The chamber was large, with a narrow window facing the sea, and a log fire burning merrily in the grate. Fion sat on the window seat, bathed and dressed in a fine linen shirt, loose leather leggings, and wrapped in a warm, russet cloak. His splinted leg he held straight before him, and as we entered he rose, leaning on a stout staff.
“Welcome, my fair ladies, my morning nymphs.” He spoke Welsh with a charming lilt to his voice and put a softness to the rough word-sounds that were foreign, and yet pleasing, to our ears. He was tall and handsome, standing there in his dark cloak with his bright hair falling across his brilliant eyes. He made me want to smile, and my heart beat faster. I pulled the hood of my cloak around my face and turned away with the others to place my basket upon the table. Queen Alyse was greeting him formally, as her husband’s prisoner, but she used the tone of voice she might have used for a son. One by one the waiting women curtsied to him and left, until only Leonora and I remained. Queen Alyse signaled me to come forward, and as I rose from my curtsy my hood fell back, and I looked up into his eyes.
He gasped and fell back on the window seat, wincing with pain.
“Dear Lord in Heaven!” he cried in Latin. “Angel of God! ‘Tis thee in the flesh! O Lord, have mercy upon my soul!” And he crossed himself reverently.
“My dear prince Fion,” Alyse began smoothly, “may I present my ward, my sister’s daughter Guinevere of Northgallis. Guinevere, Prince Fion, son of Gilomar of Ireland.”
I smiled at him and extended my hand. He took it between both of his and gazed into my face. Finally, as the silence began to be awkward, he spoke in Welsh. “You are real, my lady? You are flesh and blood, as I am? May the blessed saints be praised! An Angel of God and real to the touch.” He lifted my hand to his lips, and from the corner of my eye I saw the queen’s eyebrows rise.
“It was Guinevere,” she said, “who found you on the beach and sent my husband’s troops to find you. It is she you must thank for your life.”
Fion turned to her in amazement. “My beautiful Alyse, I thought you said a child had found me.” And his brilliant eyes traveled from my face slowly down my gown and back up again, while I turned scarlet, and he held my hand firmly in his own.
Queen Alyse smiled. “She is at an age when every day makes a difference in a maid. It seems I have not been paying close enough attention.”
She turned away, and I hastily withdrew my hand and followed, but at the door she stopped.
“Leonora,” she said, “stay with the lady Guinevere awhile. I am sure our foreign prince would like to ease his conscience and thank her for the gift of life. Come to me in an hour.” And she left us there.
I was dumbfounded. Leonora, with a secret smile, settled herself before the fire and began stitching a silk shirt, no doubt for Fion. I whirled around. The Irishman had risen, clutching his staff, and held out his hand to me. It was all too, too clear. He was not good enough for Elaine, of course. The mother’s ambition lagged not far behind the daughter’s. But he was perfect for me. She had waited until I had my health and color back before she brought me to him, for his sake, not for mine. By leaving us alone with only Leonora for chaperone, she was giving her consent to his courtship as clearly as if she had spoken it aloud. Alyse was no fool. It would suit her purposes very well to see me married and settled in Ireland. Pellinore would have friends across the Irish Sea, and they could stop worrying that I would somehow cast a shadow across Elaine’s future.
Poor Fion seemed unaware of all that had passed. He simply stared at me with his glorious eyes and blessed aloud the luck that had brought him to Wales. I walked demurely to settle on the other side of the fire and took up some embroidery.
“We are pleased to see you looking so well, Prince Fion,” I said, in just the tone Alyse had used. “Our clean Welsh air seems to do you good.”
He hobbled over to the hearth and stood with his back to the fire, looking from one of us to the other.
“The air here is very fine indeed, my lady. And I have been nursed by the loveliest gentlewomen in all Britain, I am sure. How could I not return swiftly to health under such care?” His tone was very cool. I glanced up. His face, before so expressive, was masked like a courtier’s, and he nodded gravely to me. “I would know, if my lady would not think it impertinent of a stranger, and a hostage one at that, where Northgallis is? And what fortunate king names you as his daughter?”
I put down my needlework and looked up at him. “Sir, I am an orphan. My mother died at my birth. My father was King Leodegrance of Northgallis, who sent me here to live with my kin before he died. Northgallis lies a day’s hard ride eastward, a small kingdom in North Wales.”
He smiled gently. “My sympathies for such misfortune. And I? Do you wish to know what manner of hooligan, as I think you Welsh call it, you have in your midst?”
I smiled back. “If you are a hooligan, my lord, at least you are an educated one, a Christian one, and at the moment, a tamed one.”
He grinned, and his face lit. Leonora raised an eyebrow.
“Indeed,” he replied. “Tamed and caged. And completely at your service, Guinevere of Northgallis.” He bowed deeply and made it look graceful, although it was obviously difficult with his splinted leg. “If my good Leonora will permit me to sit at her side?” He made an obeisance to Leonora, who blushed and hastily made room for him on the bench.
“You don’t fool me, my young lord. You sit here not for my company, but so you may better see young Guinevere.”
He laughed and kissed her cheek quickly. “And could you blame me now? Is there a lass in all the Northern Isles to match her? Would she not grace any king’s hall?”
I bowed my head as he jabbered on and picked up my stitching. But I noted that his position on the bench enabled him to stretch his injured leg out straight upon it, and this seemed to afford him some relief. It had not occurred to me before, but he must have been all the time in some pain. I decided to be direct.
“And now, Fion, son of Gilomar. What manner of man are you? Did I do my foster father a disservice by bringing you into our midst? You came to raid us—are you now a spy?”
He looked up swiftly and with new interest. “I have been here three weeks. You are the first person to ask me a serious question.” He paused. “My father calls himself King of Ireland. But if you know aught of Ireland you know we have ten or twenty such kings with ten or twenty such claims. We are a proud race and like not to bend the knee. Thus we waste our strength in petty quarrels and cannot unite. The rest of the known world thinks of us only as pirates.” He paused, and I struggled to keep the truth of his statement from showing on my face. “I am Gilomar’s youngest son, and the last living. All my brothers were hotheads, like my father, who threw themselves at the first foe they could find. When my father was my age, and the great Ambrosius lay dying, Merlinus came to Ireland to find the standing stones to bedeck his grave. He was protected by a small force led by Uther Pendragon. My father had five hundred men at his back, but it took Uther only three hours to repel his attack and send him fleeing. You have not heard this story? It is true. I tell it to illustrate the great difference between you British and we Irish. My father has not changed. My brothers were just like him. I am not. When my father insisted that I show my mettle and lead a raid upon your shores, I resolved to do it for one reason only. I wanted to see Britain. I want to meet this son of Uther’s who knows how to rule men. Whether I go as a hostage or as a free man, I wish to see Arthur Pendragon and judge him for myself.” He was looking into the fire as he spoke, and the passion of his feeling gave strength to his face. “If he is a true man, I will pledge my allegiance to him. And then perhaps in time my Ireland may become part of the civilized world.”
In the silence the snapping of the burning logs was the only sound. I was moved. He had dealt straight with me and had spoken to me as if I were his peer. “I am sure you will get your wish, my lord.”
He slowly came out of his deep thoughts and smiled again.
“That’s as may be. Being a hostage can be chancy. You must stay on the good side of your host and not wear out your hospitality. Pray let me recite you a poem from one of our famous bards.”
He regaled us for a long time. He had a lovely speaking voice and an accurate memory. Leonora warmed willow bark tea for us at the hearth, and we all partook of the fruit we had brought him. At length he touched Leonora’s arm.
“Your hour is up, good Leonora, and your duty done. Take the queen’s ward away and the light out of my life.”
Leonora did not know what to say. “Good sir, I beg your pardon. We may stay as long as we will, I am sure, unless we tire you.”
“Heard you not the queen’s orders? They struck fire in my young princess. I have no wish to force myself upon you longer than I must. You are free to go.”
Leonora turned to me beseechingly.
“Fion.” I rose. “It is true I was angry. But I am no longer. Time passes quickly with you, and I was pleased. If this is to be daily repeated—” I glanced at Leonora, who nodded, “—then I pray you will not dread it on my account, for I assure you that I am content to be here. That is—” I fumbled suddenly and looked away from him, “—that is, if you understand.”
“I understand, Guinevere.” His voice was very gentle as he slipped into Latin. “Thou art not for me.”
I looked up at him gratefully and was surprised to catch him gazing at me with longing. To cover, he added hastily, “Please, my lady, if there are any books in the place, bring them that I may read aloud to you.”
“I’ll bring them and read them aloud to you, Prince Fion.”
He stared in amazement. “What! You know your letters? Can you write, as well?” He came close to me then, his back to Leonora and grasped my hands. “For whom are you being groomed?” he demanded softly.
My bewilderment must have shown, for he released me at once and stepped back.
“Queen Alyse believes all young ladies of breeding should know reading and writing,” Leonora stated, bundling up her needlework. “The lady Elaine and Guinevere have studied with a Greek scholar right along with Pellinore’s sons. Someday they will make good wives to the High King’s Companions, if God wills.”
Fion looked thoughtful. “I see,” he said. “Perhaps.”
He kissed my hand before we left and begged me to give his love, his undying devotion, and his limitless admiration to the lady Elaine.
“Be sure you bring her tomorrow,” he whispered. “The applecart must not be upset.”
It occurred to me, as I followed Leonora down the hall, that in three weeks he had learned a great deal more about us than we had learned about him.
I went daily to see him at the queen’s direction, and as often as she could manage it, Elaine accompanied me. She was determined to come every day, but Alyse preferred that the prince spend as much time alone with me as propriety would allow. I did not mind, for Fion and I were friends, and if Leonora chose to take our conversations as flirting and report to the queen that everything was progressing nicely, no harm was done. But Elaine could hardly bear it and was always cross when she was kept from him. She dared not face her mother with her displeasure, so instead she grew angry and sullen with me. At bedtime, when we used to share our thoughts and hopes and secrets, she either berated me for my brazen attempts to attach Fion or refused to speak to me altogether.
“Who do you think you are?” she would snap as Ailsa brushed out my hair. “What right have you to take up all his time? He must be sick to death of all your pestering!”
“Elaine, you know perfectly well it is your own mother who commands it—”
“Fah! Don’t give me that! You’re disobedient enough whenever it suits you! Who went riding on the beach the morning after the raid, against orders? Who—”
“How was I to know there had been a raid on the beach? No one—”
“You’re a guest in this house, Gwen, don’t forget it! You can tell her no, you can feign illness, you can insult Fion, you can do a thousand things to prevent it!”
In the end, I had to apologize for my forwardness, for there was no winning an argument with Elaine. But apologies did little to improve her temper. The only time she was happy was when she went to see Fion.
Usually when Elaine was with us, Fion asked for the Story of Arthur, because she told it with such feeling. This was not a tale they told in Ireland, I suppose for obvious reasons, although they tell it now. He got the tale by heart, then retold it to us one day, with some embellishments of his own. I thought it well done, but Elaine was shocked.
“But, Fion, it is a true tale. The bits you have added are make-believe, of course, and you mustn’t do it. The tale is true.”
Fion looked amused. “Indeed? Dragons flying over Tintagel, King Uther changed by magic arts into the very Duke Gorlois? The prince hidden in the Enchanted Isles?” Elaine nodded, and he turned to me. “Do you believe this, Guinevere?”
It was awkward, for I had not expressed doubts about Arthur to Elaine for a long time, and I did not wish to arouse her temper, but I told Fion the truth. “It is a manner of speaking, my lord. I believe it was Merlin’s plan and that he disguised King Uther and the disguise worked. I believe he protected Prince Arthur throughout his youth, and no one knows where, so one tale will do as well as another.”
Fion nodded. “And that while Merlin may be a wise man, he is not—”
“Sir, make no mistake about Merlin.” I met his eyes squarely. “He is an enchanter of the first order. He has power. Believe the tales you hear of Prince Merlin.”
Fion’s eyes widened. “You believe, my lady?”
Elaine jumped to my defense. “She knows it for a fact. Prince Merlin singled her out to speak to.”
Fion looked thoughtful. “Did he indeed? And what did he say, if I am permitted to ask?”
“Why, nothing much,” I replied, suddenly flustered because he was so intent. “He spoke about the future, but he didn’t say anything specific. He told me not to be afraid.”
“And right after that he disappeared,” Elaine continued, “and no one has seen him since. Not even the High King. And although King Arthur has needed him desperately, he has not returned. Why, even the Saxons know and have attacked all winter, thinking King Arthur vulnerable without him, but—”
But Fion was hardly listening. He leaned upon his staff and stared thoughtfully into the fire. Elaine ended with the most recent account of Arthur’s victory and of his decisive revenge. She spoke of him proudly, as if he were already her husband. I blushed for her boldness, and I thought Fion noticed it, too. He turned to her.
“And what does this prove, my pretty Elaine? Either that Merlin’s magic is working still, or that he is a very wise man.”
She misunderstood and tossed her head impatiently. “It proves King Arthur does not need a magician at his back to win battles or hold power.”
“Precisely,” Fion agreed, smiling benevolently. “He is a man now. And would the world ever have known that, had not Merlin disappeared?”
Elaine looked puzzled. Fion turned to me. “What say you, Guinevere?”
“It is true. Whether it is magic or wisdom, I know not, but I believe that Merlin’s disappearance, at least in this respect, has done the Kingdom good.”
“This confirms me in my desire to meet the High King. Tell me, how old is he?”
“Nineteen last Christmas Eve,” Elaine supplied. Fion looked shocked.
“Nineteen! I am twenty myself!” He laughed then, at himself, and shook his head. “He has led a Kingdom for six years already, and what have I done? Studied poetry and music until my father threatened to disown me, and got myself shipwrecked upon Arthur’s coast.”
“Pellinore’s coast,” Elaine corrected. Again Fion looked surprised.
“And is not Pellinore Arthur’s servant? Is this Britain or Wales? You surprise me, my lady. I thought Britain was a Kingdom and a civilized land.”
Elaine squirmed, aware she had erred, bu
t not caring to demote her father.
“It is both,” I replied. “This is Wales, part of Britain. These are Pellinore’s ancestral lands, but he holds them for Arthur. You may ask him yourself.”
Fion smiled and bowed to me. “You are a born diplomat, my lady. I knew I was in a civilized land. I must meet your King.”
Elaine glanced at Leonora, who was fast asleep and snoring gently, lulled by the heat of the fire. “You may as soon as you are ransomed, whenever that will be,” she said softly, tilting her head and looking coyly up at him. “But perhaps there is a quicker way.”
Fion grinned. “I’m much too well bred to escape.”
I giggled, but Elaine ignored me. “Offer for the hand of a maiden. If she is highborn, Pellinore must free you to avoid dishonor, and he must have the High King’s consent, seeing who you are, I think.”
Fion stood quite still, looking at neither of us. I glared at Elaine. How bold! How foolishly direct! It was clear she referred to herself, although she did not want him for a husband. And I knew from the careful way he guarded his expression that he was thinking of me, not of her. Merlin’s words came back to me: “What will be, will be.” Would it be so bad to have this handsome prince for a husband, even if it were in Ireland? He was amusing, educated, and he spoke to me about important matters, and he valued the things I valued. I could do much worse very easily. Perhaps this was my future. I did not mind. But I knew, as Fion turned toward me with a grave tenderness on his face and desire in his luminous eyes, that I did not love him.
“Perhaps,” Fion said softly, “you have hit upon the solution, Lady Elaine.”
Elaine flushed angrily, watching his face. Her ruse had backfired; against her will she had played into her mother’s hands. A knock came at the door, and Cissa stuck her head in.
“Lady Elaine, the queen your mother requires your presence in the weaving room.”
“Leave me, Cissa!” Elaine retorted. “I am not at leisure!”
“Nonsense, you know very well I’d never take such a message to your mother. You’re doing naught but flirting with Prince Fion, and that can certainly wait until later. Come, my lady, she dislikes to be kept waiting.”
Queen of Camelot Page 12
