Queen of Camelot

by Nancy McKenzie

  He shook his head sadly but did not speak. I touched his cheek, and he closed his eyes in pain.

  “We will honor her,” I whispered, “if that would please you, and send her home with gifts. Her father will think it a fair exchange for maidenhead. You need not be ashamed. Unless,” I said with a touch of nervousness, “she is highborn.” He flinched, and I swallowed hard. “Even so, it can be arranged to everyone’s satisfaction. Leave it to me.”

  But every word I said was as a knife in his heart, and I did not know what to do. So I said nothing, but stroked his hair, and touched his face, and let him know that he could trust me with it, whatever it was, for I loved him. And all the while I wondered who she was, what she looked like, what she wore and how old she was, sure that however perfect she might be, she could not have appreciated him.

  At length he drew on his courage and steadied himself.

  “Guinevere,” he began, meeting my eyes at last, and holding both my hands firmly to his breast, “you light my life. I will never love another. This you must know and believe before I tell you the rest. I will pay for last night’s lust as long as I live, and it is right that I should, but she will never have my heart.”

  My heart beat painfully as I heard my guess confirmed. But Lancelot never forgave himself easily, and I feared for what punishment he might feel required to endure.

  “Before I tell you how it happened, I must tell you—I must tell you, Gwen—I am betrothed.”

  “NO!” It burst from me in a hoarse cry; I stared in horror at his face. But he held my hands firmly, and I could not rise to flee. He absorbed my anger and held tight to me. “No, it isn’t necessary! You go too far. What is a night only? You need not marry her.”

  “She is highborn,” he said steadily, “and her father and mother were there when Kay found us this morning. I could do naught else. I could not dishonor her further.”

  I felt the tears slip down my face. “To lie with you is no dishonor,” I whispered, and he took a quick breath, then let it out slowly. “Oh, Lancelot, do not leave me, I pray you. I love you so.”

  His control broke, and he buried his face in my lap with his arms around me. I bent over him and kissed his head. In my heart, I knew it was cruel. He was five and twenty. Most men his age had sons training to be warriors. He could not go unwed forever; to ask it of him was unfair. But the thought of losing him was more than I could bear. He was a man of honor, and he had promised. But it broke my heart.

  For a long time we stayed thus, holding each other. With great effort I managed to speak the words I knew I had to say.

  “What you must do, you must do. Have you given your word to her father?”

  He raised his head and nodded.

  “Then—then there is naught that I can say.”

  “I have not told you all.”

  “There is more?” I cried. “How can there be more? You are leaving me—tell me no more!”

  He rose slowly and walked back and forth before the fountain. It was not fair to remind me of Arthur. I watched him pace and dared not think ahead. He was unhappy, that was clear enough, and determined, but he was also afraid. Was it possible he could hurt me more than this?

  “When the King left the hall last night,” he began, “I left soon after. With Bedwyr. He was tired and went off to bed, but I—I could not.” I drew breath to tell him I understood it, but he raised a hand and stopped me. I saw he feared he could not say it, if he did not say it all at once. “I never intended to go looking for a maiden. I only meant to walk it off. The night was clear and cool, and I went first to the stables. But the colt was fine, and Lyonel was there. I decided to walk the perimeter of the wall. In fact, I ran.” I bowed my head, remembering the frantic drive of the drug. While he had been running, I had been in the King’s arms. It was not fair to judge him. “But I tired at last of running, and I had got no relief. I stopped to catch my breath and felt dizzy, and—lost my bearings. I did not know where I was. And so I left the wall and walked toward the lighted torches. I thought that if I got there, I could find my way. In my mind were pictures of my Breton homeland, and the streets of Benoic where I grew up. But when I got near the light, I recognized nothing. There were girls about. One, a brunette, came up and brushed my arm. I could not bear it; even the touch of her fingers set me aflame. How I wanted you, Guinevere! Your face was ever before me, as it had been all night. It seemed to me that you should want me, too, if you loved me, and find a way to escape the King and come to me.” He stopped pacing and covered his face with his hands. “May God forgive me!” he whispered. “That I should ever wish to betray my lord!” Then he turned and continued, forcing it out. “I escaped her and went on, but I did not know where I was going. I was looking for you. I was—driven. To find you. And then I looked up and you were there.”

  I gasped, and he met my eyes.

  “She spoke to me,” he said, “in your voice. ‘Lancelot,’ she said, ‘at last I have found you.’ It was so very exactly what I wished to hear.”

  “She was fair?” I asked hoarsely.

  “She was fair and lovely. She wore a blue scarf over her hair, which hid all but a little. But she was fair. And she spoke with your voice.”

  “And her gown?” I said, shaking, holding hard to the bench. He waited a long time before answering.

  “It was your gown. The same I had seen you in an hour before. The gown that drove me mad. It was the same.”

  I simply stared at him in horror.

  “She was standing in the doorway of a tent and beckoned me inside. Her gestures were yours. Inside the lamp was low. There was an inner chamber. She—said very little. But then, I did not give her much chance.” He wiped his brow and drew a long, trembling breath. “I will say no more. When Kay woke me this morning, my eyes were clear, and I saw her face.”

  I put out a hand to stop him.

  “Don’t!” I jumped to my feet. “Don’t, Lancelot!”

  “Guinevere, I am betrothed to Elaine.”

  “Aaaaa!” I screamed, and swooned. He lifted me and held me. But the touch of his hands cleared my head, and I pushed him away.

  “You will not do it!” I cried, shaking. “I forbid it! She has duped you, Lancelot, can you not see it? She has duped us all! Oh, God!” I whirled away, holding my aching head, wishing for death.

  Now I saw, too clearly, all that Elaine had done. As far back as the Melwas affair she had planned this, when she lay on my floor and whimpered that I could not have them both, Lancelot and Arthur. How clever she had been—making a gown of the same fabric as the one she knew I’d wear; the secret summons to her parents, who arrived in innocence because she had begged me not to send for them; and the drug, her stroke of genius, that would drive us half mad, ensuring that the King and I would leave hall early and spend the whole evening together, and leave Lancelot roaming free and vulnerable. What revenge was this! How she must hate me! But the worst of it was that she did not love Lancelot; she cared nothing for him; she did it only to take him from me. And yet she knew the man. She knew I could talk Pellinore out of holding him to his promise; she had not relied on her parents’ presence for that. But she knew Lancelot’s honor would bind him to her when he awoke and found himself in her father’s house.

  “I forbid it,” I repeated coldly, turning back to him. “Do not be fooled by her. You consign yourself to a future of torment. A slut would better serve you and bring more honor to your house. There is not an ounce of goodness in her, Lancelot. I know her better than you. She planned to seduce you—she sent the wine— only because she hates me so. I will speak to Pellinore. You are released from your promise.”

  He looked pained. I knew what he was thinking—these words were not worthy of me, but he had come prepared to endure a woman’s rage.

  “Nevertheless,” he said, “I must.”

  “You will not. The King will not allow it. You must have his permission.”

  “He will be back within a week. I will ask him then.”


  And suddenly I understood. Arthur would let him do it. Arthur would think of his home in Lanascol, held now in his name by his brother Galahantyn since their father died. Arthur would consider his future as an ally king, and what good could come of a strong arm in Less Britain. Arthur would look ahead to the training of Lancelot’s sons as his own loyal knights—but at the thought of Elaine bearing Lancelot’s sons, I cried aloud in anguish.

  “NO! It will not be! I cannot live with this! You will kill me, Lancelot, as surely as you stand there! Oh, have pity on me, my love, and do not do this thing!”

  He leaped forward and took me by the shoulders. There were tears in his eyes. “You don’t understand! You were not there! I—I took her thrice, and she was virgin!”

  “Lancelot!” I cried, clapping my hands over my ears. “Spare me the details! What do you want of me? I cannot bear it!”

  “Understand me!” he cried hoarsely. “I am not a brutal man, but—but I caused her pain and suffering, through my impatience. I was no gentleman. I am responsible.”

  “She has her reward!”

  “I owe her more than that.”

  “Not your life!”

  “My name, at least. To save her from shame if she bears a child.”

  “Oh, God!” I closed my eyes on that, and fought back tears. “She would feel no shame. She has no sense of it.”

  “Gwen.” His voice was very soft. “It is not like you to be cruel. I have hurt you very deeply. I am sorry.”

  I began to weep quietly, but his very tenderness made me angry.

  “Don’t pretend you love me!” I cried. “You knew it was not I who beckoned you. You knew I was with the King.”

  But it only hurt me more to wound him; he would not fight back, but only accepted shafts, one after the other, without complaint. “Yes,” he said slowly, dropping his hands to his side, “I suppose that deep within me I did know it. I saw the way you looked at Arthur. That was why I left the hall when he did. I could not bear the thought—but let be. You have come to love him, and God knows that is as it should be. He has the gift of sowing love. And last night you wanted him. That is what made me so—fierce with Elaine. How I longed to hold you in my arms and lie with you! I confess it before God. So when I saw someone who resembled you, I shut my mind to the truth and believed the lie. I am responsible,” he finished simply.

  I fell to my knees and reached for his hand, splashing it with tears and pressing it to my breast. “Oh, noble Lancelot! Forgive me, I pray. I had no right to speak so!”

  He lifted me in his arms and carried me to the bench. I wept on his shoulder, my arms about his neck. He held me on his lap and waited.

  “She is not worthy of you,” I whispered, “and you will regret it.” But I knew he had made up his mind. When my sobs subsided, he spoke again.

  “I will take her to Less Britain. I have been too long away. But she tells me you two have quarreled, and her movements are restricted. I must ask you, Gwen, to let her go.”

  I drew back and looked at his face. Then it was I realized he knew nothing of Elaine’s part in the Melwas affair. And how could he know, unless the King had told him? For I had not, and he was on Ynys Witrin when her treachery was revealed. Here was a weapon to my hand, I saw it instantly. I could prevent his leaving if I told him what she had done. He would never marry a woman who had betrayed me into Melwas’ hands. I opened my mouth to speak, when I saw the other side of that coin. And how would he feel, when he knew? He would feel as if he had lain with a snake, and the shame of it would eat at his very soul, as the shame of Morgause ate at Arthur. I knew then I could not do it. But the agony of wanting to brought back anger.

  “Did she tell you why we quarreled?”

  “She said you discovered her great love for the King and accused her of hubris, which she admits.”

  “Lancelot,” I beseeched him, “does that sound like me? All the world loves Arthur. Would I lock one woman up on account of it?”

  He looked puzzled, and then shrugged. “Before this interview, I would have said it was unlike you. But I—I confess I do not understand women well. If that was not the truth, then what was it?”

  I was well revenged for wounding him. He cut me to my core. I had behaved abominably. And now, what could I say?

  “It is partly true,” I said at last. “But there is more to it than that. She—took advantage of her closeness to me to further her own ends and sought a private interview with the King. I don’t know exactly what happened, but the King was angry and asked me to see to it that it did not happen again. It was more than foolishness, I fear, and I had intended to send her home to Wales. Today was to be the day of her departure.”

  “Then she is restrained on Arthur’s orders?”

  “She is not restrained enough!” I cried, then bowed my head. “No, the orders were mine. I—I felt personally betrayed. It is the kind of thing women do not forgive one another.”

  “Well,” he said gently, “she has not your judgment, Gwen, or your control. But if the cause of this embarrassment is her love for the King, can you not forgive it? I will take her away, where she will never see him again. Then it is solved.”

  “She does not love you, my dearest, and she never will.”

  The ghost of a smiled crossed his lips. “And I will never love her.” My heart ached for him; it was a future of dust and ashes. “Will you release her, Gwen? For my sake? Let her go to her parents until the wedding. You need not see her, if it pains you so.”

  The tears slipped out again, and I leaned against him, exhausted and relenting. “Yes,” I whispered, “I will give the order.”

  He held me closer. “When Arthur gets home, I will ask formal permission. We will leave before the autumn winds close the seas.” I shut my eyes. It was over and settled.

  “Will I never see you again?”

  “Of a certainty you will,” he said, pulling away and drying my cheeks. “I will be back when the seas open, bringing Galahantyn with me. I will stay with you for three seasons out of four, while the King is about his business. He is my liege lord as well as my friend. I owe him service. And I desire his fellowship.” He almost smiled and gently touched my hair. “But more even than Arthur, I need you. I will return.”

  At last he kissed me, and I clung to him, desperate with longing. His lips were warm and eager, and for a moment only I thought of nothing else. But it was only a sweet ending to the horrors we had suffered. It changed nothing.

  By the time the King came home, the whole of Camelot was abuzz with rumors about Lancelot and Elaine. I had released her to the care of Alyse and Pellinore, who kept her close, sensing trouble. I could not see that Lancelot spent much time with her, a courtesy call in the evenings perhaps, for almost every minute he was with me. He certainly showed no inclination to return to her bed. But he had been to see the bishop, and so the rumors ran wild.

  As for Arthur, here also rumors ran ahead of fact. Merlin was dead. The King had gone to the old enchanter’s hilltop cave in South Wales, and found him lying cold and blue, as Niniane had said. The magic of the place had kept corruption from him, and Arthur spent three days and nights at his side in the hope that he still lived and might awaken. At length, facing facts, he filled the cave with treasures beyond counting; all round the countryside the folk brought gifts, and the King gave him everything he had at Caerleon, to send him to his gods. Then, to protect the grave from robbers, they levered the stones above the cave mouth and brought down an avalanche to cover the entrance and bury him deep in the hill. So it was done. And the King had not spoken a word to a soul after it was accomplished, but rode home in silence and would see no one.

  It was the same when he rode into Camelot. Kay and the home guard awaited him on the steps. I watched from Alissa’s window, which gave onto the forecourt. It reminded me of the first time I had ever seen him, except that now he moved like a man in sleep, and not like a leader of men. He spoke to no one, but dismounted, dropping the reins, and climbe
d the steps without seeing them. Kay gave him formal welcome; the King did not reply, but walked past him and into the castle without turning his head. The lady Niniane had ridden in behind him and sat her horse watching the king with a worried face. Even Pelleas, who rode beside her and would wed her within the month, could not turn her gaze from the King. The soldiers all looked puzzled, and Lancelot, standing beside Kay, glanced quickly toward my window and shook his head.

  I retired to my chamber, to be there if the King felt need of me. Standing by the curtain, I heard his steps come up the stairs. His tread was slow and heavy. I heard Varric’s voice and Bran’s, and movement within the chamber, but the King did not speak. Then all was silent. I waited for a long time, hearing nothing. I was not sure he was even in there, except I had not heard him leave. I determined to go in, for had he not said himself that I was always welcome? Gently I pulled aside the corner of the curtain, but what I saw stopped me where I stood, and I went no further. He had stripped to the waist and knelt like a penitent next his bed. His back was to me, his head bowed against the coverlet, his long arms outstretched and his hands clasped. He was praying.

  I went to Lancelot. The Companions had just broken up from council, and Lancelot briefed me on the news. While Wales was quiet enough, a courier from Rheged had come to the King at Caerleon while he collected treasure for Merlin’s burial. The King had heard his news but had given no direction; indeed, Bedwyr said it was difficult to know whether or not he had understood a word the man said. King Urien sent to say that Caw of Strathclyde had died, leaving his kingdom in chaos. He had sired twelve sons and five daughters; the eldest boys were twins, thirty years old and wild. His sensible son was third born, one Hapgar, and the old king’s favorite. But Caw had died quickly and had not had time to bequeath his kingdom into anyone’s hands. Urien, whose lands lay next to Strathclyde, reported that the young men were fighting it out among themselves, and no one’s life was safe out of doors. Urien’s own sons by his first marriage were riding patrol upon their borders; his seven-year-old daughter Morgaine, Queen Morgan’s child, had been kidnapped on a short journey near the border and held for a week by Heuil, the eldest twin, and raped repeatedly. He had her back now, but his wrath was high, and if the High King did not step in, there would be war.