Queen of Camelot

by Nancy McKenzie

  “Come sit here, my lord. You need a bath.”

  “And you are not a bath slave. Let it be.”

  “You will allow no one to attend you. Thus it must fall to me.”

  He looked at me sharply, and then came and sat. I suppose he thought I would not do it. But I bathed him, from his dirty hair to the soles of his unwashed feet. I toweled him dry, and rummaged in the trunk for his day robe.

  “There,” I said, when he stood clean and dressed. “That is closer to the lord I serve.”

  “You have shown me your devotion. Now go.”

  “No, my lord. I cannot.” I carried the basin of dirty water to the landing, where Varric took it from me. The tray of food was waiting, covered by a clean cloth, and I brought it in and set it on his writing desk.

  “I order you to go.” His face was a study, angry and indignant, at the same time grief-stricken and powerless.

  I took a deep breath. “Eat the meal I have brought you, my lord. Sit here, and I will serve you.”

  I lifted the clean cloth to let him glimpse the food.

  “Guinevere! I am your King! Obey me!”

  I lifted my chin and faced him. “You were my King. But you have not done much work in that line lately. You have put down the burden and left your friends to pick it up. I obey their orders now.”

  He looked startled, but then gave up the fight. I ached to see that submission. It was so unlike him.

  “You do not understand.”

  “Sit and eat.”

  “I will not.”

  “Then I will not go.”

  We stood facing each other. I was reminded of childhood fights with Gwillim, which usually ended with some adult coming between us to settle things. But there was no one to settle things for us now.

  He walked slowly to the table. “If I eat this, will you go?”

  “Yes.”

  He sat down and began to consume the meal. At first he ate slowly, and I gave him only water, but then, as he felt better, and had more interest, I gave him watered wine, as well. At length he finished, and dipped his fingers in the waterbowl and dried them on a napkin. Then he looked up at me. There was nothing in his eyes but grief.

  “Leave me now, Gwen.”

  I sat upon the edge of the table. “I have promised, and I will. But first tell me what it is I don’t understand. Why are you doing this? It is not like you to stand idly by while Britain falls to ruin. The patient work of the last five years is about to go for naught. There must be a reason. What are you waiting for?”

  To my amazement, he answered me.

  “A sign,” he said. “A sign from God. From any god.”

  “What—what kind of a sign?” He astonished me; then I remembered he had grown up under Merlin’s cloak and must be familiar with wonders. “Is it an omen you seek?”

  He shook his head. There was a haunted look about his eyes, a touch of fear. That was what made him look so different—I had never seen fear in him before.

  “Why do you not ask Niniane about it? She has his power now.”

  He shot to his feet. “I forbid you to mention her name. She has betrayed him. At the last, she betrayed him.”

  I took a deep breath and spoke calmly. “How do you know this, my lord?”

  With a heartfelt groan, he held his head in his hands and turned away. He sat heavily on the bed, bending forward, resting his elbows on his knees. I followed him silently and stood beside him, grieving for the grief and pain he suffered.

  “Merlin told me,” he whispered finally. “He said it was his destiny, to die betrayed by a woman. He said it was his fate.”

  “And yet he went to it willingly, did he not?” I trembled at my own temerity, but he only shrugged. This was not what tortured him so. “What is it, Arthur?” I asked softly. “What else did Merlin foresee?”

  It was a wild guess, but it hit its mark. He jumped up and strode back to the window. I thought for a moment he was going to order me out again, but all grief is easier to bear if shared, and after a struggle, he told me.

  “He foresaw that he would go living to his grave,” he said, the horror of it making him shudder. “It was the only thing I ever knew him to fear. And—and it was I who buried him. If—if I have buried him alive, the man I loved more dearly than a father—I waited three days, to be sure. He did not breathe, but neither did he rot. I knew not if it was magic, if the god he served protected his flesh, or if—if perhaps he truly lived but the life signs were hidden from me. But I could not keep the people waiting and had to come to some decision.” He paused and swallowed. “I buried him so none could get at him, deep within the hill. But if he is alive—” He stopped. This was the fear that consumed him. “He will never get out.”

  “I see.” Indeed, it was a horrible thought. And Merlin’s foreknowledge, as everyone knew, had never been wrong. “And so you have asked God to send you a sign that he is truly dead?”

  “God. Mithra. The Mother. The Elder Spirits. Any who will listen.”

  “What kind of sign will it be?”

  “How do I know? But I will know it when it comes.”

  “Can you not—can you not accept, my lord, that Merlin knew what it was he went to, and that you could not prevent it? If he foresaw it, it had to happen. I see no blame here.”

  His smile was bitter. “Do you not? You had better go now. I wish to be alone.”

  I was near the curtain but did not turn to go. “My lord, the Kingdom is divided. Urien is at war. Leave this brooding and take up your arms. Britain needs you.”

  But he turned his back to me. “Britain will have to wait.”

  I gasped. But he had only shared his grief with me, not set it aside. I saw I would have to do more. I went back to my room and bade Ailsa help me change into my riding clothes and dress my hair for the road. She obeyed in silence. I had told her nothing of my plan, but although she saw the King’s belongings in my room and must have been filled with curiosity, she said nothing. I think it was the Sword that kept her silent; indeed, its very presence filled the room with an awful majesty, and I did not say much either, and then only in a whisper.

  When I was dressed, I donned the King’s cloak. Ailsa’s fingers shook as she fastened the Dragon brooch on my shoulder. The cloak was heavy, and so long that it dragged on the floor. I gathered the extra folds over my left arm. But we had trouble with the sword belt. It was too big and could not be made small enough to hang on my narrow hips. More than once the Sword itself nearly touched the floor.

  “Never mind,” I whispered at last. “I see no other way. I will have to draw it and carry it in my hand.”

  Ailsa clutched her amulets, her eyes wide, but said nothing.

  I held the scabbard and put my hand to the hilt. It felt smooth and cold. Gently I drew the Sword, and we both gasped as the living blade caught the lamplight and threw it back, filling the room with a glorious light. It was heavy and trembled in my grip like a live thing, seeking action. Now was the time, or never, and I pushed the curtain aside and strode into the room.

  “King Arthur!” I cried, and when he turned, I lifted the Sword to my forehead in salute, as I had seen his soldiers do.

  He stared, dumbfounded.

  “If you will not lead your troops to save Britain, I will do it in your place. I will not let her go down into the dark, even if I am only a woman. I can sacrifice my life as easily as you, and the men will follow me.”

  “Put down the Sword.” He could not take his eyes from it, and the sight of it in my hand shook him to the core.

  I held it aloft, where its weight was better balanced, and did not strain my arm so. “No, my lord. If I let it go, it will drop to the floor. Come and take it from me.”

  In four quick strides he was at my side and roughly took it from my hand. Then he went still. My arm felt dead, but his had come alive. It was as if the power from the blade ran up through the hilt and into his body, awakening the flame that had gone out. His face changed; the doleful marks of gr
ief gave way to the eager quickness he was known for; his eyes lit with wonder. He looked down at the Sword and crossed himself. Tears of thanksgiving sprang to my eyes unbidden. He took it for the sign, as I hoped he would.

  “What have I done?” he said suddenly.

  Across the room, on the landing beyond the door, Bedwyr, Kay, and Lancelot kneeled and waited. He saw them and bowed low.

  “My lords. If you can find it in your hearts to forgive me, I beg you will. I had no thoughts of abdication, but I see now it is what I have done. I was weak and allowed myself to be blinded. But this woman has opened my eyes.”

  He turned to me. He addressed me as he did them, man to man. “My thanks, Guinevere. We will speak of this after. And now, if I may take your cloak, which drags upon the ground?” His mouth twitched, and his eyes were smiling. I fairly tore the cloak off, as his knights ran into the room, all talking at once, and Varric threw open the trunk to find his traveling clothes.

  The trumpets sounded as they left, and the signal fires were lighted to give warning of the High King’s coming. He took Lancelot with him and sent Bedwyr to command the patrols along the Saxon Shore.

  “This Queen,” he had announced to all, “is her own protection.”

  22 THE FAREWELL

  The High King arrived just in time. Urien was an experienced leader and knew the value of patience. He had waited as long as he could. When it became clear that Heuil intended to assume the kingship of Strathclyde and had got his twin’s support, the other brothers came together and chose sides. Most joined Heuil, figuring once they had Urien off their backs, they could treat with Heuil for power. But Hapgar fled to Rheged with two younger brothers and allied himself with Urien, being disgusted with Heuil’s rank injustice and his greed. The High King arrived on the eve of a pitched battle between the kingdoms. Hapgar knelt before him, swearing allegiance, and Arthur knighted him.

  Against such war leaders as Urien, Lancelot, and Arthur, the Strathclyde forces had slim hope, and indeed, many of the soldiers fled as soon as they saw the Pendragon banner and realized who was there. Heuil and his brothers fought bravely, having the most to lose. The twins were killed in battle, and Hapgar was set upon the throne. All the brothers swore allegiance to the High King at day’s end, and friendship with Rheged.

  So those long weeks of worry ended swiftly. The Saxons, knowing their enemy well, did not attack, and Bedwyr was home before the King. All was quiet in Camelot. King Pelleas married Lady Niniane, but they stayed in Camelot, for she would not leave to the Lady’s shrine on Ynys Witrin or to Pelleas’ castle in the River Isles until she had seen the King. I spoke to her about it once, wondering how she felt about Merlin’s going and whether she knew what the King thought of her.

  “I know he prophesied betrayal at his end,” she admitted in her quiet voice. “But Merlin gave me everything himself. Not his power only, but his memories. Everything that was in his mind is now in mine. I know the King thinks I betrayed him, but I do not know what he means by it. Whether it was the taking of the last thoughts, while he lay dying . . .” She paused, and I shuddered. The image she conjured up was not a lovely one. “Or whether he means I took Pelleas to my bed while Merlin still lived. Both could be counted as betrayal. But truly, Guinevere, there was no harm in either. I have loved Merlin dearly, as father, counsellor, teacher, and man. I did what he bade me do. He wanted me to take it all from him, and time was short.”

  If she felt she had to justify herself to me, it seemed she was not free of guilt in this regard. I watched her closely.

  “Then he is truly dead, and not sleeping?”

  She turned to me, shocked. “Of course. How not?”

  “You don’t know the other prophecy, then? That he should go living to his grave?”

  She took a quick breath and her eyes filled with tears.

  “So,” she said slowly. “That is what it was. I felt, at the very end, that he kept something from me. There was a wall. Even with his power, I could not reach beyond. The god stood there.” She rose, trembling, visibly upset. “It cannot be. I felt his death come. May the Mother give me strength—Arthur will never forgive me and never trust me, if these things are true.”

  “Niniane, you are only human. Let me speak with the King when he returns, before you go to see him. I know your distress is real. Let me prepare the way for you. He will need you beside him in the future, and after all, that was Merlin’s plan.”

  She nodded. “You have my thanks.” Then she looked at me sideways and said hesitantly, “Do you know why the king has sent a ship to the Orkney kingdom?”

  “Yes. To fetch his son.”

  She exhaled slowly and smiled at last. “I am glad you know.”

  “I asked him to do it.”

  “Indeed?” She raised an eyebrow. “That is generous of you. I wonder if you know what you are doing.”

  “If he is Arthur’s, then I know I want him here.”

  She shrugged. “So be it. But don’t start feeling sorry for his mother. Be sure he keeps the Queen Morgause in exile. To bring her into contact with her sons again would be disaster.”

  “Niniane, you are cruel! They are her children!”

  She looked at me with cold, dark eyes. “She has no more mother love than an adder. The sooner she is dead, the better.”

  “She is of the King’s blood. Can she be evil?”

  Niniane’s smile was bitter. “Yes,” was all she said.

  The King came home one hot morning past midsummer, and all the town turned out to greet him. He had a month of work to make up, a month’s worth of petitions to hear, and reports to take from his commanders and knights errant. He was busy all the day.

  The knights errant he heard first, always. These were those of his Companions whom he trusted most, and who understood his justice. They traveled across Britain for months at a time, visiting petty kings and lords, hearing their complaints and the petitions of the people, and dispensing the High King’s justice throughout the land. They carried the King’s seal and a writ of appointment for a term. But lest they should become corrupt with power, the writ was always dated, and any man who complained of their judgment was free to seek the High King’s in Camelot. In this way, Arthur hoped to change the vagaries of laws, which had always varied from kingdom to kingdom, depending only upon the whim of the king, into something along the lines of Roman law, the same for all.

  When a knight returned from his travels at the expiration of his writ, he gave a full report to the King in Council, so the King could judge how things stood. Then he received couriers, or sent them if need be, and then he heard petitions from all who came, high and low, to get justice.

  All day Niniane and I waited to see him. But he worked steadily until midafternoon, then called the Companions to Council. This lasted until dinner.

  When I met him outside the hall, I thought he looked a different man. He had put on flesh, though still was thin, but his love of life was back. He had come to terms with his fears, and looked serene.

  “Welcome, my lord,” I said, dropping into my curtsy. “We are glad to have you back!”

  He smiled at me and slipped an arm about my waist and drew me near, although others were about. “How are you, Gwen? It’s wonderful to see you. I would talk with you awhile, if you can await me, but it will be a late night, I’m afraid.”

  “I will await you, my lord.”

  “Have you forgotten my name?” he whispered, bending down to kiss me.

  “I will await you, my lord Arthur,” I replied, grinning.

  Lancelot, behind us, coughed gently as the doors swung open. Arthur laughed and, releasing me, offered me his arm.

  “I am reminded of my manners,” he said with mock gravity, then beckoned Lancelot to come up on his other side, and threw an arm across his shoulders. “The King of Lanascol saved my life yet once again in Strathclyde,” he said, looking at me. Then, turning to Lancelot: “My thanks again, friend.”

  So we three went into hal
l side by side. But my heart was heavy. By referring to Lancelot as the King of Lanascol, Arthur had let me know that Lancelot had made his request and that it had been granted. Although I had fully expected it, I grieved to know it, and I could not share the King’s joy.

  After dinner, he sent for Niniane. He had stopped three days in Caerleon on his trip south from Strathclyde and had ridden over to Merlin’s cave again. He had shouted, but heard only gentle echoes through the hills. All had been quiet, still and peaceful. It gave him ease of heart, and when he left, he was master of his grief. They were together a long time.

  Afterward he called a meeting of the Companions, where Lancelot announced his news to all, and the date of his wedding was fixed.

  During all this time I walked in my garden, for the night was hot, and a cool breeze eddied around the fountain. The moon in her first quarter rose late and yet sailed high in the night sky before the King came to me.

  He walked along the path with an easy stride and, when I rose to greet him, took me in his arms and kissed me. “Hello, Gwen. Thank you for waiting.”

  “How did you deal with Niniane? She loved Merlin dearly and did not mean to betray him, if that is what she did. I spoke with her, my lord. She knew nothing of the prophecy you feared.”

  He led me to the bench, and we sat down together.

  “I know. You need not champion her cause. I have apologized for my wrath. I’ve had time to think it through with a clearer head, and I see well she is the last person to wish Merlin ill. If she says she did not know, then she did not. Merlin must have wanted it that way. Anyway, that’s not why I sent for her. I wanted to hear about his last hours . . . and get her advice on what to do about Morgaine.”

  “Yes?” I had been thinking the same thing myself. She was the King’s niece, and there must be some way we could help the poor child.

  “Urien had us to his castle after battle. He showed excellent sense in his handling of Caw’s sons, and I did him all the honor I could. While I was there, he took me to his daughter.” In the dim moonlight, his face was dark, but his voice was full of pain. “She is so afraid, poor child. She fears anything that moves. She fears her own shadow. She fears all men, even her father. He is afraid, and not without cause, that she will never recover her wits. I asked Niniane about the Lady’s House of Healing, where Lancelot recovered from his grievous wound. I wanted to know if she thought the women there could help the girl.”