The King stood on the castle steps with his company of knights, gave his sister the ritual kiss of greeting, and saw her installed in her rooms. Then he washed his hands of her and returned to his work. Two steps he took in precaution. He sent to Avalon for Niniane, and he sent a message to Urien in Cornwall, begging his attendance in Camelot as soon as the festivities were over.
I was kept out of Morgan’s way, which suited me well. We had no relief from the heat, and I and my ladies sat all day by the fountain in their garden, or in mine, stitching and listening to birdsong. It was enough to drive one out of one’s wits. Everyone’s temper was frayed. When I saw the King in the evenings, it was all I could do to be civil to him.
“What has your precious sister come for?” I would accost him. “Make her speak—has she some complaint of me? I will see she regrets it! Oh, Arthur, do something! If I have to stitch another cushion I shall scream.”
And he would laugh and give me cool fruit drinks, chilled with ice they kept in the cellars, packed in straw. He was almost too sweet-tempered to bear.
Finally, Queen Morgan went to see the King. He came to me shortly after, to tell me what she had said.
“I have called a Council meeting in the Round Hall, at her request, when the heat of the day is past. She wishes to make a formal Complaint, but will not tell me what it is. You must be there, Gwen.”
“Whatever pleases you, my lord.”
“It does not please me,” he said, suddenly cross, staring at the dull white sky. “But you must do it. Christ! Why won’t it rain?”
When the Council met two hours before dinner, the heat had grown worse instead of better. The sky was darkening, but the air was still and oppressive. It hung so heavy, it took effort to breathe. Arthur and his Companions gathered in the Round Hall, mopping their brows and looking damp and ragged. I sat on the King’s left hand. Lancelot took his place on his right. Directly opposite the King was the Chair of Complaint, sometimes known as the Perilous Chair, on account of some judgments given against false accusers. Here sat Queen Morgan, robed in rich velvets and crowned with the crown of Rheged, cool and steady, looking not in the least uncomfortable. That was when I knew for certain she was a witch.
Behind her chair stood Accolon, handsome and proud, dressed lavishly to match her. He held himself still, but he had not her steadiness. His eyes darted here and there, watching the faces of the Companions, and more than once drifted to the High King’s Sword and then quickly looked away. I shivered suddenly, though the heat was stifling.
When everyone was gathered, Queen Morgan rose. “My lord King, my brother, and all you gentle knights, I come to bring Complaint against the Queen.”
There was muttering among the Companions, and Lancelot shifted in his chair. The King stared at her, waiting.
“When last I was here, as your guest, you, my brother, had no sooner taken ship for Less Britain when your lady Queen turned upon me and insulted me to my face. Sir Accolon will verify it; and if he tells the truth, Sir Bedwyr will, as well. I have no doubt,” she continued as Bedwyr, on my left, stiffened with anger, “that it is difficult for a backwoods princess to be brought so high, by your favor and grace, my lord, and all in all, she has done well, and is beloved of your company. But without your strong hand to guide her, she is a ship cast off from moorings. And this time, my lord, she has foundered upon Pendragon rock.”
If she thought the way to get at Arthur was through flattery, she was mistaken. He sat perfectly still, but his nostrils flared and his eyes looked right through her. Beside him, Lancelot barely controlled his fury; I could read his thought upon his face: backwoods princess indeed! It made me smile, and Queen Morgan, seeing it, began to lose her temper.
“I am the daughter of the High King Uther and his Queen Ygraine! I will not be insulted, my lord King, by anyone in the kingdoms, without redress. It is my due.”
Arthur considered her long and then answered. “I know of what this ‘insult’ consisted. I know also of the words you spoke to Guinevere. This is not a matter for the Council, Morgan, but for you two women only. It seems to me that apologies are due on both sides. Let us dismiss this matter.”
“No!” She was truly angry now, and her haughty features looked hard and cold. “I will have redress! You are famous for your justice, my brother—would you withhold it from your own kin? I will not have anyone speak to me so!”
The King sighed wearily. “What redress do you seek? The High Queen will apologize.” I rose.
She paused and gathered everyone’s attention. “She has dishonored you, my lord King. Put her away.”
The Companions shouted in protest; the noise filled the hall. Arthur was surprised, and showed it. He could not believe she had come all the way from Rheged for this. He did nothing to stop the shouting, but waited until the noise of dissent abated. Gently he took my wrist and sat me in my chair. He felt my trembling and said softly, “Courage, Guinevere.” Then he faced his sister. “No.”
“Hear me out, my lord. You will see the words I speak are truth. You are enchanted by her beauty, as is every man in this room. How not? And if she had done Britain her duty in bearing sons, I should demand less. But in truth, my lord, she has failed you and betrayed Britain; she has ended the Pendragon line and put a final stop to what you and our father have accomplished. This is not news—this she can see herself. But Pendragon must be her enemy, else she would step down of her own accord, and do you the grace and favor you have done her. But she has not; she is content to do your line dishonor and bring it to a close. She is not Queen enough for you, my lord, however much you love her. Not Queen enough to put your honor before her own; not Queen enough to treat your sister with common kindness; never mind the loving favor she bestows upon your Companions.” Here Bedwyr gripped my hand beneath the table and held on tightly. “And her favors, my lord”—her voice went smooth and silky— “are so generously bestowed! Can you not see with your own eyes, brother, how she treats Sir Lancelot, or Sir Bedwyr, or King Melwas?”
I gasped, and the Companions stared at her dumbfounded. The implication was perfectly clear. The deliberate mention of Melwas cast the same shadow over them all; she meant they were my lovers, and every man there knew it.
Arthur shot to his feet, white-faced. His right hand pushed hard on Lancelot’s shoulder, keeping him in his seat.
“That is enough.” His voice was flat, and when one saw his eyes, the room grew colder. “This is unpardonable.”
I held tight to Bedwyr’s hand and kept dry-eyed. Later he showed me where my nails had drawn his blood.
“You have had more redress than you deserve,” the King said in a low voice. “I have allowed you to publicly insult my wife. I should have known you better.”
Amazingly, Queen Morgan looked contented with this response and smiled a smug smile.
“There is no question here of betrayal, madam, except on your own part. All Britain knows I will not put the Queen away. Neither”—and he let his glance fall on the stunned faces of his Companions—“will I allow her to leave me, so long as I am King. That is an end to it.”
“I insist that she go.” Morgan’s eyes were bright and eager; what did she hope from this defiance?
The King leaned forward, furious. “I refuse.”
Queen Morgan shrugged and signaled Accolon. The young knight stepped forward and came to the edge of the table.
“King Arthur of Britain,” he said formally, with barely a tremor in his voice, “my lady the Queen of Rheged is dishonored by the Council’s refusal to give her redress for the wrongs done her.” He had got it by rote; this was planned. He drew a glove from his belt and threw it on the table. “On behalf of my lady the Queen Morgan, I do challenge King Arthur to personal combat—with the Sword of Britain against the Sword of Rheged. I contest your right to rule.”
Everyone gasped. Arthur looked bewildered behind his shock. Lancelot jumped up, shaking from head to foot.
“Traitor!” he cried. “You
foul, murderous traitor! I will kill you myself before you lay a hand on the King! How dare you!”
“Lancelot!” Arthur held his arm but could not still him. The room was in an uproar. Everyone was shouting. Queen Morgan looked quietly pleased; Accolon stood white and determined beside her. My eyes went swiftly to the Sword, behind the King’s chair. Something touched my neck like a cold draft, and I felt the hairs rise. When I looked away, I felt Morgan’s icy gaze upon me and shivered.
Amid the hubbub, Arthur collected himself and grew thoughtful. He could not fathom her intentions, but his immediate course was clear. “I accept the challenge, Sir Accolon. On the morrow we meet.”
Again the knights protested, each one offering to fight for the King, each one protesting that he should not risk his person for such a one as Accolon.
Arthur raised a hand and silenced them. “I thank you, my lords, for the offers. But he has challenged my right to rule. And she has challenged the Queen’s honor. I will meet him myself, and with pleasure. Kay, see to the arrangements.” He looked at Morgan. “Now get out.”
She swept out with stately dignity, Accolon in her wake. The Companions crowded around Arthur.
I turned to Bedwyr. “Let me go! Let me go!” He released me, and I sprang from my chair and flew to my rooms. Suffocated, oppressed with misery, I ran to my garden to find solace in private tears. I wept long and heartily. No matter what I did, I brought grief to Arthur. Morgan was right—I was not Queen enough for him. It had never occurred to me to leave him, to withdraw, but had I been less a backwoods princess and more a queen, I should have thought of it and done it. And now? Would it be too late? He had declared he would not let me leave, but perhaps that was to defend my honor in that public place. Perhaps he would allow it, if I went quietly without his knowing. The old wound was reopened, and I felt I could not bear it any longer. But to part from him now—I would be but half myself without him. Yet how could I stay, and subject him to insults for my sake! He was forever defending my honor with the blood of his body!
I wept until my head felt like splitting, and still the tears flowed freely. Suddenly I felt a cool touch upon my temples and a gentle hand stroke my brow. I lifted my head to see a child, thin and dark and pretty, at my side. Her face was narrow, her expression somber, but her warm brown eyes were luminous and filled with love. She hummed a little tune, and as she touched me, I felt my tears subside.
“Who are you?” I whispered, taking her little hand in mine. “Who are you, who looks at me with Arthur’s eyes? What is your name?”
She said nothing but kept humming, and then very gently kissed my cheek. I reached for her and hugged her to my breast, this little angel with the healing hands. She embraced me; her thin arms, delicate as a bird’s wings, went round me, and I was comforted. Without warning, she stiffened, then broke away and left me, quick as a wink. I looked round for her, but she had vanished. I did not believe in fairies; I thought I must have dreamed it.
Then I saw Arthur coming down the path to me. He knelt beside me on the flagstones and took me in his arms. “Dear Gwen! How she has hurt you!”
“My dear Arthur,” I cried, laying my head on his shoulder. “Why is it I am such a heavy stone around your neck? I cannot bear that I should be the one to put you in jeopardy! Your sister was right in that—until you are free of me, you will forever be defending my honor against slanders that are nothing but truth!”
“I knew it!” he whispered fiercely. “I knew you would take it so. For this, and not for Accolon, I will be revenged upon her!” He pressed me close and held me while I wept in his arms. “Listen to me, Guinevere, for I do not say this lightly. You are the joy in my life. Have you ever thought what it is to be a King? Daily am I besieged by other men’s problems, pressed upon by a crowd of personalities around me, always easing the friction, finding the smooth path, making the way straight, always giving, giving, giving. I cannot tell you what pleasure it is to come at last to you. There I can be free of obligation. I can say anything to you. This is a rare thing in a woman; so for this I treasure you and would have none other.”
I listened to him and was struck with wonder. These were Bedwyr’s words from Arthur’s lips.
“My—my lord, I thank you. But I wish you would not take up arms for me.” Because the day was hot, the breast of his tunic lay open, and I ran my fingers over the scar on his shoulder. “The Saxons never harmed you in all the years you fought them,” I whispered. “The only mark you bear, you got for me, by Melwas’ blade. I am ashamed of it, Arthur. It should not be thus.”
He tried to smile. “What, would you have me covered with scars, like old Caius Lucius?”
“Please, Arthur,” I begged, the tears returning, “please let some other fight in your stead. I could not bear it if you suffered injury on my account.”
“My dear wife,” he breathed. We stayed thus, silent, arms clasped about one another, struggling for command of our emotion.
I felt a light touch and looked up. The sweet child stood behind us, one hand on Arthur’s head, one hand on mine. My tears dried, and I breathed more easily. Arthur looked up and saw her. She did not move, but looked straight into his eyes, so like her own, then gently touched his face with her small hand. He dared not even breathe, lest he break the spell. The child stepped closer and took his head in her frail arms, cradling him against her slim body. The King closed his eyes. Two small tears welled up and spilled down her rounded cheeks. Lightly she touched his head above his ear and caressed the spot as if it pained him. From nowhere came a low voice, ghostly, that echoed around us.
“Thus shall it be on the last day, the wicked day, when the King sends his spirit home. He shall lay his head down in her gentle lap, and lay down his burden at last . . .” The voice trailed off into silence. Even the birds were still.
Then Niniane stepped out from the shadows, holding her head in pain; the King opened his eyes and sat up; the child ran to Niniane and hugged her skirts. Niniane sank down on the stone bench, head bowed. The child touched her temples and began to hum.
The King gripped my arms, breathing fast. “Stay with me, Guinevere, I pray you. Don’t leave me.”
“My lord!” I whispered, meeting his eyes. The moment passed. He steadied himself and drew a long breath.
“Is there aught I can get for you, Niniane? I know Merlin used to take a potion after visions, but I know not how it was made.”
She looked startled. “Did I prophesy for you, my lord? My head feels like it, but I can remember nothing, except darkness and flame. Yes, I can see by your faces I said something of importance. Let this child finish . . . thank you, Morgaine, that is better.” The little girl sat down on the bench beside her and waited quietly, swinging her thin legs back and forth. Niniane smiled lightly; the harsh lines from brow to hairline told of her headache, but her eyes and voice were back to normal. “This is Morgaine, Queen Morgan’s daughter. She has the gift of healing and of Sight. She is especially sensitive to pain in others. That must be what drew her here, for I was on my way to the Round Hall to see you when she disappeared from my side. She is now in my care.” She raised her chin. “She will be Lady of the Lake after me.”
“Thank you, Morgaine, for comforting the Queen,” Arthur said gravely to the child. She kept her eyes down and would not look at him.
“She does not speak,” Niniane went on. “But she has the gift of thinking in pictures, which can be seen and understood by an adept. In this way, she has told me something of importance, my lord, which you should know.”
“Tell me.”
“The sword hanging in the Round Hall is not Excalibur.”
I gasped, and the King started. “Are you certain of this?”
“She knows where the true Sword is. In a dark place, underground. Safe. Somewhere in Rheged. After I have taken Morgaine to Ynys Witrin and dedicated her to the Lady’s service, I shall go to Rheged and find it for you.”
Arthur nodded. “Now I understand my sister’s p
lan,” he said slowly. “She never expected me to put you away, Gwen. In fact, she chose as her demand the one thing she knew I would not do. All she wanted was a confrontation, so her poor dupe Accolon could issue his challenge.”
“So now that you know the sword is a fraud, you will not fight him? This duplicity can be revealed, and all will be well.”
But the King shook his head. “No. I will meet him. His honor demands it. Let him have the chance to change his mind.”
“But you will not fight with the weapon they have substituted? Surely they have designed it to shatter in your hand.”
He was adamant. “There are more ways to kill a man than by running him through with a sword. If Accolon does not yield to me, he will die tomorrow.”
“He will die tomorrow,” Niniane repeated absently, but the words on her lips sounded final. She rose to go, and we both rose with her.
“I have frightened you, Guinevere,” she said with concern. “Your hands are like ice. I beg your pardon for it. What did I prophesy?”
“Only my death,” Arthur said with a light smile, and a gentle kiss to my forehead. “But I promise, I shall not fall to Accolon.”
In fact, the contest with Accolon was barely a contest at all. Accolon came magnificently dressed; the King wore his plain fighting garb. I watched Queen Morgan’s face as the men approached one another. When the King put his hand on the hilt of the sword and accepted it without thought, her face lit and her eyes grew eager. I felt sickened; he was her own brother, yet she wished him dead. If Lancelot looked for Pendragon ambition, he need look no further than Ygraine’s daughter Morgan.
Accolon, knowing the weakness of the King’s sword and wishing to put a quick end to the contest, lifted his weapon and swung with all his might. The King blocked the blow; his sword shattered in his hand.
Queen of Camelot Page 57
