Queen of Camelot

by Nancy McKenzie

  His seeking hands slid under the Druid’s robe and found my flesh.

  “Lancelot,” I breathed, joy and terror battling in my soul, “I cannot deny you.” And I gave myself up to his ardor.

  He was so unlike Arthur, whose delight in touching and native gift of patience gave him the power to shape a woman’s desire as skillfully as ever a potter shaped his clay. He could start with nothing and build to pleasure by slow degrees, with joy and care and laughter, until the heart cried out for its sweet release; or, himself ablaze, could fire the body in a flash to meet his need. Lancelot’s passion was a conflagration, burning and unmanageable. I gave myself to his flame, feeling nothing but heat and wild excitement, fed by his eager fury. I had no will but his will, no future beyond this moment; without a look back I surrendered to his engulfing holocaust. His body crushed me; I could not breathe; cold terror gripped my soul; suddenly I saw clearly into the heart of this consuming blaze: It was ash. Cold. Dead. Forgotten. Crying out, I hammered at his shoulders in panic.

  “NO! Lancelot! I cannot! I cannot do it!”

  He backed away at once, gasping for breath, with glazed eyes that knew me not.

  “Oh, Lancelot, Lancelot, forgive me if you ever can. But I cannot do it. It is death.”

  “Gwen!” he whispered, surfacing. “My God!”

  We stared at one another, and I fumbled to sit up and straighten my robe.

  He sat beside me and passed a hand across his brow. “Dear Christ, am I possessed? This is madness. It will be the end of us, forever.”

  “Yes.”

  I saw he was shaking as badly as I. I could not voice the terror in my soul. Twice in one day I had stared into the abyss, black and beckoning, from which there was no return. The approaching Druids frightened me no longer. The steady thrum of their chanting anchored me firmly to the dark, cool earth, and I welcomed it.

  “I love you, Lancelot,” I whispered sadly, touching his hand, “but there is no hope for it.”

  “Guinevere, forgive me.”

  “My dear, you are forgiven without asking.” I drew a ring from my finger and placed it in his hand. It was the love knot cast in gold that my father had given my mother during their courting. “Take this, Lancelot, and keep it by you. I love it dearly. Take it in exchange, if you will, for what I cannot give you.”

  He pulled the leather lacing from his tunic and, threading it through the ring, tied it about his neck. “If it is the last thing I ever do, Guinevere, I will protect your honor.”

  A strange calm came over him. He rose and handed me up. With great dignity, he walked me halfway to the entrance to the cave. Beyond, the sky was lightening. Treetops swayed gray-green in the early breeze and the valley erupted in birdsong; it would be a beautiful day.

  “Guinevere, if it should come to death, we will not wait here like trapped rats. We will climb up the hillside and find a cliff that reaches out over the sea below. If there is no help for it, we will choose death together, you and I. Are you with me?”

  I smiled at him and took him in my arms once more. “I am always with you, Lancelot.”

  With great tenderness, he bent his head and kissed me farewell.

  “For shame!” a voice cried out in anger. “Unhand the Queen, you blackguard! For shame! My God—it’s Lancelot!”

  There in the cave mouth stood two men with drawn swords. Foremost was Maelgon, staring open-mouthed at Lancelot. Behind him, with eyes only for me, stood Fion.

  38 THE PRISONER

  Lancelot’s sword leaped to his hand, but Maelgon did not advance. Confused, he wavered and lowered the weapon. I could see his thought upon his face. His exalted standing among the kings of Britain lay in his being my cousin and Lancelot’s brother-in-law. As outraged as he felt he ought to be, it availed him nothing to be outraged at us.

  But as Maelgon lowered his sword, Fion stepped forward and crossed Lancelot’s blade.

  “In the name of Arthur of Britain, yield or die.” There was iron in that lilting Gaelic voice, and I saw Lancelot go stiff with anger.

  “Lancelot!” I flung myself to my knees between them as they each moved forward. “Do not harm him, I pray you! This is Fion!”

  But even as I spoke, Lancelot lowered his sword. He knew he had no right to defend me against anyone who spoke in Arthur’s name. Fion’s swordpoint touched his breast. With his sword at his side, Lancelot took one step forward into the blade, drawing blood as Fion hastened to withdraw. Acknowledging the gesture, Fion inclined his head, sheathed his weapon, then extended his hand.

  “Yield your sword, sir, in the King’s name.”

  Lancelot hesitated, then bent his knee to the ground and offered up the sword in the ritual gesture of surrender, with the blade held flat across his palms. Fion took it. Lancelot was now his prisoner.

  “Fion.” I rose shakily and looked at my old friend. The morning sun behind him threw his face half into shadow but lit the bright gold of his hair and glittered off the great jewels at shoulder, wrist, and waist. His face had grown rugged with the cares of kingship, and he now carried himself like a warrior, but his eyes, brilliant green and smiling, were unchanged. He was still the handsomest man I had ever seen.

  “My lord King Fion,” I said with firmness, making him a deep reverence. He let his eyes travel slowly from my hair, loose and unbraided, to my bare feet.

  “My lady Queen Guinevere.” He bowed gracefully from the waist and, with laughing eyes, said gravely, “How the fashions have changed in Britain since I left!”

  It broke the tension, and everyone relaxed a little.

  “I do assure you, my lord, I would I were better gowned to greet you. But the Druids dressed me.” I became suddenly aware that the chanting had stopped. In the valley now we heard only the voices of soldiers, calling out to one another and singing victory paeans. “Have you subdued them? Have you found Salowen?”

  “Subdued them?” Maelgon broke in. “Aye, you could say so! We have sent them all to meet their precious Goddess face to face!”

  “Do not kill them all, for my sake!” I cried, ignoring Maelgon and speaking only to Fion. “There is at least one among them I would save. Not everyone took part—spare the innocent, I pray you!”

  Maelgon snorted, and Fion glanced at him swiftly.

  “We have disarmed every man we could find. Those who offered fight are dead. When we find their headquarters, we shall gather them for your inspection, and you may decide who lives and dies, if you wish.”

  I shuddered, and Fion reached out to take my arm. Lancelot moved instinctively to protest, then stopped himself in time.

  “You, Lancelot. I remember you now. When I knew you last, you were Arthur’s closest friend and ally.” His voice was cold. Lancelot flushed, but held himself still and said nothing. My heart sank. I could see he was prepared to accept all the blame for everything that had happened; he had already convinced himself he deserved it. “You will come with me, sir. I will take you to Arthur.”

  “Now, now,” Maelgon grumbled uneasily, clearing his throat. “I will take charge of him, my lord Fion, if you like. He is my sister’s husband.”

  At this Fion turned to him and stared. “Elaine’s husband? Then I had better keep him close for his own protection. Between you and Arthur, he can be judged.”

  Maelgon, who never could see beyond the end of his nose, was at a loss for a reply.

  I gripped Fion’s arm and looked up into his face. “I pray you, my lord Fion, before you judge what your eyes have seen, listen to me. I will tell you truth.”

  He drew closer, and the smile returned to his eyes. “Fair enough, fair Queen.”

  “Above all men on this earth, Arthur loves and honors Lancelot. And I do promise you that Lancelot loves and honors Arthur. He would die for Arthur gladly, no questions asked. You do him an injustice to think him traitor. He saved my life this day past, and not for the first time. Why do you think the Druids came after us? Yesterday at dawning the Archdruid Salowen tied me to a st
ake and offered me to the Goddess.” Fion’s eyes widened, and he glanced quickly at Lancelot. But Lancelot was stone. “He did not merely threaten, he bade them light the fire.”

  “Fire?” Fion whispered, incredulous. “They gave you to the fire? That is the fate reserved for—”

  “Traitors and whores. Yes. I know it. And they lit the fire. If it were not for Lancelot, I would not now be with you. Lancelot and his companions rowed across in the night, braving the Druid’s mist on the night of the new moon, losing boats and horses, and rescued me at the very moment I succumbed to the smoke. They have tended me all night, going without water or food. When we found ourselves discovered and surrounded by the Druids before dawn, we prepared to die.” I looked up into his brilliant eyes, so near my face, and hoped he remembered the day he bid me farewell in Gwynedd. “What you saw, Fion, was our farewell.”

  He did remember it. I saw his features soften, and he straightened. “Well, Lancelot. If I have misjudged you, I beg forgiveness. You have saved the Queen from a cruel fate, and all Britain is in your debt. I, too, thank you from my heart.” He held out Lancelot’s sword for him to take.

  But he did not take it. Bowing stiffly, Lancelot said in a tight voice, “You are merciful, my lord. But my gracious Queen does tell but half the truth.”

  “Lancelot!”

  “It is my fault she was abducted by the Druids. If I am the villain who put her at such risk, surely it is no more than my duty to save her from it. This justice demands. I have wronged Queen Guinevere, and I have wronged King Arthur. I cannot take the sword back. Give it to Arthur. I am in his hands.”

  “Lancelot, I forbid you to do this! Are you mad? But an hour ago you swore me protection!”

  He looked at me then. I could not bear to see such pain in his eyes. “I swore,” he said gently, “to protect your honor.”

  “This is not the way! Think, Lancelot, how you would hurt him!”

  “He will know it, Gwen. There is no help for that. All it takes is one look at your face.”

  “Or yours!” I retorted angrily. I hated the martyr in him. Why could he not forgive himself? “Do not sacrifice Arthur on the altar of your guilt!” He turned away, but there were tears in his eyes. Fion looked slowly from one of us to the other.

  “This sounds,” he said coolly, “like a lovers’ quarrel.”

  “No, no,” Maelgon cut in hastily, “I’m sure it is not. The Queen my cousin spoke truth. They said farewell. Nothing more. She would not dare. It would be her death.”

  Fion cast him a look of mild contempt. “You do not know Arthur.” He looked sadly at Lancelot and at me. “You must both return to Gwynedd with me. Whether you go to Arthur as prisoner or free man, as Queen or penitent, I leave to you. But to Arthur you must go. There is more here than I have time to unravel. Or”—with a long look at me—“than I desire to know.”

  He moved back and gestured for us both to walk before him. But as we stepped onto the ledge and into the bright morning sun, we heard scuffling above us, and a shower of pebbles and dust fell over the lip of the cave at our feet.

  “Who’s there!” Maelgon cried, drawing his sword. Down the rockface slithered a young knight in a torn tunic, with a wineskin slung around his shoulders and a rope in his hand. At the other end of the rope staggered a tall thin man in a filthy white robe. The young man gave the rope a forceful tug, and Salowen fell in an ungainly huddle at his feet.

  “Sagramor!” Lancelot cried. “Well done! Is that the archdruid?”

  “So he claims,” Sagramor replied with a grin. “He’s cursed me and all my descendants about a hundred times. What a tongue he has!”

  Salowen struggled to stand. His wrists were bound and bleeding, and his face cut and bruised where Sagramor must have struck him. But he pulled himself up to his full height, looking upon us all with grand contempt. He still had his dignity, and he said nothing.

  “He tried to kill me at the spring,” Sagramor continued lightly, coiling the rope. “But his aim wasn’t very good. I didn’t think those knives ever missed. But he was out of sorts because I killed his snake.” Salowen’s eyes slid to him for a moment, full of hate.

  “This is the man who put you to the fire?” Maelgon cried excitedly. “Cousin, speak! Is it he?”

  “Yes.”

  “King Maelgon—” Fion reached out to stay his arm, but too late. With a mighty thrust, Maelgon’s blade split the Druid’s body from throat to groin. Without a sound, he staggered and collapsed into a pool of his blood and innards. Gagging, I hid my face on Lancelot’s shoulder, and his arm came around me.

  “Sagramor!” he called. “Is that water you carry? Bring me some for the Queen!”

  The water revived me; sweet and cool, it eased my sickness. I made Lancelot drink of it, also. Fion stood between us and the slaughtered Druid, to screen me from the sight. Maelgon delighted in hurling the bloody remains off the ledge and stomping upon the dark-stained earth.

  “Food for kites,” I whispered. “That is all he is become. And by his own lights, he was a religious man.”

  “I will build him a cairn, to mark his deathplace,” Fion promised. And he did. Before we left the Isle of Mona two days later, he built the cairn with his own hands.

  Fion’s ship lay at anchor in a sheltered bay, and it was there they took me. At first I was dizzy and light-headed, but when Fion brought me broth and bread, I felt better. I had not eaten, I realized, since before I took Lancelot riding in the woods. Was it only two days hence? It seemed to me I had been on Mona for half a lifetime. I saw to it that my brave rescuers were fed, as well. For two days Maelgon’s men scoured the island for stragglers, buried the dead, tended the wounded, and questioned the Druids they found. I refused, to Maelgon’s disgust, to identify my tormenters. How could I be sure? They had been robed and hooded; I had been drugged. And I did not want any more to die because I named them. Salowen was enough. Their power was broken. Nestor they found grazing placidly in the sheep meadow, fully recovered from his ordeal. But however hard the soldiers searched for the sacred grove itself, or for the avenue of standing stones that led to it, they could not find it. Nemet had disappeared.

  They did not find Kevin. I grieved to think him dead on my account. Maelgon and Fion, and even Lancelot, could not understand my tears. They put it down to the terror I had undergone. But Arthur would have understood it.

  Maelgon at length decided to sever his ties with Lancelot and treat him as a traitor. In a tight place, he probably reckoned, blood ties to the Queen outranked ties by marriage to the King’s dearest Companion. He insisted Lancelot be confined to the ship and allowed no contact with anyone, save the servants who brought him food. Fion objected, on the grounds that what Lancelot had done to save the Queen was known and attested to, but what he had done to disgrace me or the High King was unknown. Nevertheless, Lancelot assented to imprisonment with a willingness that surprised everyone, except me. If he had shouted from the hilltop, he could not have proclaimed his guilt more clearly.

  Leaderless, the Druids who wished to remain on Mona’s Isle to tend their sheep and live quietly were permitted to stay. Their knives were taken from them.

  We were a solemn procession, coming home to Gwynedd. I was given immediately into the care of Alyse and Anet, who seemed to have come to friendship in my absence. They were wild to know what had happened, and how and why, but I feigned exhaustion, kept to my rooms, and held my tongue. Maelgon had not the nerve to throw Lancelot into the dungeons, much as I knew Lancelot himself wished to go. Instead, he confined him to his quarters to await the arrival of the King. On the third day a royal courier arrived. The hoax about the Picts had been discovered as soon as they reached Rheged, and Arthur was on his way back as fast as he could ride.

  When I heard this from Anet, I rose from bed and bade Ailsa bathe and dress me. I chose a deep-blue gown to wear with the sapphire earrings Fion had given me as a wedding gift. My hair Ailsa dressed with sapphire netting and strings of river pearls,
scenting the long coils with rosewater imported from Gaul. She shook her head, mumbling under her breath about duplicity and wickedness and the snare of beauty.

  “Ailsa,” I said firmly, “when a woman wages battle, she is entitled to any weapon she can lay her hand to. Hush your chatter, and send to beg an audience of King Fion.”

  Most of Fion’s train were still housed in his ship, Maelgon having few rooms to spare. But Fion was given a chamber of his own, and this is where he saw me. He sat near the window with two of his companions; when I entered, they leaped to their feet, eyes wide and mouths agape. Fion, too, I noted with satisfaction, was struck dumb by the change the gown had wrought. I made him a deep reverence. “My lord King Fion.”

  He cleared his throat. “Queen Guinevere. Be welcome.”

  “Thank you, my lord. I have come to beg a favor of you. But I would prefer to speak privately.”

  With a wave of his hand he dismissed his companions. Fion came forward and took both my hands. “I have been hoping for this, Guinevere. Are you quite recovered? I heard you lay abed, ill from your long ordeal.”

  “Oh, yes, my lord, I am recovered. But my ordeal is far from over.”

  “Ah.” He leaned down and softly kissed my cheek. “Don’t be so formal with me, lass. I’m still the man you knew as Pellinore’s hostage.”

  I smiled up at him and saw his eyes grow luminous. “Indeed? Then I am still the orphaned princess, standing in the shadow of Pellinore’s daughter.”

  At this he laughed and handed me into a chair by the window. “By all the saints in Christendom, you never stood in anyone’s shadow! Did I not tell you, when last I saw you, that a great future lay before you?”

  “You did indeed. But how could you have known?”

  “By my eyes!” he exclaimed. “God does not bestow such uncommon beauty on a maid to have it hidden in a corner of the kingdom. It is a gift with a purpose. Only from the heart of Britain could your light blaze forth to bathe this embattled land in its resplendent glow—”