Queen of Camelot

by Nancy McKenzie

  “Have you ever sailed upon the sea?” he asked.

  “No. I never have. But I have often wondered what it must be like, to be on a ship in the middle of the sea out of sight of land.”

  Arthur laughed softly. “It’s heaven. I dream of it often.” He was silent awhile. “I have been upon the sea three or four times as King, but the best time was the first time. I was six, I think. Ector took me. My guard let me spend time with the sailors when Ector was seasick. What a wonderful freedom that was! To be alone and unattended! I remember well standing in the bow and looking out upon the endless sea, rising and falling, all by myself.”

  “It must be hard to find ways to be alone as King.”

  He barked a short, bitter laugh. “It is impossible.” He gazed back at the distant Tor. “I am never alone. Except in sleep.” He turned to me quickly. “I beg your pardon, Guinevere. I did not mean—”

  “No need, my lord. I know what you meant. It’s one of the reasons I love to ride so much. When I’m on a horse, I am alone with my thoughts, and free.”

  He nodded. “Then you understand. Some people, I think, are only happy in the company of others. But I, I could sometimes give my Kingdom for an hour’s solitude!” He spoke vehemently, and stared back out toward the sea.

  “You were constantly guarded, then, even as a child?” I asked, to divert his thoughts. “Did everyone else in Galava know who you were?”

  He shot me a swift glance and then smiled. “If you want to know whether it is true my birth was kept from me, the answer is yes. No one in Galava knew but Ector. He was as cautious as they come; he had Kay guarded as closely, so none guessed.”

  “When you were a boy, Arthur, did you not dream of being a king? I imagine it is a thing that boys do.”

  He sighed. “No. Not a king. That was out of my stars, I thought. But I wanted to be important. I felt it in my bones that there was something I must do. I could do so many difficult things more easily than other boys, I felt it was a sign. Not of anything so grand as kingship—you must believe me, Guinevere, it never crossed my mind it could be possible—but I wanted to make a difference.”

  His voice was tinged with melancholy again, and I did not understand it. I was not yet old enough to feel so, looking back upon youth. “Britain is whole,” I said slowly. “And her enemies fear her power. That is a big difference from the way things were.”

  “But so many people have died,” he said under his breath, bowing his head. “Because of me. So many lives laid to my account.” He lifted a hand before his face and slowly formed a fist. “It’s the curse of Kingship. I command, and men die.” His voice tightened. “No one ever thinks of that in the heat of battle, while the banner is waving and paeans fill the air. No one thinks of it later, while we bury the dead and listen all night to the cries of the maimed and wounded. No one but I. And I grieve for every one of them.” His hand dropped to his side and we stood together in silence.

  Suddenly he straightened and turned towards me. “Whatever am I saying? My dear Guinevere, I beg your pardon. I did not bring you up here to listen to my sorrows. Forgive my bad manners—it is unpardonable!” He reached for my hand and lifted it to his lips. “What a wretched bridegroom I am making!”

  “Oh no, Arthur! Not at all!” I faced him and placed my hands against his chest. “I understand you, my lord. But you are just the kind of man a soldier wants to fight for—he knows you value his life and will not carelessly discard it; he knows that if he dies, the King will weep for him. My lord, you treat them like they are beloved—I have heard them say so. Because you grieve, my lord, they are eager to offer you service and die in your cause. And the people who live, live in a new world. . . . A safe world. We are now one country. I remember when I was a girl I thought Wales the extent of the civilized world. We were Welsh. Others were Cornish, Bretons, Lowlanders, Celts from the mountains of Rheged—now we are Britons, one and all. It is a miracle.”

  He looked down at me with tenderness on his face. “When you were a girl,” he repeated softly, smiling. His arms came around me and he caressed my hair. “My sweet woman, I believe that you are jollying me back to good humor.”

  It was warm standing against him; the night breeze felt suddenly cold, and it was warm and safe in his arms. “Every word is true,” I whispered, tentatively slipping my arms around his strong body. “If you will teach me how to please you, Arthur, I will try to keep you in good humor.”

  His smile broadened. “One in a thousand.” He bent and kissed me very gently, and I felt the power of the man in his restraint. Excitement gripped me—pleasure at the feel of his lips and terror of the unknown merged into breathless excitement; I pressed closer and returned his kiss with sudden longing. His hands slid down my back and pulled me hard up against him as his lips moved on mine; my breathing quickened, my knees turned to jelly—so fast, so unforseen, like catching fire, my body spoke a language new to me, but that he understood at once. He sighed a great sigh and lifted me off my feet, carrying me in arms that felt like iron bands.

  “I told you,” he said huskily, “that it would come to you. Hang on.” And he kicked open the tower door.

  “Arthur! Who made this garden?”

  It was the evening of our third day, and I stood on my terrace while Ailsa took down my hair and began unfastening my bodice. I could hear the King in his room, whistling.

  He poked his head through the curtain, and Ailsa fell into a curtsy, eyes averted.

  “Did you call me?” he asked.

  “Who made this garden? It’s so beautiful and done with such skill by a hand that knows plants. I would like to thank the gardener.”

  Arthur grinned, mischief in his eyes. He stepped into the room, and Ailsa, who had risen, flattened herself against the wall.

  “You may meet him tomorrow. A master at his craft, as I should know better than anyone.” He took the hairbrush from Ailsa’s trembling hand and began brushing out my hair. He always loved to hold it in his hands. He bent and kissed my neck, and I looked sideways at poor Ailsa.

  “You may go, Ailsa. I’ll call you if I need you—if there’s anything the High King finds he cannot do himself.”

  Ailsa fled, and Arthur laughed warmly. “Was that kind?”

  I turned to face him and kissed him lightly. “Kinder than keeping her here, I should say. Now about this gardener. Where shall I find him?”

  Again his face lit with mischief. “Most likely on an old bay gelding, with saddlebags full of herbs he has stopped to gather along the way, coming down the road at a snail’s pace. He does not like riding.”

  “The gardener?”

  “Yes. The gardener. Merlin.”

  “Merlin? Merlin is the gardener?”

  “Guinevere, you are pale. Do not be frightened of Merlin. He is a good man. Wait until you meet him.”

  “I have met him.”

  “What?”

  “Years ago. When King Pellinore took us to pay homage to the princess Morgan on her way to Rheged.”

  “Ah, yes. I sent him as escort because I could not go myself. But you only had sight of him, not speech. You can’t know a man from that.”

  I wanted to tell him about it, but the words would not come. It was as if my lips were sealed upon any word against Merlin. I managed a smile.

  “You are right, of course. But I have wondered about the garden—all my favorite plants are there, and some that I did not know, but which please me greatly. It is peaceful and sweet and beautiful. There are even songbirds in the trees. It is as if it were designed for me alone and exactly to my liking.”

  He paused and looked thoughtful. “I will not say it is impossible,” he said slowly. “With Merlin, anything is possible. But you are asking me to believe that he knew, even then, you would be my Queen.”

  “My lord, is he not famous for seeing into the future?”

  Arthur shifted uncomfortably. “He does not talk to me about magic,” he said a little gruffly, and I could easily believe it.
Arthur definitely lived in the world he could see and touch. “Well,” he said at last, with a shift of his shoulders, “I shall ask him tomorrow, if you like. He will tell me.”

  “No, let it go. It does not matter. But I will thank him for the garden.”

  “I wonder,” he said softly. “I wonder if it is true. It would explain why he was not surprised to learn that my first—that Guenwyvar died, when it was he who had foreseen a lasting marriage.”

  “Perhaps, but I do not think he wanted it to be me,” I blurted suddenly, and he looked at me sharply.

  “Why do you say that?”

  But again my lips felt sealed, and I could only shake my head. “It was a feeling I had at the time, when I saw him.”

  “He lifted no hand to prevent it. He was there in the Council chamber when your name was raised.”

  “What will be, will be,” I whispered.

  Arthur gripped my arms. “What did you say? Never mind, I heard it. He has said it to me ten or twelve times, whenever I asked him for advice about you. I thought he was simply putting me off; he knows nothing about women. But perhaps he meant more by it. In the end he told me to follow my heart.” He relaxed his grip, and I exhaled quietly.

  “Why—why did you need advice, my lord? If Merlin knows nothing of women, you know a good deal more than he.”

  His eyes grew sad, and his lips thinned. “Because I feared another disaster.”

  “Ah.” I sank onto the little bench and gently rubbed the places where his fingers had bruised me. “Arthur, will you talk about her? Can you? Was she pretty? Did—did you love her?”

  He regarded me calmly and turned away, looking past the garden wall, past the fortress wall, to the distant darkness of the Tor.

  “All right,” he said gently, and then turned back to face me. “How odd that you should be the person I can tell.” He took a deep breath. “She had not your beauty, Guinevere, but she was a pretty girl, and about your age. We had only three weeks together, a month perhaps. She was gay and bright and full of laughter. And in the end—she was so very brave.” His jaw tightened, and the great vein in his neck stood forth. I reached for his hand. He sank to one knee, then, and took my hand between his own, holding hard. “The worst—the worst was the knowledge that I alone was responsible for her pain,” he whispered. “Oh God, how she suffered! No soldier wounded in battle has endured what she endured. Dear Christ, there was so much blood!” He buried his face in my skirt, and his shoulders shook. That he, who was so strong, and from whom so many others drew strength, should reveal to me his weaknesses touched me near my heart. I stroked his head and spoke whatever words of comfort I could think of for a heart so burdened with woe. I sang softly a tune I had often sung to my mare, to calm her when she was frightened. It was an old Welsh melody, and the words had long been garbled beyond sense, but it had the power to comfort. He lifted his face to me, his eyes swimming, and I saw clearly his love, powerful and deep and uplifting, and my heart seemed to sing with joy. I sank to my knees beside him, clasped in his warm embrace.

  “Oh, Arthur.”

  “My Guinevere.”

  “The King looks well, my lady,” Bedwyr said. “It is the talk of the palace. He purrs like a well-fed cat.”

  I smiled at him. “He warned me you had a way with words, my lord Bedwyr.”

  He bowed and smiled shyly. “It is a fact that in the past three days he has not denied anyone whatever has been asked of him. Kay is hard put to it to see advantage is not taken. Merlin noticed at once—you should have seen the look! His eyebrows touched his hairline! You have done for him what no one else could do. He is happy.”

  I colored and dropped my eyes. “I pray you will not attribute all this happiness to me, good Bedwyr. Put some of it down to his homecoming, after two months away at soldiering.”

  He laughed, amused. “Oh, no, my lady. I put it down to love.”

  He was one of Arthur’s closest friends; he had the right to speak so, but I blushed horribly and could not control it. We were walking to the Council chamber. It was dusk, and the Council had just ended. The wine was going around, and Arthur had sent Bedwyr to fetch me, since he knew I wished to speak to Merlin.

  “Do not blush so, my lady Queen. There is no shame in it. And we are all so grateful to you. All of us.” I knew what he was telling me.

  We came to the door of the Council chamber.

  “How is he?” I asked quickly, and he knew that I did not mean Arthur.

  He looked at me straight with his black eyes. “He is as well as he is ever going to be.”

  “Some things,” I said, my voice trembling, wishing him to understand, “some things cannot be helped.”

  Bedwyr smiled, very kindly. “If anyone knows that, my lady, I should say Lancelot does.” And he opened the door.

  The men were standing in clusters, mostly around Arthur, talking and laughing, while servants went around with skins of wine. I looked briefly for Merlin but did not find him. Heads turned toward me; Arthur looked up, the smile of welcome on his lips, when suddenly a horn sounded, loud and insistent, and all movement stopped. Within seconds a guard came flying down the corridor, nearly knocking me down as he threw himself, breathless, at Arthur’s feet.

  “The Tor!” he cried. “My lord, the Tor is lit! And the fire on Bekan’s Hill, southward!” He gulped, pausing for breath. He did not need to go on. Every man in the room knew what it meant. “Saxons, my lord!” In the small silence that followed, Arthur’s features hardened, and his eyes grew cold. I could see his swift calculations as the men around him began to shift and mutter. He spun on his heel and pointed.

  “You and you, to the barracks. I want Lukan, Vasavius, Gereint, Galgerin, and Lamorak. All companies at the ready, armed, provisions for a week, at King’s Gate in one hour. Lancelot!”

  “Here, my lord!”

  “Take charge of the Companions. We’ll need double mounts for Caesar-speed. We’ll get there first, and let the army come up later. I give you fifteen minutes. Bedwyr!”

  “Here, my lord!”

  “You’ve heard the orders. Inform Kay. We’ll need to resupply by week’s end. He can meet us at Uther’s Ford. Then send to Melwas. I want every man he has at the Camel road by moonrise. He can fall in with Gereint.”

  Bedwyr bent his knee and asked the question on everyone’s lips. “Where are we headed, my lord?”

  Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “Badon.”

  I saw the stunned surprise on all their faces. Whispers ran round the walls. The young men did not believe it. Badon? They would never dare Badon, it was too far inland. The peace was settled, everyone agreed. But if the Saxons got to Mount Badon, someone pointed out, there was nothing to stop them—no, no, it was too far west. They wouldn’t dare, even with longboats. But with the King just wedded, perhaps they thought—the arguments eddied past me. They did not matter. The men would go where the High King led them.

  I watched Arthur. His face was white, and his eyes—his warm, loving eyes—were as cold and dull as slate. I shivered to see them; so he must look to his enemies, I thought, before the steel goes home. But there was a glow about him, an excitement, an authority that I recognized immediately, though I had only known him a week. He was the Unconquered King, called to battle, and he was exultant.

  “Cerdic has landed his longboats and is heading for Badon. We will meet the courier upon the road and discover their landing point. We must get to Badon first, or Britain is lost.” He spoke with certainty, and the whispers stopped. “Get me my Sword.”

  Men charged away; I could hear shouts throughout the castle and within minutes the jingle of bridles and the scrape of hooves on the paving stones outside. A page came running in with Arthur’s mail. A young knight spoke up timidly behind the King.

  “What about the Queen?”

  Arthur frowned, all his concentration on his far-off enemy as his fingers worked the buckles of his corselet. “What queen?” He looked up suddenly and saw me in the shadows near th
e door, but his look was the unseeing gaze of a man in sleep. “Benwic’s company shall stay to guard her. And Merlin is here.” He looked vaguely about. “Somewhere. She’s safe with Merlin.” Then he spun, belting on his great Sword as he strode for the door.

  “See to it,” he snapped, to no one in particular, and left. The young knight smiled nervously at me and shrugged. I waved him away, to show I understood and did not take offense, and he ran out after Arthur.

  Outside in the forecourt the cavalry were gathered, and I heard Arthur’s stallion scream as the spurs went home, and they all thundered away. They were gone, and in so short a time! The room so recently alight and warm with voices stood cold and empty, the candles guttered. I drew a trembling breath and went out into the dark corridor. Someone had taken all the lamps from the sconces, no doubt to light the troops upon their way. I was not sure I knew my way back to my chamber in the dark. But an icy fear was breathing on my back, and I hurried away in whatever direction seemed most likely. I had not gone twenty paces when a cold hand reached out of the dark and grabbed me.

  I believe I shrieked, and suddenly there was light. Merlin himself stood before me, with an oil lamp in his hand. I covered my mouth with my hand, stifling a gasp, and tried weakly to do him a reverence.

  “Guinevere.”

  “My lord Merlin. I—I—you frightened me!”

  “I beg your pardon.” He hung the lamp in its place and stood quietly before me. He was one of those men who seemed always in repose. If he ever felt a nerve, he never showed it. His stillness had no edge to it; his patience was unending.

  “You wanted to see me.” It was a statement of fact; I did not know whether or not Arthur had told him.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “And I you.”

  I gulped. “I am at your service, my lord.”

  “I wished merely to offer you my congratulations,” he said lightly. “You see how it has come to pass, Guinevere of Northgallis. You are Queen.”