Queen of Camelot

by Nancy McKenzie

  “I mean no offense to the High Queen, Sir Bedwyr, but may we not hear from Prince Mordred, as well? Where Lancelot is concerned, we feel, uh, his memory might be more dispassionate, and thus clearer.”

  I flushed, but held on to my temper. I would have liked to believe Morgause had put him up to that, but it was something any one of them might have said. What was between me and Lancelot had never been a secret. He had said it as delicately as he could, and God knows, there was truth in it.

  Sir Bleoberys then stood. “May we not hear from Prince Gaheris, as well? He is accused, as well as his mother.”

  “He is a child!” I cried. “You cannot ask him to accuse his mother to her face!”

  “But my lady Queen,” Berys said politely, “are we not asking that of Prince Mordred?”

  I shot Bedwyr a desperate glance. “We are only asking Mordred for confirmation of what Lancelot told me in his hearing, are we not?”

  Bedwyr nodded and signaled the guard. “Send for Prince Mordred only.”

  He was not far away and came at once. Plainly dressed and holding himself straight and tall, he looked so much like his father, it was almost like having Arthur in the room. In answer to Bedwyr’s question, he confirmed what Lancelot had said. He did not tell them he had refused to believe it. But when Bedwyr dismissed him, Queen Morgause rose.

  “Please allow my son to stay.” They were the first words she had spoken, and all heads turned toward her. “You have allowed him to hear the accusation against me. I demand he be allowed to hear my reply.”

  Bedwyr nodded and motioned Mordred to one of the empty chairs. “Very well. What do you say in your defense, Queen Morgause?”

  She stood easily and surveyed the gathering with contempt. Richly dressed and hung with ornaments, the silver crown of Orkney with its milk-white stones upon her brow, she was higher born than any man in that room, and she wanted them all to know it.

  “My lords. Queen Guinevere. I am wrongly accused of a foul act. I am as innocent as any one of you. Not only do I deny the charges, I am ashamed of you for bringing them against me. I am heartily ashamed. You demean yourselves to even think it. But, my lords, the cause is clear enough. This summer, I gave Sir Lancelot cause to hate me, and we all know, my lords, what that can lead to. No one has a stronger advocate anywhere on earth than Sir Lancelot has in Queen Guinevere.” She curtsied prettily in my direction; heads turned; I held hard to the arms of my chair and returned her stony stare. “I pray you, my lords, never say a word against his stainless honor, else you find yourselves in my position.”

  “What did he do?” whispered one of the Companions.

  Bedwyr frowned. “Silence. We are not gathered to accuse Lancelot. Answer the charge, Queen Morgause. The High Queen claims she found Gaheris in your bedroom, half dressed, at dawn. What say you to that?”

  “She is lying.” She met their eyes, one by one, except for Mordred. “I deny it absolutely. Gaheris is my son. What she suggests is disgusting.”

  The men nodded, frowned, and murmured.

  “Nevertheless,” I said firmly, “he was there. Pulling on the tunic he had left on the floor by your bed days before. Setting a tryst for moonrise, promising to bring you a gift. He was closer to me than you are now.”

  Morgause’s lips slid into a smile. “You have been snooping in my chamber, my lady Queen? What is this obsession you have with children? Is it because you are unable to bear any of your own?”

  I shut my eyes and drew a deep breath. At least I had seen it coming. She had given me fair warning the day before.

  “My lords, have pity on the Queen. Think what she has suffered, unable to bear my brother the King a son. Imagine how it preys upon her mind, day and night, year in, year out, as all about her women conceive and bear. Yet she cannot grow the High King’s seed.” Against my will, tears crept from my eyes and slowly fell, in long, wet tracks, down my cheeks. Morgause lowered her voice. “Poor woman in a girl’s body,” she said sweetly, “her barrenness has turned her wits. All she thinks about is children. They must haunt her very dreams. I think, my lords, that this must be how it happened: Still dreamstruck, she came to me and accused me of something she had imagined while she slept. I can find no other explanation. But I forgive her; I would not trade places with her for all the world.” She paused. I could not open my eyes. Did they all think me dreamstruck? Did they all think this an answer to the charge? “My lords, is the Queen the only accuser you can find?”

  There was silence. Bedwyr cleared his throat. Suddenly a chair scraped against the flooring, and Mordred’s voice rang out calm and clear. “No. I accuse you, also, Mother.”

  I looked up. Arthur’s son stood straight, his fists upon the table, and faced the witch. She stared at him, open-mouthed.

  “My mother has lain with my brother since before we left Orkney.” The men gasped. “At first I only suspected some intrigue. And even when Gaheris hinted at it—”

  “He never did!” she cried, trembling.

  “—I thought it was a twisted kind of boasting. He has always needed her affection more than any of the rest of us.” He looked around at the men, sad and determined. “But when Lancelot told me what he had seen, I knew it was the truth. All the things I had seen before finally made sense. I knew she would return as soon as the High King left with Lancelot. And when she returned, I kept a watch upon her.”

  “Dragon’s spawn!” she hissed, leaning toward him.

  “For Gaheris’ sake, I have tried to keep him from discovery. I failed in that. But sooner or later it had to come to light.” He looked directly at her. “You knew that, surely. You knew it, and you did not care. You don’t much care what becomes of Gaheris.”

  Her eyes were slits; the look in them made me quail, but Mordred stood fast. “No, you bastard whelp, but I care what happens to you! And you will never escape me, Mordred. I have known your fate from the moment of your conception.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “How like him you are, to turn against me! You will be revenged for that, I do assure you.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Brave words, from one who is powerless to prevent disaster! Be certain I will—”

  “My lords!” I rose and found my voice. “You have heard the accusation. Will you come to a decision, or must we listen to more of this hateful woman’s spite?”

  Amid her ranting, the men decided on imprisonment, but away from Camelot, someplace where her sons could not see her except by the High King’s leave. They settled on a stronghold in the south, not far from the Winchester garrison. Castle Daure, later known as Castle Dour on account of her temper, was a strong fortress near Saxon lands, held by one Arres, a graybeard king who owed to Arthur the keeping of his kingdom. Until the courier was sent and preparations made, she would be held in the tower.

  I took Mordred aside and thanked him for my rescue. Pale and contained, he merely nodded and kissed my hand. Morgause screamed at the sight of it, and as the guards took hold of her, she flew into a rage.

  “Bitch!” she snarled. “You two-faced bitch! You barren whore!” Conversation died; men turned; she flung off the grip of her captors. “Cowards! You are all cowards! I curse your children, and all the generations of your descent!”

  “Guards!” Bedwyr said sharply. “Hold her. Bind her if you have to.” One of them drew forth a length of rope.

  Morgause stamped her foot and writhed and swore vengeance upon them all, but they ignored her and bound her fast.

  Suddenly she grew calm. “Go ahead, brave men, and bind a woman’s flesh. You think that gives you power over me. But you will do my bidding in the end. Guinevere!” She leaned toward me; against my will I shrank back. “Do not think you have beaten me. Do you imagine any fortress in Britain is strong enough to hold me?” She smiled; my innards turned to water. “And those boys of mine whose service Arthur covets, and whose minds you are trying to recast—remember this: They are my sons, all of them, and they will never be you
rs. Not one of them.” Her eyes slid to Mordred; I seemed suddenly unable to breathe. “I have sown the seeds of my revenge in them, though they know it not. You cannot remake them. It is already too late.” She began to laugh, an ugly sound, full of hate and satisfaction. “Arthur will live to rue the day he sent me into exile!”

  “That’s quite enough,” Bedwyr commanded.

  “Silence!” she cried, and froze him with a look. The men went still. The very air began to waver. The spell she wove ensnared the will of soldier, Queen, and prince alike.

  “I will destroy my brother. Like Queen Medea, I have brought my enemy a gift that will be his death. He has accepted it; his fate is now out of his hands.” I shuddered. I saw it pleased her. “But you, Guinevere, I have already destroyed. Attend and hear your fate. The Great Goddess, who gives life, who takes it and withholds it, listens to my entreaties. You are barren as a mule, and it is my doing, it has always been my doing! I have sacrificed to the dark moon, in the black pool, every month since you married my brother! It is a powerful enchantment. Because of me, little child queen, the only son you will ever give to Arthur is a son of mine!”

  A scream pierced the air. High and wild, it shattered the light and plummeted into nightmare blackness. Pain struck my head; my throat rasped raw—it was my scream, my hate, my terror that lay stretched out on the cold stone floor.

  Bedwyr’s face swam above me; the witch’s high-pitched laughter tore at my wits. “You fools who worship the ground Arthur walks on! He is not the saint you think him! The very crime you accuse me of—” Another scream, was it mine or hers? The door flew open, a great wind rushed in, the cold dark was upon us. Strong hands lifted me and set me in my chair. All the men huddled in the corner, Bedwyr included, hands before their faces, making the sign against enchantment. Across the Round Table, Morgause stood alone, eyes wide with terror, one fist pressed hard against her mouth, one hand held out to ward off a blow. Slowly the faintness passed, and I saw clearly.

  Merlin stood before Arthur’s chair, black-robed, white-bearded, his flesh seamed with a thousand wrinkles, his eyes as bright as black water. He stared at the witch, and she seemed to shrink even as we watched.

  “You!” She gasped, fighting for breath. “You are dead!”

  “Yes,” he said.

  She bit off a cry of terror and collapsed into her seat.

  Merlin lifted a long finger and pointed it at her. “I seal your lips upon Arthur. You will say naught against him. Nor against the Queen.”

  Her eyes widened, but she did not open her mouth.

  “The Goddess deserts you. From this moment on, the only power you command will be such as any woman of your age and birth commands.” He glanced at the Companions and beckoned them forward. “Take her away and do not fear her any longer. Whatever prison you take her to, there will she stay. I myself will see to it.”

  Bedwyr bowed. Morgause whimpered. But she was not without courage. “Are you real, Merlin? Or a phantom? Come here and let me touch you.”

  Something moved behind his eyes. “As real as your shadow, Morgause, which you are never without.”

  “Except in darkness.”

  “And where is your shadow in darkness, but lying in wait for the light? It is there, though you cannot see it.”

  Morgause gasped. “I don’t believe you can do it! Wh-What are you? A spirit or a man?”

  He lifted his hands, and his black robe spread like wings. “I am Arthur’s servant. And you are his enemy. Like Medea, you are cast out, and will not accept your fate. And like Medea, you will be taken away.”

  “I will tell—” she began, and then her lips froze, though she stamped her foot in anger. At last she spat at him. “Do your worst, then, King’s enchanter. Given time, I shall find your weakness and make you pay!”

  Merlin signaled to the guards. “Take her away. Go on. It is safe. Though you do not see me with you, I am there, and will protect you from her.”

  Morgause was led away without a word of complaint. The Companions, tongue-tied and staring, mumbled their thanks to Merlin and filed out. At last only Bedwyr and I remained.

  Merlin turned to me. “You have acted bravely, Guinevere. You have no more need to fear her. Her power is gone.”

  But for the cold that encased him like a second skin, he seemed the same Merlin I had known, and feared, before.

  “Thank you, my lord. I—I am grateful for your coming. I had no defense against her.”

  He smiled kindly. “You have more than you believe. No one here believed her words but you, my dear, not even Morgause. But for Arthur’s sake, as well as yours, I could not let her continue.”

  “My lord—” I paused, trying to brave the question that had knocked against my lips since first he spoke. “My lord, if—if she has lost her power, does that mean, could that mean, I—I—I could bear to Arthur?”

  He took both my hands in his. His grip was warm, real, and brought me comfort, but I knew by the gesture what he was about to say.

  “She lied, my dear, when she claimed to have caused your fate. It was an empty, vicious boast. She is no more responsible for your barrenness than you are. Courage, Guinevere. We have spoken of this before.”

  “Yes, my lord. You told me it would grieve me more than it ever grieves the King. And so it does.”

  “There is a reason for it.”

  I looked up. “So Bedwyr told me. But—may I ask you? Is it true?”

  Merlin nodded. The great cold that had come in with him seemed to warm as he spoke. “Arthur will live in glory everlasting, as long as men are alive to tell his tale. And that will be in no small part your doing, Guinevere, because he has no son to share it with.”

  “But, my lord,” I said quickly, “he has Mordred.”

  Merlin froze. The room grew frigid; the air itself turned to ice; a dark cloud took shape around him and from its depths I heard his frosty whisper: “Mordred the Bastard! May his name be cursed forever!” With a sound like a whip-crack, the ice broke, the mist thinned, and he was gone!

  I jumped and looked at Bedwyr. His face was white.

  “Bedwyr! Am I dreaming?”

  He shook his head. “If you are, then I am, too.”

  “Where did he go? What did I say? Why should the mention of Mordred send him away?”

  Bedwyr’s hand shook as he reached out to me. “Being merely a mortal man, I cannot say. Ask Mordred what there is between them. He ducked out the moment the enchanter swept into the room. Out that window.” He pointed to a window behind the table that gave onto the courtyard.

  “He has never seen Merlin before! Why was he afraid?”

  Bedwyr shrugged. “I don’t know. Why is anyone afraid? Ask Mordred. Come, Gwen, you are tired and in need of rest. And I am, too. In a week we go to Caerleon, and the witch to Castle Daure. There are a thousand preparations, and not much time.”

  33 THE PROPHECY

  Three days before we left, Morgause sent to me begging an audience with Mordred. She did not ask to see any of her other sons. I called Mordred to me and asked him if he wished to see her.

  He shrugged. “I suppose so, my lady. I know there is something she wants to tell me.”

  “It is probably something you do not wish to hear. She cannot be pleased with you, Mordred. She must look upon your words in Council as betrayal.”

  He lifted his eyes to mine and spoke like Arthur’s son. “Nevertheless, I will hear her. She can say no word against the King, or against you, either. And as for me, well”—he shrugged again— “she is the one who forced me to choose between her and my father. Attacking Lancelot is one thing: He is a man and can defend himself against her, as he proved. But Gaheris—Gaheris is a child.” He shifted uncomfortably. “She enjoys inflicting pain. This is not news. But if she expected loyalty, she should not have let me meet my father. Now I know, as I never knew before, what worship is.”

  “Ahhhh, Mordred.” I reached out a hand to him.

  “She cannot hurt me more, m
y lady. She knows I have cast my lot with Arthur. If she wants to scream at me, let her scream.”

  “You are a brave man.” He smiled at the appellation. “Before I let you go, I will make one request.”

  “Anything, my lady. Ask it.”

  “If, in your judgment, what she tells you will affect the King, or the Kingdom, I would like to know of it.”

  “Of course, my lady. If it concerns the King, it is your right to know. And my lord Bedwyr.”

  “That depends on what it is. You must use your judgment.”

  “I will tell you everything, my lady Queen, I promise it.”

  I smiled at his ardor. “You have been so brave, Mordred, and I owe you so much. If you will take me into your confidence, I would be in your debt.” He rose to go. “Mordred.” The question came out without my willing. “Why did you run from Merlin?”

  His eyes grew wide and he shivered. “My lady, I do not know.”

  He went to see Morgause and did not come back.

  I paced about in a fever of impatience. Something must have happened. A fine, cold rain had soaked the ground and made it muddy. It was not a day for riding or walking out; I sat in my rooms and stitched with my women. It was never a thing that brought me comfort.

  I expected Mordred to come to me after dinner, but he did not. When I sent for him, they told me he had gone to bed early. I sent for Berys, who commanded his barracks.

  “Have you seen Mordred?” I asked him. “How does he?”