

  There, under the dim light of the window, a dappled, dark gray filly stood in perfect stillness, her lovely head turned toward Guinevere, her dark nostrils wide, drinking in the new scent.

  “Oh, you beauty,” the girl whispered, hardly knowing she spoke. “You angel, you wonder, you lovely, lovely thing.”

  She hummed a little tune as she took a step forward. It was an old Welsh melody, handed down through countless generations, a favorite among wet nurses and stablemasters for its power to comfort. The filly's ears flicked forward to the girl, then backward to the window where the first birdsong erupted from the hills, and forward again to the girl. Her dark eyes fastened on Guinevere. She blew once, then lowered her head and nickered. The girl came closer, hand outstretched. There was something in the hand, something recognizably edible. The filly stretched out her neck and took it.

  The touch of those velvety lips against her palm made Guinevere shiver with delight. It was only an apple from the storerooms, slightly shriveled and more tart than sweet, but the filly chewed it gravely, swallowed, and looked for more. Guinevere ran her hands over the bony face; down the long, muscled neck; lifting the black mane and scratching where she knew horses could not scratch themselves. The filly responded, leaning into her touch, swinging her head around to examine the girl more closely, gently lipping her tunic and snuffling her hair.

  “ Well,” said a low voice from the doorway, “I see you've met.”

  Girl and filly turned as one to face the broad figure of the stablemaster at the entrance to the stall.

  “Oh, Stannic, isn't she beautiful? Isn't she magnificent?”

  Stannic grinned. “I knew you'd be up early. Just not this early.”

  “I had to come, I couldn't sleep. I couldn't sleep a wink until I'd seen her.”

  “Here.” He handed her a halter and lead rope. “I know you won't be satisfied with patting her in the stall. Take her outside into the paddock and watch her move.”

  Guinevere led the mare out into the cool dawn of a May morning. In the east, the sky had turned an eggshell blue, and the dew was already drying on the grass. She turned the filly loose in the paddock and watched her trot along the fence line, floating, tail held high and mane flowing, drinking in the new scents of woodland, mountain heights, and sea.

  Guinevere watched her in silent awe. She sought for a name for this wonderful gift, something to capture her quickness, her youthful spirit, her infinite grace. She could think of nothing. The quality of this animal was beyond her experience. She glanced back quickly at the stables. The grooms were up now and grumbling sleepily as they began their morning chores. There was no sign of Stannic.

  Guinevere slipped into the paddock and called to the filly, holding out her hand, although this time there was nothing in it but the lead rope. The filly shook her head, burst into a gallop, bucked twice, spun, raced three times around the paddock, and finally trotted over to Guinevere, blowing with pleasure.

  Guinevere laughed and patted her neck as she fastened the lead rope to the halter. “Feeling good, are you? Me, too.
Let's go for a ride.”

  With the help of the fence, she slid quietly onto the filly's back. The horse stood calmly enough, flicking her ears back in anticipation of the next command. Guinevere leaned forward and stroked her glossy neck. “What excellent manners you have,” she murmured. “The knight who trained you knew what he was doing.”

  She turned the filly away from the fence and asked her for a trot and then a canter and then a walk. The filly responded willingly. Guinevere rode her in a circle, reversed direction, and completed another circle, first at a trot, then at a canter. The filly happily complied, pulling a little against the single rope rein, wanting more speed but not insisting on it. Firmly, with hands, seat, and legs, Guinevere asked her to slow and then stop. The filly yielded without argument, coming to a halt by the gate. Guinevere leaned down to open it, and, after a quick glance around for Stannic, they slipped through.

  By the time they reached the shore road, the sun had risen clear of the eastern hills and touched every leaf, every blade of grass, with light. The filly walked in a limber, ground-covering stride, her head lifted to the sea breeze, her wide nostrils drinking it in. Guinevere tried hard to quell her own excitement. Never in her life had she ridden such an animal as this. This was no mountain pony from the hills of Wales, no aged cavalry mount grown stiff in the knees. This was a young mare with all the eager quickness of youth, with power and agility and speed, to judge from the muscling of her hindquarters. It was said that the High King's master of horse had brought to Britain stallions of Eastern blood, finely made animals who could run all day on a handful of grain and a bucket of water. If the filly descended from such horses—as she must, she was so unlike the native Briton breeds—then it was even possible she carried in her the blood of the royal line of Bucephalos, Alexander's great stallion, who was himself descended from the god-horse Pegasus, who could fly.

  Guinevere held the mare lightly, letting her take in her surroundings, feeling the suppressed eagerness in the warm body beneath her. The filly wanted to run, she could feel it in her, but the beach was the place for that. The tide would be halfway out and the shingle hard and smooth, perfect for a gallop. On the beach, she would discover if her filly, too, had wings.

  When the shore road turned north, Guinevere urged the filly down the path to the beach. Gradually, the trees around them thinned to shrubs and then to windblown scrub as they came in sight of the sea. Without warning, the filly shuddered to a dead halt, flung her head up, and screamed. The next instant, she reared on her hind legs, pawing the air frantically with her forefeet, landed with a jolt, whirled, and tried to bolt back up the path. Breathless, Guinevere just managed to hold her, turning her in tight circles until she stood, shaking and sweating, staring at the vast, restless, terrifying expanse before her.

  “It's the sea, my lovely girl. That's all it is. Have you never seen it? You don't have to go any nearer if you don't want to.”

  What had that master of horse been thinking, not exposing the horse to the sea? Caerleon, where King Arthur had his headquarters, was on a river, but according to the map of Wales that Iakos had drawn for her and Elaine, it wasn't all that far from the coast. Perhaps he took only colts to the sea and left the fillies at home to grow up into broodmares.

  Impatiently, Guinevere pushed all thoughts of King Arthur's master of horse from her mind. She tried walking the filly along the shingle, but the animal shied violently every time a wave broke. She could think of only one way to distract the filly from the horror of the sea: she gave her her head.

  The filly bolted down the beach. In four strides, she was at full gallop. Guinevere crouched over her withers and buried her fists in the flying black mane. The wind made her eyes tear and blurred her vision. She clung to the filly's back as the animal settled into her stride, lengthening her long body and increasing her speed. Speed! Guinevere shared the filly's exultation as the shoreline whipped past them. All fear had fled. In its place were only joy, eagerness, and the release of something long held in.

  Guinevere kept a firm pressure on the rope, and the filly leaned into it, using the pressure to balance her racing strides. She ate up the ground, flying past the place where Peleth always pulled up, blowing with fatigue. She ran in a seamless, four-beat gait, ears and neck stretched forward, wanting more. They flew past the point where the rocks ran out almost to the tide line. The filly ignored the closer approach of the sea and kept to the narrow shingle, exploding forward in a new burst of speed as another long stretch of beach came into view.

  In the far distance, a series of huge, rocky outcrops protruded from the shingle, running from the woodland all the way down to the sea. They resembled a series of giant wolf's teeth, upturned. The Fangs, as the locals called them, were a landmark for fishermen up and down the coast. There was no way around them, and the passage through them was tricky, even at a walk. Guinevere began to speak to the mare, calling her pet names and praising her strength, her speed, her will. She was rewarded with a brief backward flicking of one ear. Gradually, she straightened a little from her crouch over the withers, made her pressure on the rope intermittent, and called to the mare in a low, beseeching voice. She sensed a moment of indecision, little more than a moment's flicking of the ears and a fractional lifting of the head, before the filly gave her consent and began to slacken her speed.

  By the time the Fangs approached, Guinevere had persuaded her to an easy canter. Her stride was still buoyant and full of joy, but she was willing now to slow to a trot and even to a walk. Her sides were warm and her breathing fast, but she was not really winded. When Guinevere turned her to head back home, the filly was eager to gallop again. Laughing, Guinevere restrained her.

  “By all the gods, you are a marvel!” she cried, stroking the dappled neck. “Your gaits are as smooth as honey, and you can run forever. I have found a name for you at last: I shall call you Zephyr, after the west wind, for your beauty, your endurance, and your joy of heart. And look, you have lost your fear of the sea.”

  The filly stretched her neck forward and splashed through the surf in her long, limber stride. Guinevere let the rope lie slack across the withers and smiled to feel the relaxation in the supple body beneath her. She was filled with a joy she could not name. It was more than joy of the ride or of the gift of the horse or of Elaine's escape from tragedy, and yet it encompassed all these. It was joy of a renewed sense of freedom, of independence, of escape from rules and watchers and protection. This was the joy of living in a perfect present with no fear of the future and no regret of the past.

  She lifted her face to the morning sun and made herself a promise. I shall remember this moment forever. And someday, I shall find the knight with the foreign name who made this possible, who trained my filly with such consummate gentleness and under-standing, and I shall thank him from the bottom of my heart.

  A Note to Readers

  This is the story of the girl who grew up to be King Arthur's queen. It is important to remember that this book is a work of fiction. If King Arthur existed—and this is still a matter of debate among scholars—he lived in late-fifth-century to early-sixth-century Britain (somewhere between 485 and 526 CE), not in the Middle Ages. This was the beginning of the Dark Ages, so called because we know very little about that period. There is only one contemporaneous account of Arthur's time, as far as we know, and it does not mention him.

  Arthur would have lived around a hundred years after the last Roman legions pulled out of Britain, leaving the Britons to defend themselves against the invading Saxons (from Germany), Picts (from Scotland), and Scots (from Ireland). Legend holds that for a short time, the invaders were kept at bay by a strong war leader who united the Britons and gave them perhaps two or three decades of peace. He was called Pendragon, or “High King.” Arthur may have been that leader, though his parentage, marriages, offspring, friends, and fortresses are not matters of fact but of legend.

  Archaeologists have discovered that there was a brisk trade between Roman Brit
ain and the Mediterranean, which continued even after the Romans left. I have therefore assumed that any objects used in a Roman household might have been used in a British one as well.

  Names of characters are drawn from historical tradition (Arthur, Guinevere, Merlin, etc.), other authors of the Arthurian legend (from Sir Thomas Malory to Mary Stewart), Ronan Coghlan's excellent Encyclopaedia of Arthurian Legends, and my own imagination. The genealogy of the “House of Gwynedd” is entirely invented.

  I am not a speaker of Welsh or Gaelic and can give you only one clue to the pronunciation of the names and place-names in the book. I am indebted to Mary Stewart (author of The Crystal Cave, The Hollow Hills, The Last Enchantment, and The Wicked Day) for the advice that the dd in Gwynedd and Gwarthgydd is pronounced like the th in them (not like the th in breath).

  Whether you are new to the Arthurian legend or an established fan, I hope you enjoy this journey into the days of King Arthur.

  Acknowledgments

  Little did I guess when I went out to lunch with Marian Borden, a friend and fellow writer, that the direction of my writing was about to change. Knowing that I was in the midst of getting my three novels about the Arthurian legend published (Queen of Camelot, Grail Prince, and Prince of Dreams), she asked if I'd ever considered writing a series of young adult novels about Guinevere's early life. I hadn't. Marian and her daughter were reading young adult literature in a book group, and Marian was impressed by the level of understanding the authors expected of their readers. These were not children's stories; these were novels for adults of any age. Intrigued, I began to read some YA books myself and then, at last, to try to write one. Thank you, Marian, for planting the seed.

  I also thank my daughter Caroline for the hours she spent as my sounding board. She listened with admirable patience and made intelligent suggestions. Every time we talked, I came away with a new idea. Thank you, Caroline, for your fertile conversation.