Queen of Camelot

by Nancy McKenzie

  Lancelot looked up quickly at Arthur, triumphant and indignant. Arthur came over to me and took my hand. I could not meet his eyes, but I clung to him, and from his firm grip drew strength.

  “For what you endured on my behalf, as my Queen, I sincerely thank you, Guinevere. Your going there served my cause, it is true. But I would not have it served thus, and it shall not happen twice. You will go there no more, even by invitation, and if he should come to Caer Camel, you will not receive him. Let Lancelot do it. I will deal with Melwas, in my own time.” His voice, so gentle when he began, ended in a cold, flat tone that sent a shiver through me.

  “Let me call him out!” Lancelot cried, hot with fury. “I will take him in three strokes!”

  Arthur turned to him slowly, and, to my amazement, the cold was still in his voice. “On what grounds?”

  Lancelot froze, then paled, then flushed.

  “I will deal with him myself,” Arthur repeated. It was a command.

  “Perhaps he should marry,” I ventured in a desperate attempt to ease the tension that fairly crackled between them. They both turned to me, Lancelot with a ghostly smile and Arthur with a warming of his features.

  “No doubt you have put your finger on the problem,” the King said. “But this I cannot do for him. We might have to wait until his sister dies or marries. She must have turned aside a hundred maids already, finding none good enough for her brother.” He paused, then squared his shoulders in a familiar gesture half the Companions had copied. “At any rate, until he has said or done something publicly, I cannot come openly against him. But there are other ways.”

  He called for the servant to pour wine and handed me a goblet, and then Lancelot. They spoke together in low voices for some moments, and suddenly Lancelot lifted Arthur’s hand and touched his lips to the great carved ruby on his finger. Arthur gripped his arm in the soldier’s embrace, and then Lancelot left us.

  The wine was warm and fragrant with spices, and I gladly yielded to its soothing powers. Arthur took a seat beside me and sat bent forward, his elbows upon his knees. “Are you tired, Gwen? Would you like to retire? It is past time, God knows.”

  I did not know if he meant this as dismissal or not, but I could not leave until I said what I had come to say.

  “My—my lord Arthur.” I sank to the floor at his feet and looked up into his face. “Please forgive me.”

  “Why, what is this?”

  “My dear lord, I have—I have failed you.”

  He looked alarmed and set the wine aside to clasp my hands. “What is it, Gwen? What has happened?”

  “Three weeks ago I bled,” I blurted out.

  He looked blank, and then comprehension came in a great rush of relief. “Dear Lord, you mean the heir! Oh, Gwen, don’t look so tragic. I am in no hurry; there is time. What, did you think I would berate you?” He laughed at my expression and lifted me onto his lap. “Queen or no Queen, you’re a girl yet,” he said, and then grinned. “We are doing the best that we can, are we not? The rest is with God.”

  “But it is my duty,” I whispered, feeling happy and safe in his arms, with my heavy burden lifted from me by his mere word.

  “No. That is a broodmare’s duty. Your duty is to be my companion. Stay at my side. Give me your company by day and the pleasure of your person at night, when you will. I am content.”

  I laughed for sudden joy. “Arthur, you are wonderful.”

  “The most welcome compliment I have ever had,” he said gravely. “And now, little Queen, what is your pleasure? Back to your bed with Elaine, or will you come with me and keep sleep at bay awhile longer?”

  I went with him.

  16 THE RAPE

  I pulled my cloak tighter around me against the icy rain and paced back across the garden. It was a cold April morning and the wind blew in fitful gusts, tossing rain against the castle walls and hurling dark clouds across the pale gray sky. I desperately wanted a good gallop, a day hawking, anything to escape Camelot. I was sure the weather would clear. It had that smell, that keen edge of promise. Any excuse for an outing would do—if I could only be alone!

  The garden extended the length of the women’s quarters. At one end, beyond a locked door in a solid wall, was my own garden, accessible now only by steps from my terrace. When I had closed it off to create a little sanctuary, I had had the larger garden built, that my women might take the air and walk any time they chose and not disturb my privacy. Six of them sat now in a little curved bay with windows looking out upon my walk. They had just come from breakfast and worked upon the needlework I had set them. I could see them clustered around Elaine in the window seat, and they could all see me. Alissa was there, Kay’s wife, heavy with her second child, and dear Ailsa, of course, with her brow furrowed in worry at my bad temper. The youngest was a girl of fifteen named Hanna, whose parents had sent her to court to find a husband among the Companions. It was the same old story. They came in droves, acquired manners and refinement, married the King’s Companions, and were carted off to bear sons to fight in Arthur’s service. I bit my lip hard against new tears and lifted my face to the rain. Sometimes they stayed, but usually they left. In five years I must have said good-bye to twenty at least.

  I found myself at the foot of the garden and stood for a moment, pulling my hood closer, reluctant to head back. I knew what they were saying in there. The lady Elaine, favorite of the Queen, was holding court. She would be gently explaining to Hanna, in her kindest tones, why the Queen was so bad-tempered lately. It is not in her nature, she would begin, carefully laying the groundwork. Normally she is the gaiest, gentlest, sweetest-tempered woman in the Kingdom. And how not? There is not a man in the High King’s service who does not adore her. She has the admiration of all Britain. But you see, little Hanna, she cannot give the High King the one thing he most desires: a son of his body. It is the one thing her precious beauty cannot win for her. She has failed the High King Arthur as she has failed the people of Britain. She cannot conceive the heir.

  If Hanna had courage, she might ask how it was known that the fault lay with the Queen and not with the High King himself. Elaine would remain composed and smile her sly, contented smile. Her reply, when it came, would be oversoft. It was known that the High King had fathered bastards here and there. He had acknowledged them and provided for the ones he knew about. There was a girl in Northumberland he had given a dowry to and had honored the knight who married her and gave a name to the child. He was, after all, away from court six to eight months out of the year, and even though he was known to be a man of moderate habits, well, if a pretty maid were willing, who could blame him? He saw to it she never suffered by it.

  And then, if Hanna had any grasp of facts, she would ask Elaine if the High King meant to put the Queen away. Elaine would look slightly shocked, and afterward sorrowful, and take time to frame a reply. And in the meantime poor Hanna, who had only asked the question that lay on everyone’s lips, would tremble in fear that she had overstepped the bounds of propriety.

  One did not know, Elaine would answer gravely, what the High King might do. Whatever he did, it would be just, kind, and well thought out. He had spent four months with the High Queen this winter, at Caerleon and at Camelot, and when he left she had not bled and was feeling sickly. Everyone hoped that at last she might have conceived his child, but alas! Two weeks ago she bled, and afterward made herself ill with weeping. And now the High King was coming home; no one wanted to tell him the bad news; no one knew what he would do when he heard it.

  I pressed my hands against my ears to stop the sound of words. This way lay madness. For five long years I had endured this humiliation before Arthur’s subjects; had daily felt their eyes upon my waistline, daily heard their whispering behind my back. Even in my dreams they pursued me, with their frightful pity and their contempt. And everywhere I looked, I saw only bounty and increase. Camelot was growing; the streets were filled with pregnant women and the sound of infants crying. Among my own women, fou
r had swollen bellies; in the last year, five had been delivered within my hearing. I, alone among them all, had failed to grow past childhood, was less than a woman and a wife. Alone among them all, I could not bear. And in failing, I failed the High King of Britain. I choked back a sob and wiped my eyes. I had to escape! Rain or no rain, I must get out. I was Queen. If I chose to go, I could go. None of them could stop me.

  I ran back up the path and came in by the door that gave onto Elaine’s rooms. I moved quietly, and they did not hear me. I meant to slip out into the hallway and so escape unnoticed to my own rooms, but when I came to the door I heard Lancelot’s name.

  “Do not worry, my dear. Lancelot will cure her. He always does. However low she is, he will make it right as rain. And only he can do it. We call it ‘the Breton touch.’ ”

  “Do you indeed?” I said coldly. Alissa gasped, and the others whirled, frightened. Elaine, who had spoken, did not even have the decency to blush.

  “Yes, my lady, we do. It is intended as a compliment,” she said airily.

  I turned from her and addressed Alissa. “Send Kay to me. I will ride out this morning, and I wish to inform him of my plans.”

  Alissa was wise enough to keep her protests to herself, and she went at once. But the others had not acquired her wisdom.

  “But, my lady, it’s raining!”

  “You’ll catch your death of cold!”

  “How can you go out in this storm?”

  “Lancelot cannot accompany you. It is initiation for the new recruits.” This last was from Elaine, and I turned back to her.

  “I am aware of it. I will ride without him.”

  “He will not allow it.” She was intent, excited about something but holding it in.

  “I am his Queen,” I told her angrily. “He cannot stop me.” I knew she hated it when I pulled my rank, and I knew I would be ashamed of myself later, but at that moment it gave me great satisfaction to see her without an answer. “Breton touch, indeed,” I muttered. Her curtsy was stiff, and I saw she was as angry as I.

  “Any of you who wish may attend me,” I said to the others, “but you need not come out unless you want to. There’s a soaking rain now, but later it will clear.”

  No one volunteered. Kay was not pleased, but Alissa had briefed him, and he soon saw it was useless to argue. I told him where I was going, and he grunted, which was as close as he could come to an assent. Of course, he informed Lancelot, who showed sense and sent a message saying he would join me when he could and begging me to be careful. He knew better than to cross me in my moods.

  We rode west, toward the low hills that sank into the marshlands surrounding Ynys Witrin. Marsh birds had been arriving in great flocks for a month now, and the wetlands were full of fowl. My new hawk Dakar was a wonderful hunter of marsh birds, and besides, the hills were low and the woods thin: It was great country for galloping.

  And gallop we did. My horse Pallas was too light-boned for a war stallion, thus had he been gelded and given to me, but he ran like the wind. I had to wait every mile or so for the escort to catch up.

  Toward midmorning the rain lightened and dispersed into mist, which hid the valley bottoms and sent thin tendrils of damp fog snaking up into the hills. The captain of the escort cleared his throat and looked at me pointedly. Clearly, they could not protect me in a fog, and it was time to go. But anger still bit at me, and I sought some excuse to delay. At that moment a young egret rose squawking from the fringes of Avalon and flapped noisily southward. The hawk stirred on my arm.

  “One more, good Ferron, and we shall call it a day. The bird is slow. This will take moments only.” I was right, of course, and I was also Queen. He had no choice but to agree. I loosed the hawk, who rose in graceful circles and, spotting the distant bird, took off. As I put leg to my horse, I had a sudden forboding. If, at that moment, I had changed my mind, or the hawk had lost the bird in the mist, or Ferron’s native caution had exerted itself, how much might we all have been saved! I have thought of it often, since; how so many futures may hang on a single thread of circumstance; how long a shadow that day cast over so many lives!

  Against all expectation, the egret headed into the woods. The road narrowed to a track, and we slowed our pace. I lost sight of the hawk in the thickening mist, and whistled to him at last to call him back. We all heard then a bird’s cry and the crashing of some heavy animal through the bracken. My only thought was to recover my precious hawk.

  “This way!” I cried, and sent Pallas straight into the woods in the direction of the cry. If the soldiers shouted, I did not hear them. All my senses were attuned forward, to the trees looming up suddenly out of the mist, to fallen logs that must be jumped, although the distances were difficult to judge, toward where I hoped my hawk stood patiently above his prey. We reached the bank of one of the slow-moving rivers that fed the marsh and pulled up. It was very quiet. I could see only the shadowed shapes of trees on the opposite bank twelve feet away. I heard no voices, no hoofbeats, no movement through the underbrush. I realized with a jolt of fear that I was lost, and without my escort. But we were only a few leagues from Camelot, and Pallas could find the way home. He stood easily, his nostrils wide and his small ears swiveling in every direction. I waited, calming myself, very sorry now that I had acted so arrogantly. I was framing a suitable apology to Ferron and to Kay, when Pallas’ ears shot forward and his head lifted. He had heard something downstream. As he did not nicker, I feared it could not be the escort, but perhaps it was the hawk, caught in some tree by his jesses, or the injured bird in the brush. We went slowly along the bank, unable to see, feeling our way. The fog thickened as the land sloped lower and caught in the nostrils and mouth like a cold cloth over the face. My cloak was damp, and the horse’s body slippery with wet. Which is why, when out of the white mist on the water a gigantic dark shape suddenly arose before our very eyes and shouted, Pallas spun, reared, leaped sideways, bucked twice—and I fell.

  I awoke slowly to darkness, to pain in my back, and to gentle rocking. Had it not been for the pain, which grew steadily more insistent, I might have fallen back to sleep, for the rocking was very soothing and made my head feel heavy.

  “Please,” I cried, “my back!” but it came out the barest whisper, and when I opened my eyes I saw nothing, only whiteness. Frightened, I shut them. Strong hands supported and lifted me, and the pain eased. Even in my dazed state I felt relief, knowing I was not injured, but only lay on something hard and sharp. I was slowly let down upon some cushion or soft stuff. The hands that had held me did not leave me at once, but cupped my shoulders and then slowly slid down my arms to take my hands, before folding the cloak around me. It was a slow, sensuous gesture, and I shivered, a frisson of horror sliding up my spine. Discomfort was forgotten. There was danger here. I looked vainly about but could see absolutely nothing. I had no clue to where I was, or with whom, except that I was still surrounded by fog and the gentle sounds of river and marsh.

  “Who are you?” I asked. “Who art thou?” I tried in Latin. No one answered. But someone was there. I sensed movement and breathing. “Where is my horse, good sir? What has become of the hawk? My escort must be about—if you call, they would be pleased to find me and to reward you for my rescue.”

  “Please be still,” a male voice said softly. “All is well.” I had heard the voice before, although I could not remember where. Perhaps he was a knight, or a nobleman who had been at Arthur’s court.

  “Good sir,” I whispered, “I know you are a gentleman. Return me to the King and he will well reward you. For I am Guinevere, his Queen.”

  There was a rough bark of laughter, followed by a sliding, dipping motion as a shadow loomed above me in the mist. I realized suddenly that I lay on the bottom of a coracle and that we were well out in the marshes. Hands gripped my body, and a bearded face bent low to mine.

  “I know who you are,” a gruff voice said, “and now you are mine.” Thick lips pressed against mine, and I smelled old mead upo
n his clothes and the sweat of fear upon his body. Mercifully I fainted. For I recognized him. It was Melwas.

  When I awoke from the faint I had the wits to keep my eyes closed and let him think I still slept. It was warmer, and a breeze eddied against my cheek. I guessed that we were now on open water, for the boat rocked, water gurgled near my ear, and the splash of oars came steadily. I heard no other sounds, not of men, or of animals, not even of birds. My heart raced with terror, but I kept my breathing slow. All I could think of were Lancelot’s words to me, long ago, about how valuable a hostage I would be, and how I had to let myself be guarded.

  My poor Lancelot! In my mind’s eye I could see the panicked ride of the messenger back to the palace, the fearful confrontation with Lancelot, the averted face and bent knee as the message was delivered, and the horror and anger and—most undeservedly—the guilt that would show on Lancelot’s face. What would he do? He might take every man in Camelot to the spot where I had last been seen, if they could find it, but it would avail them nothing. They might find the horse and the hawk, but they could not find me.

  I steadied myself and pushed the tears away. What, then, of Melwas? How dared he? Arthur would kill him. And then in a flash I understood. I was no longer so valuable as a hostage; once, perhaps, but a childless queen? Melwas did not think to gain some advantage over the High King, he thought only of me. He dared not kill me—no, that would touch the High King’s honor and put his own life in jeopardy. But if he merely took me—I forced myself to face it—for his pleasure, and soiled me in the eyes of Arthur’s subjects, and in the King’s own eyes, as well, he could plead any excuse he liked and beg to take me formally from the King. It would solve Arthur’s problem for him. He could put me away, give me to Melwas, binding his neighbor to him, and leaving himself free to marry a woman who could bear him sons. Against my will a tear slipped out, and I shuddered to hide a sob.

  Melwas grunted, but said nothing and rowed on. Where on earth could we be going? Somewhere on the Lake of Avalon, no doubt, but where? Not to his palace, surely, where I was known. But wherever it was, clearly he had planned this. For the stuff I lay on was soft and sweet scented, not the normal outfit for a river craft. He had been expecting me.