Queen of Camelot

by Nancy McKenzie

  His eyes drilled me, and in spite of my resolve, I trembled. He had never spoken to me about it; it was his own, dark secret, and I had deliberately, and without his leave, flung it out into the light. I had no idea what he would do. He hardly breathed; but at length he dragged out the answer.

  “Yes.”

  “And do you know where he is now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then,” I said, drawing a shaking breath, “this is my request. Send for him. Bring him to Camelot. He belongs at your side. He must be now eleven or twelve—it is time for him to take his place here. Your Kingdom will accept him, and I—Arthur, I would welcome him as my own.”

  For a long moment he was deathly still. Then he slowly reached out and drew me to his breast, holding me tightly with his face pressed into my hair. I felt his lips move against my ear, but I heard no sound. He held me thus a long time, and when at last he relaxed his embrace, I saw his eyes were dry and his face alight with joy. It made me wonder if he had been praying.

  “Guinevere,” he said in a low voice, “you have touched my heart twice tonight, and robbed me of breath. Your generosity astounds me. How could you know how I have longed to ask this very favor of you, but feared to wound you?”

  “I did not know it, my lord.”

  “I would do anything to spare you pain. How can you be sure you can bear this boy near you?”

  “I know it, my lord. In my soul. I want him here, if he is yours.”

  “Oh, he is mine.” He spoke with bitterness and avoided my eyes. “Do you know the true tale? Do you know his mother is—my sister?”

  “Half-sister, my lord. Yes, I knew it. I asked Lancelot about it when he came to Wales.”

  His eyes widened at that. “Did you indeed? Before we met? When I was only an intimidating stranger to you? It gave you good grounds to reject me. As your heart lay elsewhere, why did you not do it?”

  “He said you sinned in innocence, my lord. Everyone does that. How could I condemn you?”

  “But such a sin!”

  I shrugged. “Perhaps the magnitude of the sin reflects the magnitude of the man. You could not commit a mean sin, Arthur. It is not in you.”

  He looked away. “I do not deserve such mercy. Lust drove me that night. She was a stranger to me.”

  “You were barely fourteen. Forgive yourself.”

  His look lightened then, and he sighed. “Perhaps when I get to know the boy, that, too, will come.”

  “Then you will send for him?”

  “I have thought of little else since the messenger rode in last night from Lothian. For years I have had a spy planted in his mother’s household to search out the boy. But she has kept him well hidden. Last night I finally got word on his whereabouts.”

  So my thought indeed came straight from God! And I noted, as Lancelot had warned me, that he could not bring himself to speak her name.

  “And what made you think of it, Gwen?” he asked. “Why should your thoughts run this way?”

  “I don’t know, my lord. Unless—unless it was my visit with Netta, and then what Bedwyr said.”

  “Ah, yes. Bedwyr. He has healed you, where I could not. What did he say?”

  I looked down. There was no way to tell him. “He showed me that—that there might be a way I could serve you, other than bearing you sons.”

  “He spoke about the boy?”

  “Oh, no, my lord, you mistake me. He spoke about the future. It—I—I really cannot—”

  “Never mind. It is between you and Bedwyr. I care only that you are whole again.”

  “Have I been so single-minded? I was not aware of it.”

  He smiled kindly. “It was never far from your thoughts.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Who is Netta?”

  I grinned, blushing. “Don’t ask me to explain, my lord. But Netta is a horse.”

  He laughed. “I might have known. Well, let be. I will not ask.”

  My thoughts returned to the boy, as his must have, also, for when I next spoke he followed my thought as if no other words had intervened.

  “What is his name?”

  “Mordred. It means, in the Orkney tongue, ‘king from the sea.’ ”

  I leaned forward and took his hand in mine. “Tell me what you know. What kind of boy is he?”

  “By my spy’s account, quiet. Reserved. Always watching. The odd man out among princes. The bastard.”

  “What princes? There are other sons?”

  “Four by Lot. Gawaine is the eldest; he must be ten. I know nothing about them but that they are short, favoring Lot in stature, and red-headed, favoring their mother.

  “And Mordred? What is he like?”

  “He is tall,” said the King, warming to it, “and dark. Nimble and swift-footed, with a clever wit and the patience of Job.” He paused, his eyes seeing far into the distance. “A throwback, perhaps, to Ambrosius, or even Maximus, with his black eyes and Roman features.” His voice died suddenly, and he breathed, “He gets it from both sides, you see.”

  “Mordred must stand out like a swan among geese,” I hurried on. “What excuse is given for his presence? Does everyone know?”

  “No one knows. Even Morgause”—and he spat out the name— “does not wish that shame remembered. She gives out that he was fathered by a fairy King, or a demon conjured by her magic, or an Elder Spirit, or a serpent from the sea. Her story changes as often as the tide. Certainly Mordred does not know. He knows nothing. He lives as a bastard half-brother to the princes of Orkney. A dogsbody, not a prince. It must hurt like hell.” His thoughts were far away, his brow creased.

  “You lived such a life once.”

  That brought him back, and he said brusquely, “Yes, but Ector is a good-hearted, selfless soul, and his wife a loving woman and a Christian. Morgause is a—” He paused, and changed the word. “—a witch.”

  “Then we must get him out of there.”

  He nodded slowly. “But it must be done carefully, without anyone’s suspecting why. Think, Gwen! Think what I must tell him! How heavy a burden I must lay upon my son! If it is difficult for me to confess it, imagine how difficult it will be for him to hear it. I do not want him guessing before I make it known. There is risk here. God knows he has reason enough to hate me,” he said slowly. “Who could blame him? I think I must bring his brothers with him and let them serve as a camouflage awhile.”

  “Can you do that, Arthur? Can you take her children from her?”

  His face hardened suddenly, and his eyes went cold. “It would give me very great pleasure indeed.”

  Here was hatred, obstinate and possessive. Even the Saxons he did not so despise. Lightly I placed my hand upon his arm. “Arthur,” I whispered, “did she do the murder at Dunpelder?”

  His eyes slid to my face and then away, and I quailed at the look in them. “Yes.” He shuddered and clutched at the bearskin, although the night was warm. “And that’s not all.” I waited, as he struggled to find the words. “She is killing Merlin, even as we speak. She once gave him a draft with poison in it, and although it did not kill him outright, it left the seeds of death inside his body. He is dying, and he knows it. He has gone back to his birthplace in the hills of Wales to find a cure.”

  I gasped. “It is true, then? Did Merlin confess it?”

  Another sharp glance. “No. He admits nothing. But I know.”

  I watched his face a long time. It was true, I thought, that an evil deed leaves its mark upon the doer. Long ago, in his innocence, he had sinned a dreadful sin. Now it ate at him like a rotten canker and tainted all his thoughts. “He was an entire winter in the Caledonian Forest, with only a cave for comfort and skins for clothes. Surely that is why he lost his wits.”

  He would not look at me. “What sent him witless into the forest? He had seen the Witch three days before.”

  “Does Merlin confess this? Does he accuse her?”

  “No. But I know it’s true.”

  I took his hand
between my own and kissed it. “And the massacre,” I whispered. “Do you have proof she gave the order?”

  “Of course not!” he responded angrily. “Lot gave the order. But once he wed her, Lot never did anything of his own will, except in battle. It’s what made him so fierce.” He shut his eyes suddenly and exhaled slowly. “I see the point of all your gentle questions, Guinevere. But do not bother to pity Morgause. I do not accuse her beyond her deserts. She is evil.”

  I dared push him no further. He sat still, his eyes far away. I put a hand to his cheek. “Forgive me, Arthur . . . Arthur?” He did not hear me; all the warmth of our loving night was lost in the cold horror of his own tormented hell. “Emreis,” I whispered, and at once he turned, surprise and then feeling returning to his eyes. “It is God’s will, my love, that Mordred be born to you. What will be, will be. Put it behind you.”

  He nearly smiled. “Now it is your turn to comfort me.”

  “I pray I can.” I clasped his hand. “Can you bring him here, with all his brothers, without inviting suspicion? I am not the only one who has heard the rumors.”

  “You put it too lightly,” he said with a twist of his lips. “I sometimes think there is no one who has not heard. I will think of some excuse to bring them here.” Then he smiled and pulled me closer. “Bless you, Gwen, for charming me out of my ill humor. You have a gift for it.” His lips found mine, and I yielded willingly to his embrace. His face had looked like death when he spoke of Queen Morgause; his heat was infinitely preferable to his cold.

  Suddenly we heard heavy footsteps pounding through the King’s apartments.

  “My lord Arthur!” It was Kay’s voice, in barely controlled panic. “Arthur!”

  “Here, Kay! To me!”

  The King leaped out of bed and grabbed his robe, as Kay raced up the stairs and fell to one knee at the door. I had not even stirred from the bed; there was not time.

  “Oh, my lord, forgive me, but I bring bad news.” In trembling fingers he held out a scroll.

  “Tell me,” Arthur said calmly, reaching for it.

  “My lord, the courier—my dear lord, Merlin is dead.”

  Arthur gave no sign that he had heard. He took the scroll from Kay, broke the seal and read. When he looked up, his face a mask, only his eyes reflected his great grief.

  “We leave for Wales. Now.” He named the score of knights who would attend him. “Inform Lancelot.”

  Kay began to shake visibly. Arthur stood as still as stone. “My lord, we cannot find him.”

  “Look harder,” Arthur snapped, with his first display of temper. “Now go. Send Varric to me.”

  Kay fled, and Arthur did not move. Slowly I arose and went to him. He shrugged off his robe and reached for his tunic in a daze. I recognized his state—I had felt the same just after Melwas left me. Varric arrived, hastily dressed and breathless, and gently took the tunic from his hand.

  “No, my lord will want his traveling clothes, not the ceremonial finery. ‘Twill be a dusty journey, I fear, at this time of year. A light cloak. Here we are.” He talked steadily in a low, pleasant voice and glanced meaningfully first at me and then at the wineskin. Coming to my senses, I filled a goblet and touched it to Arthur’s lips.

  “Drink, my lord.” But he did not hear me. I touched his shoulder, where the scar from Melwas’ blade stood out red and ugly from his browned skin. “Please, Arthur, drink. It will help you.”

  Obediently he swallowed, then waved me away as Varric pulled the tunic over his head. In minutes Varric had him dressed and booted, and fastened his cloak at the shoulder with the gold enamel Dragon brooch. Arthur walked slowly to the door.

  He stared vacantly in our direction, said, “Pray for me,” and left.

  Varric bowed low to me. “My lady.”

  “You will attend him, Varric?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Do not leave him alone.”

  “No, my lady. Don’t worry. I will see to him.” And he hurried down the stairs in the King’s wake.

  There had been many rumors of Merlin’s death throughout the years. But this one Arthur believed. It did not seem possible it could be true—Merlin had guided Britain through her kings since before either of us was born! I glanced about for the scroll and found it on the floor where he had dropped it. It was a note only, short and to the point. It was from Niniane.

  21 THE SEDUCTION AND THE SWORD

  I woke to a scuffling noise and quick, urgent whispers. “My lady! My lady Queen Guinevere! Wake up, oh, please wake up!”

  I opened my eyes and looked into Bran’s worried face. With a start, I realized I was in the King’s bed, and the morning sun streamed through the unglazed window. I gathered the bearskins tighter around me. The night’s events came back to me slowly, but it all seemed dreamlike in its distance.

  “Is the King gone, Bran, or did I dream it?”

  His eyes were nailed to the floor. “He is gone to Wales, my lady.”

  “Where is Ailsa?”

  “She has been looking for you, my lady. We all have been looking for you.”

  “I have been here all night.”

  Bran gulped. Sometimes he still looked fifteen. “No one thought—I mean, after the King left—”

  I grinned. I had offended acceptable standards of propriety, I saw, but it did not concern me. “But his bed was warm, and mine was cold,” I said, covering a yawn and stifling an urge to stretch. “It’s been quite a night.”

  “My lady, shall I send Ailsa to you?”

  “Please, Bran, unless you would care to attend me yourself?” He flushed scarlet to the roots of his hair and backed away. “I’m sorry.” I laughed. “I’m feeling devilish this morning—I’m only teasing. I did not mean to be unkind. I would like to speak with the courier who rode in this morning. Tell Kay to send him to me when he is rested.”

  “My lady, please, they have been hunting the house down for you. Sir Lancelot wants to see you.”

  “Oh, good, they found him. Well, there is no rush about it. He is the Queen’s Protector until the King returns, and he only wants to go over the day’s schedule.”

  Bran shook his head.

  “I don’t think it’s that, my lady. When I saw him, he looked ill. Sir Kay said something was amiss.”

  “Perhaps he only suffers from the wine we took last night. Send Ailsa to me now, and ask Sir Kay if he will see me in half an hour. Will that do?”

  He managed a frightened smile. “I will go tell them you are found.”

  From his manner, I saw something was indeed amiss. And Ailsa, when she bustled in, confirmed it. She scolded me roundly for sleeping alone in the King’s bed and hurriedly bathed and dressed me, chattering all the while about meaningless things.

  “Ailsa,” I said at last. “What is it you are trying so hard not to tell me? I’ve never heard you go on so.”

  Her hand shook as she pinned my hair in place, but she said nothing.

  “What is it, in God’s name? Has aught happened to the King?”

  “No, no,” she said quickly. “Not to the King. But Sir Lancelot must tell you, my lady. I cannot.”

  Then it was that I began to feel fear. But, since Arthur and Lancelot were unharmed, I could not imagine what catastrophe had befallen that everyone feared to tell me.

  When Ailsa was finished, I went out to find Kay and met him in the corridor hurrying to my apartments. His tread was heavy and his face long.

  “Queen Guinevere.” He bowed.

  “I know. Lancelot wishes an interview. Take me to him.”

  Kay hesitated. “He wishes a private interview, my lady. Indeed, I think it is best. I was reminded of your garden.”

  I stared at him in amazement and growing fear. Kay knew, clear enough, and even he was afraid to tell me.

  “Then send him up.”

  He cleared his throat nervously. “Ah, my lady, I fear it would not look well if he, well, if he entered the King’s apartments while the King was away.” />
  Well, that was blunt enough. I had forgotten about the palace gossips. I reached into my pouch and drew out a key.

  “Give him this. It is the key to my garden door. Let him go to the south tower, to the postern gate. He has only to get through a corner of the women’s garden unseen. I will be waiting.”

  I set Ailsa and Alissa as guards upon my bedchamber stairs and went out on my terrace in a fever of anticipation. It was another glorious day, fair and warm and sweet-scented. How could anything bode ill on such a morning?

  I sat myself on the stone bench behind the fountain, where I had a view of the entire length of the garden, and composed myself to wait.

  He did not keep me waiting long. I saw him coming toward me with the reluctant tread of a guilty man approaching his executioner, and I began to fear in earnest. His face and hair were recently scrubbed, his tunic was fresh from the fuller’s. Penitence flowed in every line of his body.

  He fell to his knees before me and pressed my hand to his lips, kissing my fingers and then holding my palm to his face. Then he looked up. I gasped. He had tears in his eyes.

  “What is it, Lancelot? What has happened! Oh, God, what catastrophe is this! Tell me!”

  “Oh, Guinevere! I am a miserable sinner,” he whispered. “An undeserving wretch. May God in His mercy forgive me. I don’t think you will.”

  I sighed with exasperation. He was forever berating himself with sins.

  “Dear God, Lancelot, you are frightening me to death! You are well and whole, are you not? Have you killed anyone? Is your life at stake? Are you in any danger? All right, then. So what have you done? It cannot be as bad as all that.”

  But he flushed hotly and looked away, holding tight to my hand. What could so deeply embarrass him? Suddenly I remembered his suffering in hall, and Kay’s inability to find him in the early morning hours. I nearly laughed.

  “I know what it is! You took a stroll down Maiden Lane last night and found someone willing. Am I right?”

  His color only deepened. I put my hand on his head and ruffled his hair with affection. It felt like silk between my fingers. “Come, Lancelot, I am not a monster. I can forgive that. If she was willing, it was no sin. The drug was upon you—what else could you do?”