Queen of Camelot

by Nancy McKenzie

  “Thank you, my gracious King,” Gareth murmured. Arthur raised him, clasped him, and kissed him. “Go to your brother Gawaine and tell him I will see him here in an hour. Try, if you can, to make him see the gravity of this affair.”

  Gareth promised and withdrew. The King turned back to Mordred, whose dark head was bowed in anguish.

  “My lord,” he cried, “please forgive my failure! I should have prevented this and could have, if I’d had my wits about me!”

  A smile touched Arthur’s lips, but Mordred did not see it. “Rise, Mordred, my son. You are not to blame for this.”

  Mordred’s eyes flew to the King’s face. Arthur grasped his arms and embraced him. “Even had you ridden at their side, even had you cried a warning to Lamorak, you could not have prevented his slaughter. They would have killed you first, to get to him. And I need you living.”

  Mordred drew a trembling breath, and color flooded his face. For a moment they stood thus, father and son, holding each other. Bedwyr and Lancelot stood flattened against the walls, staring straight ahead, unseeing—the sentry’s stance. Arthur was the first to turn away, deeply moved. “I thank God you and Gareth were there,” he said slowly. “As it is, we shall have peace awhile longer, if I can deal with Gawaine. Tell me how Drustan stands in this.”

  Mordred swallowed, stilled himself, and gave the King his report. Arthur seemed satisfied and nodded.

  “There is hope,” he said.

  “But, sir, there is one thing more. You should know,” Mordred said with a tremor in his voice, “you should know that Drustan asked me straight out if I were your son. It was just after the killing, we were bearing Gaheris and Lamorak back to Caer Mord and he needed to know where I stood. But he asked me, instead, who I was.” He hesitated, and the King met his eyes.

  “I hope,” Arthur said carefully, “that you told him the truth.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Mordred said, relieved. “I could do naught else. So—so now he knows.”

  From where I stood I could see him shaking, and my heart went out to him. Tell him, Arthur! I cried in my thoughts, it is time to let him know your intentions! But Bedwyr and Lancelot were there, and I did not think he would. Arthur stood looking gravely at his son.

  “It is well he knows,” he said slowly, “so he will accept you one day as his King, should he outlive me.”

  Mordred went white; his eyes widened in amazement; my own filled with tears. Lancelot and Bedwyr were staring at the King, Bedwyr with warm approval, Lancelot with frank dismay.

  “My lord,” Mordred whispered.

  Arthur smiled. “You did not think I would leave Britain in Constantine’s hands, while my son is living and able? You are my heir, Mordred, none other. Give me another year, and I shall publicly declare it.”

  “My lord,” Mordred breathed again, at a loss for words.

  “You have things to learn yet,” Arthur said gently. “But you are worthy.” Then he grinned. “If you don’t believe me, ask the Queen.”

  When Mordred looked to me, my kerchief was over my face, and I began to weep. This broke the tension, and all the men laughed. I drew Lancelot and Bedwyr out into the garden and left Arthur some time to be alone with his son. At length, we all left him, for Gawaine was due, and he wished to speak with him alone.

  While the King met with Gawaine, Mordred sought me out. I had gone to the stables to visit Rajid, and he found me leading the stallion out to graze. When I saw by his face he wanted private speech, I beckoned him to walk with me, and we went down the path to the meadows beyond King’s Gate. As we passed the outer ramparts, Mordred lifted a hand, and four sentries fell in smartly behind us. I smiled to myself. Clearly Arthur’s soldiers recognized Mordred’s authority.

  When the stallion had settled down to peaceful grazing, and the sentries stood some fifty paces off, Mordred seemed unable to begin. He fidgeted and looked away, clearly moved by strong emotion.

  “Well, Mordred,” I said gently. “He has told you now what all Camelot has known for years. And Duke Constantine, as well, unless I miss my guess. You are his heir.”

  Mordred straightened and met my eyes. “I can hardly believe it. I have both wanted this and feared it.”

  “Feared it, Mordred? You? Fear power?”

  He looked away quickly. “Guinevere, do not forget my oath.”

  This was the rub. I had half expected it. I reached for his hand and held it tightly in my own. “When you made the oath, Mordred, what was in your mind? Remember back to that day.”

  “I did not want Lancelot to accuse me of ambition,” he admitted.

  “Yes. But you are Pendragon. Ambition, the drive to be the best—it is in your blood. Lancelot knows this. And now he knows, as he did not know then, that you love and honor the King.”

  “And,” he continued, as if I had not spoken, “I wanted to thwart the prophecy. I still want this. If I die with him, how can I be his death? I want to deny this curse more than I want anything else, even”—he swallowed—“even being High King.” He shook his head slowly. “He has done me such great honor. I will give up anything, even the future he offers, to be free of this prophecy. But Niniane says this is beyond my power. Oh, Guinevere,” he cried, “what am I to do?”

  Arthur’s words had lit a fire in him; he glowed with pride, with confidence, with the knowledge that he had at last received the call to his destiny. He had been born to kingship—looking at him now, no one could doubt it. And yet he was ready to renounce it, to accept death instead of glory, and all for Arthur’s sake.

  My eyes were on the ground. Near my foot Rajid’s lips gripped the meadow grasses, his strong teeth softly tore the shafts, which sprang back into place at half their height. As time passed they would grow tall again, as if the horse had never been there, for although the shaft was gone, the root still lived.

  “Take your mind off Arthur and Merlin’s prophecy,” I said suddenly, looking up into his black eyes. “Think of Britain. Think of the people all over Britain who live in peace. All Merlin ever said or did, he did for Britain, and Arthur after him. We are bound into a nation now. Keep our welfare always before your eyes, and God will guide your steps.”

  He slowly sank to one knee, pressing to his lips the hand that still held his. “My dearest Guinevere. You are a Queen, indeed!”

  I raised him quickly. “Come, Mordred. I have said nothing you do not know already, in your heart. Had you asked the King, he would have told you the same.”

  He looked solemnly at the ground and moved the toe of his boot over the short blades of grass cropped by the horse’s teeth. “Let me tell you my dream,” he said in a low voice. “It is a dream that consumes me. . . . All men may be warlike, but everyone in his heart values peace. I dream that someday—beyond our lifetimes, surely—but someday, all the civilized world may be one nation! Britons and Saxons, Franks and Bretons, Romans, Egyptians, and men of other nations we know nothing of—they will all sit down together and talk of peace. Yes, I know it sounds impossible. But look at Arthur. Not so long ago men would have said it was impossible for Britain. But he has shown us how it may be done. Men serve gladly if they are well led.”

  This was a speech for Mordred; his eyes were shining and his face was alight. Then did I see his father’s spirit in him, and I made him a low reverence.

  “My lord,” I whispered, “what a King you will make!”

  He smiled shyly. “I have said too much. But I wanted you to know what is in my heart . . . However, these are dreams, and there are practical matters to be faced. How will he get the Christian lords to accept me? Even to Lancelot I am an unholy abomination.”

  “It is not as bad as all that. I am Christian, and I accept and love you. Do not worry about Arthur. If wisdom and patience can accomplish it, it will be done.”

  “Wisdom and patience,” he said slowly, “and the love of the people.”

  I took his hand and held it hard. “When they know you, Mordred, as I do, they will love you.”

/>   He met my eyes and lifted my fingers to his lips; together, hand in hand, we turned back toward Camelot.

  What Arthur said to Gawaine, I do not know, except that it was harsh. I am sure that he forbade him to seek revenge against Drustan, even if Gaheris died. Whatever chastisement he administered, Gawaine took it and kept silent. He took charge of Agravaine, paid for his lodgings in the town, and saw that he went to his yearly service for the Earl of Swiftwater. But he was no longer as friendly with Gareth, and Mordred he avoided altogether. To ease matters, Arthur kept him moving. When he traveled, he took Gawaine with him, leaving Mordred co-regent with Lancelot. When he was home, he sent him to Caerleon, or Cornwall, or Rheged, or Lothian. Thus was Gawaine’s deadly energy put to use and friction prevented.

  In this way, Gawaine became known as the High King’s right hand, a forceful knight who shared the King’s counsels and knew his mind. His quick temper was put down to his youth. Men respected him.

  Meanwhile, Mordred and Lancelot came to an understanding. Thrown together as they were by Arthur’s orders, each knowing the other bore a special place in the King’s heart, they learned to work together. Gradually, Lancelot passed more and more of the daily work to Mordred, allowed him more freedom to make decisions, and finding him a sober, careful, hardworking man, let him take the reins of power into his own hands. Lancelot was still the Queen’s Protector, but as time went by he allowed Mordred to assume most of the work as regent. In return, Mordred treated Lancelot with new respect and seemed to like him better.

  “I may have been wrong about him, Gwen,” Lancelot said to me once. “He is a good man and will make a good King. He understands men. His judgment is never colored by his feelings. This used to make me think him cold, but he is not. I used to think the army would not follow him. But now most of the soldiers are his age or younger, and have known since their first day here who he is. Perhaps, after all, Arthur is doing the right thing.”

  “That you should doubt him!” I cried, delighting in his words. “And when has Arthur ever done a wrong thing?”

  “Not,” Lancelot said very gently, “since he begat him.”

  One day late in summer I went riding on Rajid. The King was in Rheged, and Gawaine with him. Mordred sat in the workroom, reading petitions. Lancelot was out on the downs, drilling new recruits. I came in from my ride, dismissed my escort, and told Lyonel I would tend the horse myself, for I enjoyed it. I rubbed him down and brushed him, and put him in his big box, which looked out on the paddocks. He was tired, and stood quietly dozing. Grateful for a moment of solitude, I sat cross-legged in the clean straw in a corner and pulled an apple from my pouch. I was suddenly reminded of my girlhood in Gwynedd, when I used to hide in my horse’s stall and overhear the grooms spreading palace gossip. Twenty years dropped from me as I sat there, for once again I heard voices coming down the aisle.

  “I just don’t understand it,” a boy’s voice said. “A good knight slain, your brother mortally wounded, and all for a woman? Why do men do it?”

  “You will understand the attraction of women someday!” the other voice laughed. “Even when they are not witches, they weave a powerful spell.”

  “There are no witches,” the young voice said firmly. “That is superstition.”

  “You may think so,” the other replied indulgently, “but I know better. My mother was one. She had power.”

  “Then it was God’s power, or Satan’s. There is no other.” This dogmatic assertion I recognized as Galahad’s. The other voice, the gentle one, was Gareth’s. They had pulled a horse out of his stall and, by the sound of it, were grooming him.

  “Well, have it your way, then,” Gareth said. “She had the devil in her, I will not argue that. But women can be angels, too. Linet is such a one. And the Queen is another.”

  “You know,” Galahad said stiffly, “how I feel about the Queen.”

  “Yes, but you are awfully quick to judge her, for one so young. Can she help it if she is beautiful? It is a gift from God.”

  “But my father loves her!” the boy cried in anguish.

  “And if he does?” Gareth’s voice was gentle. “What of it? So does my lord Bedwyr. So does Galahantyn, Bors, Lyonel, Mordred, Ferron, and a hundred others I could name. So do I. Would you condemn us all?”

  “Yes.”

  Gareth laughed. “What a young wolf you are! Time will teach you tolerance, I wager. The Queen has always treated me with kindness and forbearance. She is good, and gentle and charming, as well as lovely. It would be base of me indeed not to return her affection and respect.”

  “That is not what I mean,” Galahad objected. “You know my father loves her in a different way.”

  But Gareth skirted the question. “What has she done, little prince, to hurt you so? Why do you hate her?”

  “She was cruel to my mother!” He was near tears and struggling to control them. How my arms longed to reach out to him in comfort! “She hated my mother and banished her from court!”

  “Now, now,” Gareth said soothingly, “who has been telling these tales? All the world knows your mother was the Queen’s best friend in childhood. They grew up together. Why, the Queen brought your mother to court when she married the King, and kept her near. Are these the marks of hatred, or of love?”

  “My mother told me it herself,” Galahad declared. “They were friends until she married my father. Then the Queen turned against her and sent her away. The Queen loves my father, Gareth. And he loves her, as he never loved my mother. He loves her not in the way that you do, or Sir Bedwyr. He loves her in the same way that the King does. As a wife. I know this to be true.”

  “Hssst! Hush, young tyrant! This is treason you accuse your father of! Now tell me truly, Galahad, were you there when the Queen broke with your mother? Do you know both sides of this quarrel? Then you do not know the truth of it, but only your mother’s version. Let it be. It does not concern you. Why, if I had believed every tale my mother told me, where should I be now? As for Lancelot, he is a man of honor. If he were not, neither King nor Queen would love him. He has not betrayed the King, nor the King’s bed, and he never will.”

  “He has broken God’s commandment in his heart,” came the implacable reply. “In God’s eyes, he has lain with her a hundred times!”

  My face was wet with tears, and I pinched myself hard, to keep from sobbing. My poor, dear Lancelot!

  Gareth sighed heavily. “Oh, let it be. You cannot know that. If God so condemns every man who ever lusted after Guinevere, then in God’s eyes Arthur is a thousand times cuckolded! Such things are fancies only. Forgive him, Galahad. We cannot help whom we love.”

  “I will not forgive him.”

  Gareth grunted. “Well, well, perhaps in time you will come to see the honor in him. No one is without sin, Galahad. Not even the High King. You must learn to forgive it.”

  “Mordred is an abomination.” I gasped aloud, but they did not hear me, for the horse moved at that moment and scraped his hoof against the stone flooring.

  “Watch your tongue!” Gareth cried. “He is my brother!”

  “Yes,” Galahad replied calmly. “He is your brother and your cousin both. He is abomination.”

  There was a long silence. At last, Gareth spoke gravely. “If you wish to live, little prince, you will learn to keep your thoughts to yourself. Mordred may well be your King someday.”

  “If he attempts it,” Galahad said slowly and clearly, “I shall slay him.”

  “Oh, God!” I whispered, covering my face with my hands. “Oh, God! Oh, God help us all!”

  Gareth hushed him and took him outside with the horse. I sat in Rajid’s stall for over an hour, weeping. Galahad was then seven and a half years old.

  44 THE SLAUGHTER

  It was a black night. Thick clouds raced across the moon’s face, and the trees in my garden bent double in the wind. I knelt at my bedside and prayed for the King’s safety. What must the sea be like on such a night? The heavy leather flap be
tween our chambers lifted in the gust, then fell to with a loud slap. Varric had not shuttered the unglazed windows in the King’s room, for the night was not cold. But I had a good log fire in my own grate.

  Even after prayers I felt restless and could not sleep. The castle was quiet, but I could not shake the feeling that something was amiss. The pretty songbird in his willow cage was fast asleep, head tucked under his yellow wing. From the antechamber I heard Ailsa’s snores. I wondered if the noise kept Linet awake. We had had six new girls come to us that summer, and good Linet had given up her room and moved in with Ailsa, as her wedding was nigh anyway. I should miss her company terribly! Four years she had been with me, and a sweeter, kinder maiden I had never known. Now at seventeen she was a real beauty and hopelessly in love with Gareth. How lucky they were to marry for love! They waited only for the King’s return to accomplish it. Gareth was now eighteen and knighted, a treasured Companion of the King. Lancelot loved him more dearly than his own son; he was incapable of meanness or dishonesty and could always be counted on to defend a just cause. I smiled to myself. It seemed like only yesterday Gareth had come to Camelot, a little boy holding tight to Mordred’s hand. Now here he was grown and about to be married. Well, I told myself, at least Camelot was his home, and although Linet would exchange my service for his, she would live here and I should see her.

  A stray draft set the flames dancing in the grate, and I shivered. What was this strange foreboding? Surely it could not concern the King, for Niniane had sent no warning. The country was still at peace. Mordred’s dream of a trading treaty with the West Saxons looked possible now that the Council had ratified Arthur and Cerdic’s defense treaty. Only the situation with the Franks was unstable—but Arthur himself had gone to lend strength to Hoel. This was not a real threat to our peace, not yet. To honor Lancelot, Arthur had taken Galahad as his personal page, and also Gawaine, who now led a troop of cavalry under the King’s command. Mordred was regent, and Lancelot Protector, as had been so twenty times before. Nothing was amiss or out of place. Then why could I not sleep?