Queen of Camelot

by Nancy McKenzie

  I grieved to hear him speak so gloomily and longed to bring the light back to his face.

  “Tell me about Mordred, my lord. I meant to ask after him before. How fares he? Is he in pain?”

  Arthur grimaced. “Pain enough. Lancelot knew well what he was about and missed the bone. The physicians have stitched it, as Merlin taught them, and with luck he will keep the use of his arm. But it is his first real battle wound,” Arthur said, sounding a little amazed, “and he is a grown man.”

  “That is a testament to your Kingship. Tell me what he said about the attack on Lancelot. And where was he when we could not find him?”

  “Ah, yes,” Arthur said, brightening. “He was in the town, spying on Agravaine and his friends. They were drunk and tending to violence, and he wished to keep them from causing trouble. Someone came running from the castle to say Lancelot had gone secretly to the Queen’s room, alone.”

  “This, though he brought three attendants and came at my summons!” I cried, aghast.

  “I know, Gwen. This news roused them. They thought they saw their chance and took up their swords and broke into my apartments. Mordred followed them, and when he saw what they meant to do, he tried to stop them. But they were too many and pushed him aside. He sent for the house guard and ran after them to my room.”

  “Just in time to stop Gaheris and save my life!” I shuddered.

  “Did he really threaten you?”

  “Indeed, my lord. He called me names and leveled his sword at my heart.”

  “Mordred told me what he said,” he said shortly. Then his voice softened. “Yet he was loath to name Lancelot as his attacker. He kept silent before Kay and Bedwyr. He only told me because I commanded him, straight out. He assured me that Lancelot mistook him for one of the conspiracy.”

  “Yes,” I said sadly. “Lancelot always mistook him.”

  Arthur rose and helped me up. “Well, it is over. I pray God for a space of peace, to bury the dead and regroup. Can you sleep, Gwen? Or would you like a potion?”

  “Oh, Arthur!” I cried, shivering. “Do not send me back to my quarters! It will take a week to clean away the blood!”

  He gently put his arms about me. “That is not what I meant. Of course you shall not go back. Stay with me until you are ready to brave your chamber again. But can you rest, or should I send for a sleeping draught?”

  Relieved and comforted, I slipped my arms around him. “Such rest as I can find in your arms, my dear Arthur, is all the rest I desire.”

  At last, at long last, his face lit with joy, and he smiled.

  45 THE THREAT

  I was out riding when the courier came from Brittany. It was a cold March day with a fitful wind and small, fierce showers of rain. Not a day for sailing, but ships could always get across if the message was dire enough. I rode with Bedwyr and Ferron and three others, far across the downs to the eastern woodlands, just for the pleasure of exercise and riding free in the wind. Ferron teased me that I enjoyed riding in bad weather, but Bedwyr seemed to understand my restlessness. I believe he felt it, too.

  Truth was, the King was aging. He was but forty, with a third of life ahead, and yet he laughed less often, brooded more, and seemed sometimes to long for times gone by. Ever since Lancelot’s banishment five years before, grief had grown upon him and slowly encircled him, until even his closest friends longed for the daring warrior they had once known. Bedwyr was near his age and was not so changed. I did not understand this deep sor-row. Sometimes the King was more my father than my husband, though only five years older; when he called me his child queen, it made me want to scream. He knew he was changing, and he knew I was not.

  When he sent Lancelot away, it took something out of him that could not be replaced. Only a few of us could make him smile: Bedwyr, Mordred, and especially Gawaine. Gawaine was the high-spirited Companion whose jests and boasts and antics could bring light into the King’s face. And for this I honored him. He loved Arthur deeply and would have done anything he asked, excepting only forgive Gareth’s murder.

  So we galloped over the downs that day and missed the courier. We little thought the future was so close upon us. I raced Ferron, and won; raced Bedwyr, and lost by a nose; for my new stallion was only four and, although faster than Bedwyr’s gray, could not go ten strides without bucking. At last, tired and laughing, we turned for home. Halfway back, we were met by horsemen bearing the High King’s banner. The messenger’s face was grave. Sir Bedwyr and Sir Ferron were summoned at once to Council in the Round Hall. They saluted me and left. The remaining guard formed close around me, and we followed hard upon their heels.

  In the stable Lyonel and two grooms were gathered around a tired black gelding whose head hung low. They had covered him with blankets; his coat was drenched, his neck steaming. The grooms sponged his legs with cold water.

  I beckoned Lyonel closer. “When did the courier ride in, Lyonel?”

  “About an hour hence, my lady.”

  “And where from?”

  He cleared his throat. “From Less Britain, my lady.”

  I met his eyes. “From whom?” But he shook his head. He would have loved to tell me the man came from Lancelot, but he did not know. I thanked him and went back to tend the stallion myself. While I worked, my thoughts drifted to my old friend, so long gone from me. Arthur had been twice to see him and had told me he looked well. He and Galahantyn had formed a strong alliance with old Hoel, their neighbor, and had treaties with King Childebert of the Franks. Galahantyn had married a Breton girl, who adored him, and she was raising Lancelot’s younger sons along with her own. He seemed, said Arthur, to have found a sort of peace in this close family and to have grown into a king.

  I looked up as a groom led another horse in. This one I recognized: a chestnut mare with a white star and a white stocking on her near hind. She belonged to Niniane, and she was sweating. I went immediately to find Lyonel.

  “Did a messenger leave Camelot for Avalon after the courier arrived?”

  “Why, no, my lady. What’s amiss?” he replied, seeing my distress.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know that anything is amiss. But Niniane is here. Send a groom to see to my stallion. I must find her.”

  All I could think of, as I hurried to my quarters to bathe and change, was that Niniane had come unbidden. That meant she had known through her Sight that she was needed. Something of great importance had happened, or was about to happen, and it concerned Arthur.

  My girls dressed me quickly, and before the hour was out I was waiting nervously in the King’s library for the Council to be over. If only I were allowed in Council! As the High King’s advisor, Niniane, alone of all women, could attend. To exclude me was mere foolishness; the King shared all his thoughts with me, and took my advice and valued my opinion enough to argue with me when we differed—what more did his Companions do? Some of them, like Gawaine, did not even do that, but simply shouted out their feelings and gave no thought at all to what they said. Simply because I could not lift a sword—I laughed to myself and quit this foolish thinking. I had no desire to be numbered among the men; rarely did I wish for the honor of sitting through the drudgery of Council meetings. I was merely impatient for news!

  I strode across the room and back again, Cabal following at my heels. I tried to imagine what the news could be. Had Hoel died? He had been ailing for years. But he had grown sons who had sworn allegiance to Arthur and who were friends of Lancelot. Hoel’s dying could not be a disaster, however unexpected. And if Niniane was here, the news must be dire. Could aught have befallen Lancelot? But Galahantyn was there, and loyal. All Less Britain was bound with treaties. Perhaps Childebert had died, or been supplanted. That might require Arthur’s presence across the Narrow Sea. But would it bring Niniane out of her fastness? I shivered. Niniane’s presence frightened me. I feared that whatever news had come cast some shadow across Arthur’s destiny. But that meant Saxons. Arthur and Mordred had only last autumn sealed the trading treaty tha
t was so dear to Mordred’s heart. It was the first step toward friendship between the mainland kingdoms; it acknowledged the West Saxons’ right to the territory they already had occupied for sixty years, from Seal’s Bay to Rutupiae. Even if Cerdic should die, his son would be a fool not to honor a treaty that acknowledged their place on British soil. Where, I thought desperately, where could the threat be?

  The country was quiet. Gawaine, King of Lothian and Orkney, held the north. Hapgar held Strathclyde, and Coel, Urien’s eldest, ruled in Rheged. Drustan and his sons held the northeast solidly for the High King, and between my brother Gwarthgydd in Northgallis and Maelgon, who had sway over the lords of Powys and Dyfed, Wales was secure. Cornwall, I thought suddenly, only Cornwall might betray him. On Mordred’s twenty-fifth birthday not quite a year ago, Arthur had at last declared his son to be his heir. To his own surprise, the country did not rise up in protest, or bring up the ancient scandal, or deny Mordred’s right to kingship. The sin that ate at Arthur through his life and made him sensitive to every touch upon it was forgotten by most other men. It was old news; everyone knew Mordred was the High King’s son. Only Duke Constantine nursed a grievance. He proclaimed it loudly to any who would listen, but since even a fool could see his motives, men smiled and shrugged and drank to Mordred’s health.

  I did not think Constantine could command much of a following, certainly not against Arthur. Nor could he foment trouble in Less Britain, not with Lancelot there. Arthur’s wise rule, Arthur’s treaties, Arthur’s friendships—these things held Britain strong and safe. Where lay the threat? I could not see it.

  “Well, Cabal,” I said, patting him kindly, “we will just have to wait.”

  They were in Council four hours. When they broke, I heard shouts of joy and laughter in the halls, and someone sounded a horn, a call to arms. The door flew open; I jumped up; the King entered, smiling, his arm around Mordred’s shoulder. The years had fallen from him in a single day! He was alight and happy. I knew what it meant. He was going to war.

  Behind him came in Bedwyr, Gereint, Bellangere, Agglaval, Dryaunt, Villers, and Bors, all jesting with each other. I had seen to it that the wineskins were full of warm, spiced wine, and pitchers of mead stood on a low table. Men found counseling thirsty work.

  “My lord Arthur,” I greeted him, dipping him a curtsy.

  He swung his free arm around me and, lifting me off the floor, kissed my lips. “I have stirring news, Gwen. We are raising an army.”

  “I guessed that much, my lord. Who is our enemy?”

  He grinned and turned to Mordred. “I told you, she is the only one who does not like to hear it.”

  He had walked us to his writing table. Now he stopped and looked back at the gathering of knights around the fire across the room. They filled their cups and raised a toast to him.

  “Arthur of Britain!” Bors cried. “Victory and long life to the King!”

  “Long live Arthur!” the knights chorused. Arthur inclined his head. When he turned to me, he spoke gently.

  “We are not yet directly threatened, Gwen, but if we do not go now, with a show of strength, war will be inevitable.”

  “But who, my lord? Who is our enemy?”

  The smile left Arthur’s eyes. He told me straight out. “Rome.”

  Rome. Was it possible? Arthur grasped my elbow and sat me down in his own chair.

  “Arthur!” Bors called. “Do you believe Gawaine can raise a thousand? When Tydwyl never mustered above five hundred men?”

  Arthur glanced swiftly at Mordred. “Stay with her and answer her questions, if you will. She will have many. I will join you when I can.”

  Mordred sat on the edge of the table. His eyes were shining.

  “Rome?” I whispered. “This is folly, Mordred. Would Rome threaten us again?” But before he could answer, a shout of joy went up from the knights. I saw them gathered around Arthur, pounding him on the back, prophesying slaughter and boasting already about great feats of bravery. I stood.

  “I must get out in the air,” I said quickly. “Have you a cloak?” He brought me Arthur’s, heavy and warm and lined with fox pelts. I wrapped it around my arms to keep it off the floor, and Mordred followed me out to the garden. It was misting, but the air was sharp and clean. I breathed in deeply and walked along the damp paths among the sleeping plants. Mordred followed patiently.

  “All right,” I said at last. “Tell me about it.”

  It appeared there was a new Emperor in Rome, one Justinian, who hoped to return the Empire to her former glory. He had sent one of his generals, Lucius Quintilianus, also called Hiberius the Spaniard, to demand tribute of King Childebert and King Hoel in return for “protection.”

  I stared aghast at Mordred. “Protection! From whom? Do they think to invade us again, as in the days of the Emperor Claudius?”

  “The King thinks they look for an excuse for it,” Mordred admitted. “The tribute demanded is more than Hoel could ever pay, and Hiberius knows it. The Romans claim that they will keep the Burgundians from our borders, if we pay the tribute.”

  “The Burgundians!” I cried. “But the Franks have held them off for years! What nonsense is this?”

  “Yes, my lady. But Rome has stirred them up.”

  I stared at him. “I see the game. Did you say, Mordred, that we are being blackmailed? Has the demand for tribute come to us?”

  “No, my lady. Not yet. But the King knows that if Hoel and Childebert have been approached, sooner or later it will be asked of him. The threat will not be reduced by waiting. The time to act is now.”

  I nodded. “Clearly. What will he do?”

  “Hoel and Lancelot and Childebert have gathered at Kerrec for council. They believe their only hope is in a joint defense, and a strong one. No one knows the strength of Hiberius’ army, or even of the Burgundians. But a strong front now, with Arthur of Britain behind them, might give the Romans pause. They know well he has never been beaten.”

  I managed a smile. “The Unconquered King. I hope they know it. How many men will he take?”

  “Ten thousand, if he can raise them.”

  “Ten thousand! Is it possible?”

  Mordred flashed one of his rare smiles. “There is not a man in Britain, youth or graybeard, who would not drop everything to fight for Arthur. He is a legend. And he will win.”

  I faced him nervously. “Then why is Niniane here?”

  He looked surprised. “I did not know she was.”

  “What! Was she not in Council?”

  “No, my lady. I don’t even know if the King knows. He said nothing to me about it.”

  Puzzled, I fell silent. Around us the March winds rose and sent the folds of Arthur’s cloak flapping. I welcomed the cold rain on my face; it cleared my head and kept my fears at bay.

  “How odd,” I said suddenly, “that we should stand here speaking of these Romans with such horror. Nearly every man in the Council chamber is descended from a Roman; the King, you, and I are all descended from a Roman general, a Spaniard even, one of the conquerors themselves. Had Maximus left when Rome withdrew her troops, we would not be here.”

  “But Rome did leave,” Mordred said quietly. “She cannot now think to take us back under her mantle, after having left us to fend for ourselves against barbarians! This is what so angers Arthur. The arrogance of the demand! That Rome thinks she can claim us at her will! She abandoned us when we were little more than a scattering of hill tribes; now we are one people, and now we are our own masters.”

  “Indeed. Now we are worth something. Tell me, will the King take Excalibur?”

  “Since there may be fighting, I should think so,” Mordred replied, watching me closely. “Why?”

  I shrugged and, feeling uneasy, adjusted my hood about my face to hide it. “No reason. I just had a thought. The last time the Sword left Britain . . . you know the story. When Maximus himself raised it against the King of Rome, it availed him nothing, and he died.”

  Mordred gr
ipped my arms and forced me to look into his eyes.

  “Rome was not then Britain’s enemy,” he said firmly. “Rome had left. It was Maximus’ folly to pursue her. This time she comes to us. She is our enemy. And the Sword was made to protect Britain from her enemies. The end will not be the same.”

  Tears sprang unbidden to my eyes. “Oh, Mordred, I pray not!”

  “Fear not, Guinevere,” he said gently. “We will protect him with our lives. Lancelot and I, and Bedwyr and Gereint, and every knight in that room, and in the Council. He is worth more than life to us. Trust that old fox Merlin. If it comes to battle, he will be victorious.”

  I nodded, drying my eyes on the King’s cloak, and, taking his arm, headed back. “You are going with him, did you say? Tell me who else goes. And how many men?”

  This diverted his thoughts from Merlin and his dreadful prophecies, and he named three-quarters of the kings of Britain and nearly every lord I knew.

  “Why, Mordred, there is no one left,” I said when he had finished. “Who will be regent?”

  “You will, Guinevere,” said Arthur’s voice. I looked up, startled, to see him at the doorway, smiling.

  “Whatever do you mean, my lord?” He held out his hand, and I took it. He led me back inside, where all the knights were gathered behind him, smiling at me.

  “The Council has decided to leave you in charge,” he announced, regarding me with pride. “Not a single voice dissented.”

  I stared at him.

  “Long live the Queen!” Bedwyr cried, and they all shouted, raised their goblets, and drank. For a swift moment, I thought this the jest of drunken men, but the King’s face told me otherwise. He, at least, was sober and was brimming with pride.

  “My lord King,” I said shakily, doing him a low reverence, “I do not know what to say. I thank you for the honor you do me, but do you think it wise? I cannot command troops, my lord.”

  He raised me and held both my hands. “I believe you could, you know,” he said gently, and then smiled. “But you will not have to. I leave Ferron here as commander. The lords in your Council are all men you know: Kay, Lyonel, Gryfflet, Villers, Clegis, Dynas, and Bleoberys. With Ferron that makes eight. And Mordred will return before the battle to relieve you of the regent’s duties, by your leave. I take him with me that he may meet Hoel and Childebert, and join our council of ally lords. It’s more than time they got to know each other. But then he will return—I can’t risk both of us—so you need not rule longer than you must, unless you choose to. I leave that decision to you.”