Queen of Camelot

by Nancy McKenzie

  A strangled cry escaped Lancelot, and when I turned in surprise I found him several paces off, white as a sheet and trembling from head to foot. Elaine was gone.

  “Lancelot!” I cried. “What ails you? Are you ill?”

  He would not meet my eyes, but looked away. “Guinevere.”

  “What is it? What have I done?”

  “I beg of you,” he said in a choked voice, “if you value my sanity, please do not—do not speak to me about Arthur. He is my friend and my liege lord. I can bear it if I think of him as my King. I cannot bear it, Guinevere, if I think of him as your husband.”

  His words stabbed me to the heart. Suddenly the tissue veil of courtesy was rent; I saw the depth of his passion and the enormity of his suffering. For the first time I felt the deep pull of physical desire, and I shared his pain.

  “Lancelot!” I whispered, and sank to my knees. “Oh, forgive me, do!”

  He raised me quickly, but I clung to his hand.

  “I forgive you. But do not speak of him again.”

  “Oh, my Lancelot, what has happened to us? Why can’t it be the way it was?”

  His grip tightened, and then he thrust himself away. “You know why. You have married the King.”

  “Did you want me to refuse him?” I cried, aghast.

  “No,” he whispered, running a hand through his hair in distraction. “No, of course not, Gwen. I only meant—where in God’s name is Elaine?”

  “Never mind Elaine.” I reached for his hand and took it between my own. “Speak your mind. What did you mean?”

  He went very still, although his breath came as fast as a runner’s. “Only this,” he said quietly. “We cannot be as we were because—you are not as you were. You have known a man. Now there is danger.”

  I stared at him and felt the heat rise to my face. I dropped his hand as if it burned my flesh. He was right. It made a difference. I no longer feared a man’s touch; instead, I feared my own weakness. I tugged at the tower door, unable to see past my tears, and ran down the stairs away from him as fast as I could go.

  The next day, as if by design, Arthur’s courier arrived with orders to move the court to Caerleon for Christmas. We should be there by mid-December, and the High King would meet us there as soon as might be. Although we had ample time to prepare, this at least gave me an excuse to absent myself from some of the daily routine. But I discovered I could not absent myself for long, or the people began to wonder if I was ill. Illness in a bride meant to them only one thing, and to avoid renewing speculations of pregnancy, I had to show myself again.

  Lancelot was perfectly behaved, and so I tried to be, that no one might suspect the turmoil in my soul. Only Elaine knew. She shared my bed, now that the King was away, and as I had in Wales, I shared with her my secret agony.

  “Do not leave me alone with him again, Elaine!” I wept, holding her tightly. “It is too much for me to bear!”

  “Why?” she asked quickly. “What happened?”

  “Nothing. Only—it is so difficult to be near him!”

  She gently stroked my hair and tried to soothe me. “You did not used to feel so, in Wales. Do you not love him anymore?”

  “Oh, don’t, Elaine! You know I do. But this is agony—we cannot, we must not dishonor the King!”

  “Certainly you must not,” she said calmly. “Did you feel tempted to?”

  “Yes,” I whispered, shaking. “Oh, yes.”

  “Well,” she said after a moment. “I was only trying to give you joy.”

  Shortly before we made the move to Caerleon, King Melwas of the Summer Country invited me, and Lancelot as the King’s proxy, to the Goddess’ Harvest Festival celebrated at the Lady’s shrine on Ynys Witrin. He was lord of the country thereabout, including the environs of Caer Camel, and since Arthur’s ease of access to his own fortress depended upon good relations with Melwas, Lancelot did not like to refuse, although his Christian soul rebelled against the Mother’s worship. I assured him that he would find nothing offensive in the ceremony; it was mainly an excuse for a feast. He was astounded to learn that I was familiar with the rites.

  “Surely you know my father was a pagan. Wasn’t it only a year ago my ancestry was publicly discussed in this very place?”

  Lancelot flushed, and I placed my hand on his arm. He went very still.

  “I meant only that I did not think it any secret. This used to be my favorite festival when I was a child, after Beltane, which was my birthday. I remember being disappointed when I went to Gwynedd that the Christians had no such celebration.”

  “Is there any part of the ceremony that requires my parting from you?” he asked, then added carefully, “I am responsible for your safety, my lady, even when I am not with you.”

  “There are rites that are sacred to the Goddess and that men may not attend. Actually, only initiates participate.” I grinned at his worried expression. “I am not an initiate, Lancelot. I was eight when I last bent a knee to the Goddess. Have no fear for me.”

  “Could you not plead to be excused? You are a Christian Queen.”

  “And offend Melwas? It is likely that he remembers my ancestry, even if you do not!” He smiled and took my teasing in good part. “And Arthur attends the rites of Mithra when it serves his purpose. You knew that, surely. How would it look if I refused?”

  “Then are there any among your women who could attend you?” he insisted. “You must be guarded, Gwen. Please do not be annoyed, but understand. As Arthur’s Queen you are a valuable hostage. Your capture, may Heaven forfend, gives your captor a hold on the High King of Britain. Think of what that might mean.”

  “Arthur would never submit to—” I began hotly, and then stopped, as memory recalled moments of great tenderness.

  “If you are dear enough to him,” Lancelot said quietly, “he might. So must I protect you to protect Britain. Now, is there anyone who can attend these pagan rites with you?”

  In the end I took a maiden named Alissa, sister to one Pelleas, King of the River Isles, and Ailsa, my own nurse, who believed in all gods as a matter of self-protection.

  King Melwas received us royally. He was a big man, tall and tending to heaviness, with thick features and very light, cold eyes. Unlike Arthur and his Companions, who preferred clean-shaven faces, Melwas grew a short blond beard and moustache, which he kept neat and well combed. His palace was little more than a fighting fortress, for he was still unmarried, but he saw to it that we women were comfortably housed in the guest pavilion of the Lady’s shrine. Melwas’ sister, the lady Seulte, kept us company and ensured that we had everything we required. A hard-featured, proud woman, she spoke well of no one except her brother, but as I was polite to her, she took to me, and we got on well enough. Ailsa did not like her and told me that behind my back she came high and mighty with the servants, but of this behavior I saw nothing.

  Lancelot was housed in Melwas’ fortress with the escort, and with this he was not well pleased. Melwas’ soldiers outnumbered the royal escort ten to one, but I told him not to be ridiculous. No one could get at me in the Lady’s shrine. Her precincts were sacred, and the pain of violation was death. He did not like it, but in this he had no choice.

  The ceremonies lasted most of the day. Melwas placed me at his left hand, next his sister, while Lancelot, representing the High King, he placed on his right. He thus stood between us at the public ceremonies and sat between us during the long feast that followed. There was much toasting and drinking and general good fellowship, and I took note that both King Melwas and his sister partook liberally of the unwatered wine. Melwas favored me with his attentions all evening, and he was scarcely intelligible by the time the bard came on. I had worn a gown of gold and blue, and Arthur’s great sapphire, which seemed to bewitch Melwas. As his power of speech left him, he became unable to take his eyes off it, and seemed transfixed by its slow rise and fall upon my breast. I saw Lancelot getting restless, saw him color in annoyance, watched his anger slowly mount until
I feared he would ruin everything by a display of temper. Quickly I turned to the lady Seulte, pleaded fatigue from the pleasures of the day, and begged to be excused with my women. She leered rather drunkenly at her brother, winked at him, and rose. All the women followed, and we escaped the hall. She led the procession back to the shrine, where men were forbidden to enter, but I sent a page to ask Lancelot to meet me outside the gate in an hour. It took me that long to disentangle myself from Seulte’s oversolicitous care, and when I slipped out at length, cloaked and hooded, I found him awaiting me, pacing anxiously back and forth.

  “My lady!” he cried, pressing my fingers to his lips. “I knew we should not have come!”

  “Shhh! You will do our cause no good by shouting. What do you mean we shouldn’t have come?”

  “Melwas is enamored of you, Guinevere. Couldn’t you see it? Dear God, I nearly strangled him, the fat oaf!”

  “Lancelot!”

  “Peering down your bodice and slobbering! Shall I never forget it!”

  “Lancelot.” I put out a hand to stop him and found it held hard between his own. “Do not let his subjects overhear you calling their king rude names,” I whispered, smiling.

  He shook his head impatiently.

  “We are alone,” he said. Then it was I who went still, but my heart was pounding.

  “Let him look,” I said at last. “The High King needs his friendship. If he admires the Queen, so much the better. It does not hurt me and furthers our cause.”

  “Ah,” Lancelot said softly, “but it hurts me. You are his sovereign Queen, not one of the serving wenches he lusts after, to hear his soldiers talk. He will show you respect or he shall meet me on a field of honor.”

  “Good Lancelot, your words go to my heart. But he was in his cups. It is a compliment to the Bountiful Goddess to be so on this day. Everyone here understands. Do not fear for me so. You alone think I was insulted.”

  He looked at me, then, and I hoped he could not tell how I trembled. “Did you not feel insulted?”

  “I—I did not like the way he looked at me,” I admitted. “But I understand it.”

  “He wanted you.”

  “Yes.”

  “He had no right.” Then I heard his quick intake of breath as he realized what he had said.

  “It is no sin to want,” I said slowly, “only to take.”

  He stood stiffly before me, pinned in place by his own spear.

  “It is a sin to want,” he said hoarsely.

  I bowed my head and let the hood fall forward to hide my face.

  “I asked you to come,” I said desperately, “because I wish to leave at dawn. Make some excuse. I don’t know what will be acceptable. If he presses you, tell him I have begun to bleed.”

  His hands gripped my shoulders firmly, for comfort. “Is this true, Guinevere?”

  I raised my face to his, so near. “Oh, yes. He may verify it through his lady sister, if he doubts.”

  “I’ll see him damned first,” he whispered, and took me very gently in his arms, holding me lightly, while my tears welled up and my heart raced. “I am sorry,” he said, and meant it. I shrugged and struggled to compose myself. Lancelot stepped away.

  “I will send the escort at first light. Will you ride, or would you prefer a litter?”

  “I would prefer to ride, but a litter is more diplomatic, surely. Have one prepared.”

  He inclined his head. “It will be done. Ought I—ought I to send a courier to the King?”

  “No. I—I don’t believe it will surprise him. Besides, anyone can wait three weeks to hear bad news.”

  So we left King Melwas in the morning. He saw us off with many smiles and gifts and protestations of goodwill, looking fully recovered from last night’s debauch and ready to do it again. I don’t know what excuse Lancelot made, but it wasn’t the one I had given him, for Melwas’ eyes were as hungry as ever, and I shuddered to think what must be in his heart.

  We were at Caerleon only a week when the High King returned, four days before Christmas. After dinner I sat with Lancelot and several other knights before a log fire in the hall, waiting. Lancelot told us about his Breton boyhood, and his younger brother Galahantyn and his cousin Bors, and how he hoped to bring them both into Arthur’s service in a few years’ time. The words tumbled forth in a constant stream; this was so unlike him, I glanced at the other men, who watched Lancelot with compassion. Then I understood it was Arthur’s coming that made him so anxious. As for myself, I dreaded the King’s return. It wasn’t that my daily visits with Lancelot were ended—for that, I was as thankful as I was sorry. But I felt ashamed of my failure as his Queen to conceive his heir. And this I had to tell him face to face. I rose abruptly, made my excuses, and retired to the company of Ailsa and Elaine.

  The King’s dwelling at Caerleon was the villa of some long-dead Roman governor, and it stood outside the walled fortress itself. This fortress had been maintained since Roman times, enlarged by Uther, and expanded to include the city without its walls by early in Arthur’s reign. We were safe enough, for the place was always well guarded. But this arrangement meant that the King could receive guests, hold council, and go about his daily business at a far remove from his house. Thus when Bedwyr knocked upon the chamber door and begged to inform me that the King had been back three hours, had bathed, dined, and met with his advisors, and now had sent for me, I was shocked. What ill omen was this? I wondered. Arthur back three hours and no word sent to me? Ailsa had dressed me for bed and unbound my hair, but I threw a cloak over my nightdress and went out to Bedwyr.

  “Good Bedwyr, what news? He is returned? Safely? Thank God for that. Where is he now?”

  “In the library, taking Lancelot’s report. He would like to see you, after.”

  “By all means. Let me dress, and I shall be with you.”

  But Bedwyr put out a hand to stop me. “No need, my lady. The page reported you had retired to bed, and the King gave me to understand that this is the request of a husband and not the command of a King.” Bedwyr smiled gently as he bowed, and I exhaled in relief.

  “Bedwyr, tell me truly. He is not angry with me?”

  His eyes widened. “He did not seem so, my lady.” He looked at me with curiosity, but said no more.

  “All right. I am ready then.”

  He led me toward the King’s quarters at the other side of the house. As we neared the library the door opened, and Merlin appeared, followed by a slender, dark-haired, beautiful young woman. I had not known he was even in Caerleon. As they passed us, Merlin inclined his head to me; his black eyes were cold and flat, and his face held no expression whatsoever. But the woman stared at me as if she would devour me, and the anger in her eyes set me shaking with fear.

  Bedwyr felt it, for he stopped me at the door and took my hands. “What is it, my lady? Are you cold?”

  “Who—who was that with Merlin?”

  “His assistant, Niniane.”

  “Does she have the Sight?”

  “Aye, and power, also, the King tells me.”

  Terror clutched at my bowels and I fought to keep my voice steady. “Bedwyr, I fear her.”

  “I see that, my lady. But why? She can do you no harm. You have Arthur’s protection. She is his servant, and so must serve your ends. Where is the cause for fear?”

  I shook my head. “She disapproves of me.”

  “If she does, she is the only one in all Britain,” he replied gallantly. “Now come, compose yourself. Don’t give the King cause to worry about you. He has enough on his mind.”

  Of course he was right, and for Arthur’s sake I managed to still my trembling when Bedwyr pushed open the door.

  Arthur and Lancelot stood before a great log fire, talking. They turned toward me as one, and I thought to myself as I sank into a deep curtsy, how welcoming they were, the brown eyes and the gray.

  “My lord is welcome home,” I said, as Arthur raised me.

  “And glad to be here at last,” he repl
ied, smiling and looking at ease. “How have you been?” His very serenity calmed me, and I was suddenly extremely glad to see him.

  “In perfect health, my lord.”

  He laughed and slipped an arm about my waist. “It is the gift of youth. I’m sorry to rouse you so late. Were you abed?”

  “Not yet. Elaine and I were talking. We did not hear your arrival, or I would have been more ready to receive you.”

  “You’re fine as you are. Thank you, Bedwyr.” Bedwyr bowed and closed the door behind him. Arthur offered me a seat by the fire, and then stood, looking thoughtful.

  “Lancelot has told me of your visit to King Melwas,” he began, and I glanced swiftly at Lancelot, who kept his eyes on the flames.

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “I wish to know if your impressions of the king’s behavior match his own.”

  I did not know how much Lancelot had told him, but it hardly mattered. One told Arthur the truth.

  “He was very drunk, my lord. At the Harvest Feast it is acceptable, more so than at other times—”

  “Yes. I know. Go on.”

  “And I think he wished for the old days when the festival sometimes led to—to—well, my lord, even in my father’s day it led to orgies.” I blushed, but the King was serious and intent.

  “Yes. I know of it. Did Melwas suggest such a thing?”

  “Oh, no, my lord! He was beyond speech.”

  One eyebrow lifted, and Lancelot shifted his weight to the other foot.

  “Did he, by look, or gesture, indicate any such desire?”

  The room was so still, the noise of the flames sounded like whip-cracks.

  “Desire for an orgy? No, my lord.”

  A long pause.

  “Desire for you, Guinevere. For your person.”

  I felt again Melwas’ hot, sour breath on my cheek and neck, and his groping hand beneath the table. My lips felt dry and stiff, but there was no escaping the King’s eyes and their demand.

  “Yes, my lord. By look and gesture.”