Queen of Camelot

by Nancy McKenzie

  He accepted this and said no more, but I saw he did not believe that was all there was to it. When she left Camelot, Mordred breathed easier.

  On the first of May Bedwyr and Ferron came to me, wearing secret smiles, and bade me come on a birthday outing. The boys, even Gareth, were all out on a two-day deer hunt with the soldiers, and Ferron was enjoying a respite from their care. The High King, they told me, had left three gifts for me. If I would dress for riding, they would show me the first. When we arrived at our destination, they would show me the second. And later that night, they would show me the third.

  Delighted, I did as they bade me, and went with them to the stables. The grooms had their war stallions ready, bridled in gold, and next to them held Rajid, his blood-bay coat shining in the sun, his mane and tail braided with ribbons threaded with silver.

  “What’s this?” I said, turning to Bedwyr. “Does Lyonel want Rajid galloped over the downs?”

  Bedwyr grinned. “He is not Lyonel’s charge anymore, my lady. He is yours.”

  I gasped, staring. A war stallion! For me?

  “Does Arthur know of this?” I cried. Both of them laughed.

  “It is his gift,” Bedwyr said. How far he had come since that first day we went hawking, when he was loath even to let me ride without a saddle!

  The stallion whinnied as I approached him and nuzzled me with affection, blowing his warm breath onto my cheek. It was unheard of, for a woman to ride a war stallion. I had never taken him beyond the ring; now we were riding down the streets of Camelot, in public view. It was Arthur’s declaration, as clear as any trumpet, that his Queen was due a warrior’s respect. Neither Bedwyr nor Ferron was offended; they seemed pleased, and I was grateful to them.

  We rode out King’s Gate and along the causeway that crossed the rolling downs toward Ynys Witrin. The stallion was fresh, and his spirits high. I had my hands full for the first hour. The pace was easy; the two knights seemed to have no purpose in mind other than exercise in the soft, clear air. We passed the road that led to Melwas’ castle and continued on toward the estuary. The sun was high overhead when they called to me to turn off toward the northern hills.

  “We will be met there for a picnic,” Bedwyr explained. “That is the second part of your gift.”

  Indeed, as we neared the wooded hills, I saw the tracks of many horses in the dust. The trail wound up the hill, and we slowed, riding single file. Rajid was winded now, having spent the winter in the stable, and easy as a lamb to handle. Near the summit we came upon a group of horsemen in a clearing, dismounted, and gathered around a fire. Cloths were spread and baskets of food set out; clearly they had been waiting for us. But they were not King’s men. They wore no badges. I did not know a single face. But they, apparently, knew me. All of them went down on one knee and made me reverence.

  Their leader came forward as we dismounted. He was a young man, about my age, and he moved with grace. I caught my breath as I looked into his face; a handsomer man I had never seen. He was tall, and lithe, and black-haired, with downy brows and clear, long-lashed gray eyes. I felt my chest tighten so I could barely breathe. He was the image of Lancelot, except his nose was straight.

  He knelt and kissed my hand. “My honored lady, Queen Guinevere of Britain, I am your servant. We come from Less Britain to take service with your lord, the High King Arthur.”

  I raised him, trembling, and gripped his hand so he could not withdraw it.

  “Your name, sir?” It came out in a whisper. I thought he almost smiled.

  “Galahantyn of Lanascol, my lady.”

  I held myself still somehow, remembering the eyes upon us.

  “Where is he?”

  Then he did smile. “On the hilltop. Take the trail to the left. He is waiting.”

  Bedwyr was grinning, and Lancelot’s men were smiling. They had planned this all, I saw, for my pleasure. I tried to school my pace, but five steps up the path I was running, and when I reached the knoll at the top I fell breathless into Lancelot’s waiting arms. He swung me around, laughing.

  “Oh, Lancelot! Lancelot! You are back!”

  “Happy birthday, my sweet,” he said, and kissed me eagerly. I held him close and returned his caresses with passion. When I drew away, I thought I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and, turning, saw Galahantyn coming up the path. He had stopped, startled, and looked embarrassed. Lancelot, an arm around my waist, laughed and beckoned him closer.

  “You have met my brother, Gwen? Is he not everything I told you?”

  “He is beautiful, Lancelot. But we have put him out of countenance.”

  He put an arm across his brother’s shoulders and kissed me again.

  “All the world knows I love you,” he said simply. Then turning to his brother, who stood with eyes downcast, he said, “Is she not everything I told you, Galyn? Have you ever seen such a woman?”

  “Lancelot, that is not fair,” I protested earnestly. “What do you expect him to answer, without insult to me?”

  At this Galahantyn raised his head and met my eyes. “An honest answer is an easy one. I do not wonder at my brother’s adoration. When I saw you on your warhorse, you reminded me of the tales the Saxons tell of goddess-warriors, and you could have been such a one, with white fire for hair.”

  The color rose to my face, and I made him a deep reverence.

  “My lord speaks with a poet’s tongue,” I replied. “I thank you for the compliments. I must introduce you to Sir Bedwyr, who shares your gift.”

  “Has Bedwyr been paying you compliments, then, all winter, in my stead?” Lancelot asked with mock jealousy. His face was near; I could not help it; I kissed him again.

  “He is the Queen’s Protector now.”

  “And what is this I hear about a warhorse? You are not riding Pallas?”

  “Rajid, my lord. Arthur’s birthday gift.”

  “Rajid!” he exclaimed, distressed. “What did they geld him for? He was the best of that year!”

  “He is whole, never fear, yet he is mine.”

  Lancelot whistled softly. “It is because you drew the Sword!” he said reverently. Galahantyn crossed himself.

  “What do you mean? There is no mystery here. The King gave me the stallion I have been working with six months. Don’t look at me like that!”

  I reached an arm to him, and he embraced me. We both forgot that Galahantyn was there. With his arms around me, he whispered, “Don’t you see it is the King’s message to his troops? To put superstitious fear at rest, he must make you worthy in a soldier’s eyes. He gives you a stallion not two of his best knights can sit and proclaims you royal. Pendragon. It is a sign.”

  “You and your signs.” I sighed, kissing his lips softly. “Oh, Lancelot, I have missed you so!” For minutes then we two were alone beneath the pale sky, alone in the world, heedless of everything but our great love and our joy at his return. When he broke away from me at last, Galahantyn was gone.

  “Ah,” sighed Lancelot, “I see I will have some explaining to do. Come, let us go down to the others and ease my poor brother’s fear for my soul. Let me have the news. What have I missed?”

  “More than I can tell you in a day. And some of it is for your ears only. But we cannot be private here. Tonight in the library, with Bedwyr, you shall hear it all.”

  “I have heard rumors about the Orkney boys,” he said, following me down the path. “Has he brought them here?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Morgause?”

  “Still in exile.”

  “Ahh. I’ll bet she wears that like a nettle shirt. And Mordred?”

  “You have come to the heart of what I want to tell you. He knows.”

  Lancelot stopped dead, and I turned. There was fear on his face. “He has been acknowledged?”

  “Privately, yes. Publicly, no.” The fear faded.

  “Ah. Well, then. The King is now in Cornwall, I understand?”

  “Yes—have you been in touch with Camelot, then?
And I did not know it?”

  He grinned. “I sent a courier when we landed. Bedwyr thought it would please you to have a birthday surprise, so he sent a message to me secretly, and thus it was arranged. What is the King doing in Cornwall?”

  I watched his face closely. “The reason given was to visit Ygraine’s grave and pay his respects to Duke Constantine.”

  “And the real reason?”

  “He did not tell me otherwise, Lancelot. But I imagine, as Constantine is his declared heir, he has gone to talk to him about his son.”

  Again I saw the flicker of fear on Lancelot’s face, but I did not understand it.

  “When does he return?”

  “I don’t know. We have had no courier. He is expected any time . . . Lancelot.” He would have moved on, but I stopped him. “You had better know that Mordred—that Mordred is dear to me. And to the King.”

  He smiled gently. “I am glad, Gwen. Glad for your sake, and for Arthur’s.”

  I saw he was sincere and it confused me. “Then why are you afraid?”

  He paused. “I am afraid Arthur may love him too dearly. He cannot be King, Gwen. You must see that he cannot rule Britain.”

  All of my defenses went up at once.

  “Why not, if he proves worthy? There is no other child of the King’s body who is fit. Mordred is twice Pendragon.”

  I stopped. Lancelot nodded. “Yes,” he said, very softly, “that is the reason. He is a child of incest. You know this. No bishop will anoint him.”

  Stricken, I turned away from him. “In Wales, when you came on Arthur’s behalf to take me from my home, you said yourself—you asked me to forgive the King this sin. I thought you had forgiven him, as well.”

  “Indeed, I have,” Lancelot said gravely. “He sinned in innocence. I hold nothing against Arthur.”

  “Then how on earth can you hold it against Mordred?” I cried. “He is the one who was wronged! He is the most innocent of all!” I was near tears. I already knew what he would say. But at least he said it sadly.

  “Mordred, by virtue of incest, was not born innocent. He will carry the stigma of his birth all his life. He cannot be anointed. Arthur knows this.”

  I wept then for Mordred, and he took me in his arms and held me. He tried to bring me comfort. “If the King has taken him into his household and acknowledged him as his son, it is an act of great kindness and mercy. Especially as the boy is dangerous.” He gasped then, and swore under his breath.

  “What do you mean, dangerous?”

  “I—I should not have spoken. Guinevere, forgive me.”

  I dried my eyes and pulled away, to better see his face. “What do you mean?”

  “Please, Gwen, do not ask me. I cannot tell you.”

  Unreasonably, I grew angry. “I command you to tell me!”

  He took no offense, but looked unhappy. “My dear, if it were my secret, I would obey you. But it is by the King’s order I am silent.”

  “Did Arthur tell you this? Directly? Or did you guess it?”

  “It slipped out once, accidentally, when he was thinking aloud. There was no one else present. He bound me with an oath.”

  “Well, you have not broken it. I have heard something, a whisper only, that led me to wonder if Merlin had ever prophesied to the King about the boy.”

  I saw by the way he schooled his face to stillness that I had guessed aright. It filled me with foreboding; how dare the old enchanter cast such shadows across our lives! And where had he gone, that I could not reach him?

  “There is nothing to be done,” I said at last. “He is our son now and is accepted as such by almost all the court. Arthur may be an anointed Christian King, but Mordred is pagan to the core. If kingship is his destiny, he will not need anointing.” I smiled at Lancelot’s horror. “Never mind. What will be, will be, to steal from Merlin. Let us go down.”

  He followed me in silence. But when we reached the bottom of the path, before the last turn that would reveal us to the soldiers, I summoned up my courage and turned back to him.

  “Lancelot. I have not asked for your news. Your—queen must have been delivered of the child. Is all well? Are you a father now?”

  His smile was one of joy and pride. “She bore me a son at the equinox. His name is Galahad.”

  I curtsied low. “Congratulations, my lord. May he thrive and grow strong.”

  He raised me and held my hand, searching my face. “You are not bitter? I did not speak before, not wanting to bring you grief.”

  “Thank you, my dear. But you know I always wished you well. I pray he will grow to be a joy to you.”

  “Why, Gwen,” he said softly, coming closer, “what has happened, to heal your heart?”

  I met his eyes defiantly. “Mordred,” I said, and turning, led him into camp.

  In hall that night we celebrated Lancelot’s return. His brother and all his train were made welcome. Now they wore openly the badge of Lanascol they had hid from me before, the screaming hawk with outstretched wings. All the company were glad to see them, and Lancelot was warmly greeted. It was like old times with him sitting beside me, but better, because Elaine was not there. When the wine went round, Bedwyr rose and presented me with the King’s third and formal birthday gift. Everyone waited expectantly while I opened the linen wrappings and the inner wrap of soft black cloth. Within was a necklace of brilliant gems, as clear as crystal but so bright they hurt the eyes to look at, strung on a thread of gold. I lifted them for all to see, and the others were as amazed as I was.

  “What are they, Bedwyr?” I whispered, awed at the splendor of their reflected light.

  “Diamonds, my lady. They come from a distant land, far to the south. Beyond the Inland Sea.”

  “How beautiful!” I exclaimed, turning them this way and that so they glittered in the torchlight and even the knights at the far table could admire their sparkle.

  “Allow me, my lady,” Lancelot said, and taking them from my hand, he laid them around my throat and fastened them behind my neck. The touch of his hands made my breath come faster, and I kept my eyes in my lap. It had always been so; it was beyond my power to control. Then he raised me and walked me about the room so that everyone might admire the High King’s gift.

  After hall, Bedwyr, Lancelot and I gathered in the library for talk. The men stood near the hearth, and I sat on the settle, between them. Bedwyr told Lancelot of all that had passed, of Merlin’s return to life, of the boys’ arrival, and what they were like. They were due to come back the next day, and Lancelot was to be put in charge of their sword training, so Bedwyr gave him a full report. He told him everything, even of their poor horsemanship and did not dwell on Mordred more than on the rest.

  “Well,” Lancelot said, “if they are Lot’s sons, they will make warriors eventually. As for Mordred—” He met Bedwyr’s eyes and read respect there. “He could come of no finer stuff. It will be my pleasure to teach him his trade.”

  “You will do him honor, Lancelot, in time. You will see. Whatever you teach him, he will learn it.”

  A smile touched Lancelot’s lips. “Pendragon ambition. It’s in the blood.”

  “And how have you kept yourself, my lord?” I said quickly. “Who keeps your lands for you and your infant heir?”

  This was the first Bedwyr had heard of Galahad, and he slapped Lancelot warmly on the back and congratulated him. Lancelot glanced sidelong at me and grimaced.

  “It is good to be back. The winter was a long one. Truth to tell, I am not fond of women in pregnancy.”

  I smiled, to show I did not mind it. “That is a problem easily solved, my lord.”

  Both Bedwyr and Lancelot laughed heartily and sat down one on either side of me.

  “How refreshing it is to speak straight with a woman!” Lancelot said with fervor, holding my hand. “You deal honestly and set no traps for my tongue.”

  I did not tell him I had warned him; I did not tell him he had chosen it; all this he knew. “Deal honestly with
us, then, King of Lanascol. Who guards your coasts? What is happening in Less Britain?”

  He stretched, and sighed. “My cousin Bors is regent. I hope to bring him over next spring. But here is something of importance: I paid a visit to my neighbor King Hoel, Arthur’s cousin, King of Brittany. Things are happening beyond our borders that may demand Arthur’s attention. I have come to call him to a conference in Less Britain at summer’s end. Clodomir, King of the East Franks, is getting restless. He covets the Burgundian territories that lie on his border.”

  “He is the eldest son of the great Clovis, is he not?” I looked up at Bedwyr for confirmation.

  Lancelot looked surprised. “He is indeed. I did not know you knew Frankish history, Gwen.”

  “I only learned it lately. Valerius has been teaching the boys. He was dismayed at their ignorance—they did not know Cornwall was a part of Britain, or that Less Britain lay across the sea—you should have seen his face when he realized they had never heard of Rome! He has taught me much that I did not know myself. Before he came to us, he traveled through Frankish lands and spent a month with Clodomir, and afterward with Childebert, his brother.”

  “King Childebert’s all right,” Lancelot affirmed. “He is King of the West Franks, and his lands border mine. So far he has been content with what he has. Perhaps it is because we have Arthur behind us. That is one reason I’d like Arthur to visit us in state. If formal ties of friendship are renewed, Childebert will think twice before attacking.”

  “Is he himself in danger from his brother, Clodomir?” Bedwyr asked, frowning.

  “No, but Clodomir underestimates Burgundian power. If it should come to war, I fear he may lose it. If Clodomir falls, Childebert will move eastward, I am sure of it. And the Burgundians will most certainly move north. Then either we shall have the Burgundians at our border, or if Childebert defeats them, a very powerful Childebert with an empire at his back. I like neither. I want Arthur’s advice on it.”

  I was staring into the fire, thinking about the Franks. Where the words came from that I spoke, I do not know. “The Saxons lie between us for most of the length of Britain—between Arthur’s Kingdom and the Franks. They might turn like a sword in the hand, if trouble arose. Or we could deal with them and become an empire ourselves.”