Queen of Camelot

by Nancy McKenzie

  I gripped his arm. “When, Mordred? When am I to go?”

  “Why, at once, my lady.”

  My mouth went dry, and I held hard to his arm. “Will you escort me?”

  “Of course. With pleasure.” But as we walked, his curiosity got the better of his courtier’s manners. “What’s in the kitchen gardens, my lady? Sir Lancelot insisted I come to you at once with the message. He seemed to think it would not wait another hour.”

  “Indeed, Mordred, perhaps it will not wait.” We went through the corridors as fast as I dared without giving the impression of haste. “I only hope it is not too late! Unless I am mistaken, I have waited a week for this.”

  “Waited a week? What is it, my lady? It can’t be something amiss with the cooks; there would be no mystery in that.”

  Suddenly I stopped and turned to him. “Mordred, I will make you a fair exchange. You wish to know what awaits in the kitchen gardens, which is a secret I share only with Lancelot, and I wish to know what you have been doing in the town, and how Lancelot came to choose you as the bearer of his message. I will tell you the one, if you will tell me the other. What say you to that?”

  He considered this indelicate proposal with a thoughtful face, chewing his lip, and at last he nodded. “It is more than fair, my lady, as I have no right to know your business. But where it concerns Lancelot, for my father’s sake I wish to know it.”

  “Mordred.” I spoke gently, but in my heart I cursed the palace gossips. “There is nothing about Lancelot that your father does not already know.”

  He lifted his chin. “I do not trust him, my lady.”

  “You do me insult, Mordred, to think so little of him.”

  “Oh, no, my lady! That is not what I meant! I—”

  “And that is why I am willing to share this secret with you. To show you the kind of man he really is.”

  “Very well, my lady. If I am wrong, I will admit it.”

  At last I could smile. “Thank you, Mordred. Now tell me”—as we started down the corridor again—“where is Lancelot now?”

  “In the town, my lady.”

  “Pray, where in the town, and doing what?”

  “He is—he is—dealing with a witch, my lady.”

  “A witch? You mean the woman Sybil?”

  He looked up quickly but took time to frame a reply. “Yes. That is the name she goes by. He is turning her out of Camelot. With soldiers.”

  A tinge of anger crept into his voice, but I could not imagine why.

  “Well, Mordred, he would not do it without cause. She must have breeched the law in some respect. Pray God she did not poison anyone!”

  “She did not poison anyone!” he cried.

  “Why, Mordred, do you know aught about her?”

  A quick look away and a light frown. “Enough, my lady, to know she is a difficult woman and a proud one. But she has done nothing to warrant being thrown out of Camelot by the High King’s troops!”

  He ended on a note of vehemence, but his lowered eyes and compressed lips signaled a reluctance to say more. There was more here than he would tell me willingly, and I decided not to press him.

  “And how did Lancelot choose you as his messenger?”

  “My lady, I went to the house of the witch and—”

  “Why did you go there?”

  “To—to find Gaheris, my lady. I heard—I knew he was there. I met Lancelot coming out the door. He commanded me bring this message to you, without delay.”

  We descended the broad steps to the kitchens. “So you did not find your brother?”

  “No, my lady, not exactly. But he was there. I heard his voice.”

  I greeted the cooks and scullery maids, who made us reverences as we crossed to the garden door. In the cool, shadowed passage I pulled Mordred aside.

  “You have kept your part of our bargain, Mordred, and now I will keep mine. I am going to meet a girl who a week ago accused Lancelot of fathering her child.” His eyes widened, and I hurried on. “She has come this time, I hope, to tell me the truth. But she may be shy of you, so I beg you, stay well away.”

  “My lady,” Mordred breathed, “how do you know she was not telling you the truth before?”

  I met his eyes squarely. “Lancelot denies it, and I believe him.” He said nothing, but politely lowered his eyes.

  Drawing a deep breath, I pushed open the heavy door and stepped out into the brilliant sunlight of the garden. At first I did not see her and feared I had come too late, but she was waiting in the shadows on the cellar steps. I came up to her; Mordred waited in the doorway.

  “Hello, Grethe. Thank you for coming.”

  She curstied low. Her face was very pale, and her hands trembled. This time she had come without her son. “My lady Queen.”

  “I have had a message from Sir Lancelot saying you wished to see me.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Well?” But she was shaking with fear and could not look me in the eye. Struggling to keep myself calm, I sat on the steps and bade her sit beside me.

  “Grethe, nothing good can come of holding back the truth. I will not punish you if you have told me lies; I know you did it to protect your son.”

  She looked up at that. “You do understand, my lady? You really do? I thought, since you had no children of your own, you would only think me weak and foolish.”

  I winced at the blow—as if childlessness affected the working of one’s wits! “Indeed, I understand you better than you know. Anything you do to keep your child from harm will be forgiven. There is no excuse for cruelty to children. That is the one sin I could not forgive. And that is the sin you laid at Lancelot’s door, last time we met.”

  She lowered her eyes. “I know.”

  “Is it true?”

  “No,” she whispered, a small tear forming in her eye, to be hastily brushed away.

  “Tell me, Grethe.”

  She shrugged. “Madam, until he came to me this week past, I had never seen Sir Lancelot before.” I let out a long breath in relief. “When he came to my father’s house, I did not even know who he was.”

  “Ah, thank God, thank God.”

  “I thought he was supposed to be a handsome man,” she said in her child’s voice, “but he had a broken nose. I didn’t believe him when he told me who he was, not at first. Why, that boy in the doorway is better looking.”

  “Judge a man by his actions, Grethe, and not his face. To those who know him, he is handsome enough, indeed.”

  “Yes, madam.”

  “Why did you lie to me?”

  But she turned her head away and began to tremble. I kept my voice as gentle as I could. “Come, Grethe, surely this is a question you expected. If you did not know what Lancelot looked like, you could not have known that your son resembled him. But someone else did. Who told you to name him to me as the boy’s father? . . . Was it Sybil?”

  She bit off a cry of terror and stared at me in wonder. “Yes, madam,” she breathed. “How did you know?”

  “And Sybil sent you to me?”

  She nodded quickly. She was shaking from head to foot.

  “But it cannot have been for gold. You did not take the coin I gave you.”

  She said nothing, but simply stared at me in dumb fear, like an animal caged and expecting death.

  “What did Sybil expect to gain from such a lie? Do you know?”

  She shook her head.

  “What threat did she use against your son to force your compliance? How did you fall into her power?”

  Here was the heart of her terror. She shoved her fist against her teeth and whimpered.

  “Be easy, Grethe, the witch is no longer in the town. Lancelot himself has thrown her out King’s Gate and seen her on her way. She cannot hurt you.”

  Her eyes widened. Suddenly she bent her head and began to weep. “Oh, my lady! She is a sorceress! She told me it did not matter where she was, she would haunt me if I betrayed her! She said she would turn herself into an e
agle and carry Vorn away if ever I told the truth! She said she would know every word that passed my lips! We are doomed, we are doomed!”

  I put an arm about her shoulders and held her close. “Nonsense, Grethe.” I hugged her shaking body. “She said that to frighten you into silence. She cannot change herself into an eagle any more than I can. Once she is gone, you will be safe from her.”

  She sobbed wretchedly. I waited until the force of her weeping diminished. “Where is your son now, Grethe?”

  “At home. With Mother.”

  “Why don’t you go get him and bring him here? You can have a room within the castle, and I’m sure Ailsa can find you some employment. You can keep your son by you in the King’s own house. Would you feel safe then?”

  She looked up at me in astonishment. I wiped the tears from her dirty cheeks and dried her eyes. “There. That’s much better. For your son’s sake, Grethe, you must be strong. What do you say? Will you bring him to live here?”

  She grabbed my hand and kissed it. “Oh, my lady!”

  “Good. Go home and pack your belongings and bring them to the south gate. Ask for Ailsa, the Queen’s woman. She will be expecting you.”

  She thanked me again and curtsied and kissed my hand and blessed me a thousand times and promised good service and undying devotion; when she left the garden in the sunlight, she was smiling.

  “That was well done, my lady,” Mordred said softly. “You are very kind.”

  “She was very frightened. And I wish to know why. Eventually I will know it.”

  He walked me back through the kitchens and up the stairs toward my rooms. “How much did you hear, Mordred?”

  “Nearly all, I think, my lady.”

  “Then you see what Lancelot has done. He did not content himself with denying wrongdoing; he sought out the cause of the accusation and seeks to put it right.”

  “That is one way of looking at it,” he said stiffly.

  “Why, and what other is there?”

  “You will not want to hear it.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  “My lady, the girl is weak. She acts from fear. Someone frightened her into accusing Lancelot, and now he has frightened her into changing her story. It can’t have been hard to do.”

  “You do not know him,” I said sharply. “He would not do it. And you heard her say herself that the witch frightened her into making the accusation.”

  “I heard you say it, my lady. You supplied the name, not her. Please, my lady, do not be angry. I do not know the truth of it. And you were generous indeed to offer her a place in the High King’s household. But—”

  “Go on.”

  “I do not believe the witch put her up to it.”

  We had reached the door to the library, and I stopped and bade Mordred follow me inside. I sent a page with the message for Ailsa; I had intended to take it myself, but then I had not dreamed that Mordred, sensible, thoughtful Mordred, could be so blind.

  When we were alone, I sat him down on one of the cushioned benches, and I sat opposite him, where I could see his face. He was pale and uncomfortable, but he held himself straight and did not avoid my eyes.

  “Now, Mordred, tell me what this witch is to you. You have defended her at every turn, as if you are loath to think ill of her. Does she have you, too, under her spell?”

  “No, my lady.”

  “But you know her. You have spent time with her. You went to her house.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Why?”

  He did not answer. He was not afraid or ashamed or guilty, but I saw by his face that I trod on private ground. This time I did not let him evade me. “You must see, Mordred, the importance of this matter. The High King’s nephews, and the High King’s son, have kept company with a witch who has conspired to defile the good name of the High King’s chief lieutenant, his second-in-command, his closest friend. Lancelot has exiled her from the city. If you persist in keeping silent about your part in this, what choice do you leave me but to place the matter in the High King’s hands? He will be here in another week. Are you and your half brothers ready to answer the questions he will have?”

  “No, my lady.” Mordred trembled, but did not give ground. “If I could tell you, my lady Queen, please believe me, I would. I would not have you distrust me for anything in the world! But I have promised the witch I would keep her secrets.”

  “A foolish promise, Mordred.”

  “Probably. But she made us all swear by the very things we hold most sacred that we would reveal nothing about her. And I must keep that promise.”

  “Even before the King, your father?”

  Mordred looked up desperately, beseechingly. “Even before the King. Oh, my lady Guinevere, do you have to tell him? Is it so important? You don’t know for certain that she forced the girl to lie, and anyway, Lancelot has got rid of her by now, so couldn’t you, couldn’t you just let it rest?”

  “No,” a stern voice said behind me, “she could not.”

  We both jumped up. Mordred stood at attention; I turned to find Lancelot in the doorway. His appearance astonished me. He looked pale and shaken and very, very angry.

  “Lancelot, I am glad to see you. Perhaps, between us, we can come to the truth of this matter.”

  He bent his knee and kissed my hand, but he did it without thought. His eyes were cold; all his concentration was on Mordred.

  “I have come to make my report,” he said woodenly. “In private.”

  “May not Mordred stay? I would like him to hear, firsthand, what you have discovered.”

  “No need, my lady,” Mordred said quickly. “I should be going.”

  “No.” Lancelot spoke with the voice of command, and Mordred froze. “Perhaps you are right, Guinevere. Perhaps he should hear it. But first, I want to know”—he stood before Mordred and frowned down at him—“who is that woman?”

  “My lord, to tell you would require me to break an oath I swore.”

  “Swore to whom? Not to that hag?”

  Mordred bristled. “Yes, my lord. To the woman Sybil.”

  “King’s son or no, you are a fool.”

  “Lancelot!”

  He turned to me a face white and drawn with anger and fatigue. “I’m sorry, Gwen. But when you hear—it is no more than truth, though for Arthur’s sake, I should forbear to say it. I beg your pardon, Mordred. Your youth, perhaps, forgives you something.”

  There followed an awkward silence. No one moved. Finally I seated myself on the bench. “I have seen Grethe, Lancelot. Thank you for sending her to me.”

  “Was she coherent? She’s done nothing but weep for three days past. She’s been badly frightened.”

  “She told me you were not the father of her child. She told me she had never seen you before, and when I suggested that Sybil had somehow forced her to the lie, she assented.”

  Lancelot grunted. “The witch threatened the girl with public exposure and shame. If Grethe hadn’t lied, she’d be the one tossed out of Camelot instead of Sybil.”

  Mordred stiffened; Lancelot turned toward him. “It might interest you to know, she confessed it to me. Bold as brass, and as shameless. Your precious witch has kept her ear close to the ground since she’s been among us.” He turned back to me and passed a hand through his hair. “You see, Gwen, she found out what the girl has tried so hard to keep a secret. She discovered who the boy’s father really was. If that were known, why, the girl and her child would have to leave the city. They would have to be discredited. Poor souls, they would be allowed no choice.”

  “But why?” I whispered. “Who is the father?”

  “It does not leave this room.” A direct look at Mordred. “After Arthur, the most powerful man in Britain. Bishop Landrum.”

  “Oh, no!” I crossed myself quickly. But it did not surprise me. “He—he seduced her?”

  “A child of thirteen?” Lancelot’s voice was bitter. “No. He took her by force. That part of the tale was true. All of i
t was true, except the name. He is the scourge of Camelot. She is not the only one.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “His victims dare not speak. But Grethe told her mother, and the witch found it out.”

  “But, Lancelot, what did she have to gain by forcing the girl to lie? Why accuse you?”

  Lancelot’s lips twisted into a bitter smile. “In the witch’s own words, for her amusement. She wanted to cause us pain. You. And me. And Arthur.”

  I glanced at Mordred. He stood straight and pale, his face unreadable. Lancelot sat heavily on the bench. He looked suddenly ill. “Ahhhh, Gwen, that’s not even the worst of it.”

  “There’s more?” I whispered. “What more could there be?”

  “After I sent Grethe here, when I went to the witch’s house to face her with it, I found—” He glanced swiftly at Mordred, who kept his eyes fastened on the wall, “I found Gaheris there.”

  “Yes, Mordred told me—”

  “In her arms.”

  “Wh-What?”

  “In her embrace. In her bedchamber. Half dressed.”

  Mordred gasped. We both turned. The boy was livid, his hand clapped against his mouth, staring at Lancelot.

  “He is eleven years old!” I cried.

  Lancelot nodded wearily. “Yes.”

  “No!” The word burst from Mordred, beyond his control. “I do not believe you!” he shouted. “I will not believe you! You are only trying to blacken her name because she accused you!” His hands bunched into fists, and he raced from the room.

  “Lancelot!” I cried, “Forgive him! He is young himself to know about such things!”

  Lancelot shrugged. “He fears more for her reputation than for his brother’s safety. I will never understand those Orkney brats. Well, whatever spell she wove is broken now. If he had not believed it, he’d not have run away. And she is gone. The soldiers have orders to escort her as far as Aquae Sulis and send her north. She enters Camelot again on pain of death. Once I charge her in Council with such a crime, her life is forfeit.”

  “And yet,” I breathed, “she has done no more than the bishop himself has done. Arthur must know this.”

  “You will set the place by the ears, if you tell him. No one will confess it. And in truth, his sin is the more understandable. You yourself believed it possible of me.”