Queen of Camelot

by Nancy McKenzie

  “I would make you my Queen, Guinevere,” he cried, “if you would have me! I have loved you all these years, since my first day in Camelot—do not shrink from me, I pray you! I am not Arthur, I know it well, but I am his son. Can you not find some corner of your heart for me, or does he have it all?”

  He looked up at me beseechingly, but I was speechless. There was nothing I could say. “Do you hate me?” he whispered. “Am I evil? You are so good, Guinevere, and I have loved you for so long! Tell me, please, that there is hope for me. You said yourself I was your King. You said it today, in spite of the news I brought you. Please—please, while I am away, consider my plea, and when I return let me know if there is hope for me. I see by your face you are affronted. Remember how you once spoke to me! Of the power of passion and how it overrules us! You begged me to accept it, in your case. Can you not accept it now in mine? You asked me once if I had ever loved a woman—you are that woman, Guinevere! By all that’s holy, I do love you, as much as life. I intend no insult, my dearest love. I would only honor you as Arthur has always honored you, and I would love you as he always has.”

  As he spoke, his face revealed his soul. I recognized the blaze of passion in his eyes; I had seen it often enough in Arthur to know its meaning. In this, too, it seemed, he was Pendragon. Trembling, I freed myself from his embrace and stepped back.

  “My lord,” I breathed, “these words were better not spoken between us. How can I answer you, Mordred? I have always regarded you as my son.”

  Pain and anger flashed across his face, instantly suppressed. He rose, rather stiffly. “Regard me thus no longer. You are not my mother.”

  “Oh, Mordred, I would not hurt you for the world. I bear you naught but love. But—”

  “But not that kind of love?” he asked gently, recovering his composure and guarding his face. “I tell you now, I will wed no other.”

  “Then Britain has no future!” I cried, clasping my hands to my throat. “Mordred, there is no sense in this! This is folly. You must marry, to keep his line alive. Let me go, my lord, and seek shelter where I may. While you are King, I cannot stay here!”

  “You must stay.” He reached out and held my shoulders firmly. “You must stay. I command you. If you are gone when I return, I shall seek you out and find you. You cannot hide from me. Be sure of that. We will settle this another time.” He dropped his hands and looked about the room. “I will not sleep here tonight. Do not fear it. But when I come back—” He left it at that, bowed low, and left me.

  I was still standing there, shaking, when Bran crept up the stairs.

  “My lady?” he called anxiously. “Are you all right? Oh, please, my lady, do not look at me so! I would never betray the King! But the King is—and Sir Mordred bade me serve him, and he is—King.”

  “Be easy, Bran. I do not fault you. But I—I would ask a favor of you this night.”

  “Anything, my lady!”

  “Will you sleep here, on this side of the curtain? Bring your own bedding, if you like, no one will mind. But I would have warning of—anyone’s approach.”

  He understood and did not bat an eyelid. “Yes, my lady. With pleasure I will do it.”

  So I slept that night with Anna in my bed and Bran at the entrance to my chamber. I dared not look ahead. I prayed that wherever Arthur’s spirit was, he had looked the other way. And not for the first time, I cursed my beauty, which had caused me so much more pain than pleasure in my life. Truly, it was a burden.

  In the morning, Mordred left for the Saxon territories at the head of a great army. Not until he had been gone three hours did I draw an easy breath. Ferron, who was left in charge, was jubilant and, seeing me downcast, came to cheer me.

  “Be easy, Queen Guinevere, the King will be home soon.”

  I looked at him in puzzlement, then shrugged. “How can he, when he has but left, and no one knows the end of his journey? But it matters not to me.”

  Ferron stood rooted to the ground, shocked. “I mean King Arthur, lady!” he cried.

  I turned away. “No more of this, I pray you. I cannot bear it.”

  He grabbed my arm in anger and spun me around. Then his face softened. “Has no one told you? Arthur lives. The messenger minced his words in Council, seeing he was speaking to Mordred, but the Saxon grooms have told me what they overheard him saying to his servant.” I met his eyes slowly. The world around me began to spin. “Cynewulf saw him and knew him and sent word to Cerdic. It is Arthur. He has returned.”

  I fainted.

  49 THE WICKED DAY OF DESTINY

  Two days later we received a courier from Mordred. He bore two messages, one for me and one for Ferron. Together we received him and heard his news. Mordred had met with Cerdic, and their forces rode south together to meet the men come from Brittany. Cerdic was angry. British troops had landed armed in his kingdom, a kingdom whose sovereignty Arthur himself had guaranteed, and had killed his people. As their king, he had no choice but to gather his thegns and foot soldiers and give them battle. But this Mordred, his ally, was determined to prevent. He wished to reassure Cerdic, but he also wished to protect his men. If it was true that Arthur led them, then this should be easily accomplished, he told Cerdic. If Gawaine or some other led them, as was likely from their warlike behavior, all would be well once Mordred met them.

  “And did Mordred and Cerdic seem easy with one another?” I asked the courier.

  He licked his lips nervously. “Passably easy, my lady. But the Saxons are very angry. The treaty has been broken, and someone must pay. They ride together as allies, but not in close friendship. It looks like a ticklish business to me.”

  “What did Cerdic have to say about Arthur?” Ferron asked, glancing at me sidelong. “He has had time to gather information. Were there any who could say with certainty whether the King is among these men, or no?”

  The courier swallowed and met his eyes. “Yes, my lord. One of the thegns who had gone to greet Cynewulf’s landing party was a veteran of the Battle of Agned. He saw the King and recognized him. He says it was Arthur.”

  I trembled and turned away to seek a chair. My eyes watered, and my knees would not support me.

  Ferron spoke with him a moment, then dismissed him, turning his back to read his letter. I retired to a corner, afraid to open mine. I would have left Camelot within an hour of Mordred’s going, if Ferron had not given me hope that the King was still alive. Trembling, I broke the seal and unrolled the scroll. It was not written in the scribe’s hand, but in Mordred’s own. The lettering was labored and took me a long time to read.

  My lady Queen Guinevere, he wrote, how can I ever beg your pardon? I have spoken the unspeakable and will regret it all my life. I apologize most abjectly for my rude and hasty words, and for the doubt and suffering I have caused you. I swear, on my life, that I will never again approach you in such a manner; you are safe from me, my lady, all the days of your life. I beg you will not flee your home on account of me; I do not wish to break my promise to Arthur, to keep you well and care for you, but I will not prevent your leaving, if you wish it. Should you stay, you will do me honor. I shall keep to the quarters I now occupy, for they are grand enough for such as me. You need never fear me. I am now, and will always be, if you will forgive me and show me the mercy for which you are well known, your loving son, Mordred.

  I stared blankly at this missive. Was this the same man who had embraced me in Arthur’s chamber? I had never known Mordred humble before. I wished to believe him, but I could not discount the fact that he knew, when he wrote it, that Arthur was alive.

  I looked up and saw Ferron watching me.

  “What will Mordred do, my lady? Can you hazard a guess? He says here, it seems likely that the King lives, but he cannot understand why he comes home through the Saxon lands, swords drawn, instead of putting back out to sea, or crossing westward toward Potter’s Bay and Britain. He says it has the appearance of deliberate provocation, and Cerdic is outraged. Thus far he has held
his hand, but unless Mordred can get speech with the King beforehand, he fears there might be fighting. He assures me and asks me to assure you that he will not raise his hand against Arthur. But neither does he offer to abdicate his crown. What will he do, when faced with it?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know, Ferron. Three days ago I would have said that he would yield to Arthur. He has promised me that. But now—I don’t know. Indeed, I wonder if he knows himself.”

  Ferron cleared his throat. “You should know, my lady, that there are rumors everywhere. About you and Mordred.”

  I looked up swiftly. “Rumors of what?”

  Ferron hesitated a moment only. “Bluntly, of marriage. That Sir Mordred has long loved you is well known. Lately, the gossip goes, you have shared his bed and agreed to be his Queen.”

  I gasped. “Do you believe this?”

  “No,” he said at once. “I know better. But while you stay here, it is a difficult rumor to disprove.”

  Tears sprang to my eyes. “What would you have me do? Fly from Camelot as my lord is nearing home at last? Oh, Ferron, he must be sick to death of fighting! I know why he presses onward, although Mordred does not! He is weary and looks forward to find the shortest way to his desire. A Saxon beach is not the place to take counsel and discuss the merits of various routes! Picture him! Stranded on a beach, shipwrecked perhaps, with a Saxon force approaching and the cruel sea at his back! Every instinct in him, every fiber of his being, would urge him onward, and through them, in a straight line to home. He knows, yes, he knows that the Saxons cannot stand against him. Once his men are back, and tended to, and given rest, there will be time to mend the fences he has broken. If only Mordred would let him be!” I stopped, fought back a sob, and continued in a whisper. “How will he feel, when at last he gets here, weary and grieving for all those he has lost in battle, and looks for comfort in my arms, to find that I am flown because of foolish, disgusting, ridiculous rumors about his own son!”

  Ferron came to where I sat and knelt beside me. He was moved, I saw. “You are quite right,” he said softly. “I understand it now. Forgive me, my lady, for the suggestion. You think only of the King. I should have, also.”

  “In my heart, I don’t believe Mordred will stand against him. But you will know better how the soldiers feel. Are they Arthur’s men, or Mordred’s?”

  Ferron frowned, considering the question. “Those that went to Brittany, all twelve thousand—every man was Arthur’s. But those that Mordred raised here this summer, they are mostly young men, the sons and younger brothers of those who left with Arthur. They have sworn themselves to Mordred.”

  “Then there are two Briton armies?”

  “I really do not know, my lady. Are there two Kings?”

  Through tears I looked out to the garden, shimmering in the dry, late summer heat. “If they cannot speak, or reach terms—Mordred will not face him. He must fall back. But Cerdic cannot. I fear the Saxons will attack him, and Mordred will not be able to come to his aid, because he is Cerdic’s ally.”

  “But, my lady, you said yourself the Saxons cannot stand against him. This is a prophecy of Merlin’s, is it not?”

  I nodded. “Yes. But he is weary, Ferron. I feel this in my soul. And Merlin—” As I spoke the name, I cried aloud, and my hands flew to my throat. I felt the blood drain from my face.

  “Guinevere!” Ferron cried, catching me by the arms, and shaking me gently. “Guinevere, what’s amiss? What is it?”

  “Merlin!” I whispered in terror. “Dear God, I had forgotten! That deadly, fearful prophecy he made! Never in all these years could I envision how it could come to pass—and now I see! Oh, Ferron, all is lost! May God forgive them both!”

  He did not understand me and begged me to tell him, but I could not. I could not lay that fearful burden on another. He took me to my quarters and gave me into Anna’s care. I begged her to pack my trunk and make ready for departure.

  “Are we leaving, my lady?” she asked in great surprise. “What has happened?”

  “I am leaving, Anna. You need not come with me, unless you wish. I cannot stay and watch this. I cannot stay!”

  She sat me in a chair and brought me water. “Where you go, my lady, there will I go, also. I will not leave you in these troubled times. Where are we off to?”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know, Anna!” I cried in distress. “To Caerleon, perhaps? No, held by Mordred’s men. Too near Maelgon. And not south—Duke Constantine will be upon them like ravens after a wolf fight. And not north—Drustan’s sons lie dead in Gaul and Drustan himself is old enough to be my father. He cannot live much longer. And who will rule Elmet when he is gone? Hapgar was killed along with Coel of Rheged—their sons may be those lovers of the cold, north wind you spoke of. East then—but who will take me?”

  “The Saxons lie east,” Anna said sensibly.

  I began to weep once more. “I am not afraid of Saxons.” Anna tended me and comforted me, and at length I shared my fears with her. As always, she was calm and sensible and gave me good advice.

  “You can know nothing until the Saxons meet the British. Then must King—Sir Mordred choose his fate. Wait and see what happens. And in the meanwhile, we can stealthily make arrangements for a sudden departure, should the necessity arise.”

  I yielded to her sound advice, and we talked long that evening, taking supper in our quarters and seeing no one. In the morning I went to the stables. Good Lyonel was overjoyed to see me and gladly consented to the favor I asked. He set two swift geldings aside for us and gave us saddle packs, the kind the soldiers used, and made a solemn oath never to reveal, except to Arthur, what he had done. I did not tell him when or where we were going; only that we were. His eyes misted, and he kissed me farewell in kindness, but he did not ask me why I left.

  Anna and I packed well for the journey and hid the saddlebags in the straw and waited. Long days went by, dry and hot; nothing moved on the downs but dust devils, playing in the parched grasses. Ferron was worried about me and begged for my company.

  “Call me when the courier comes,” I said. “Until then, I would be alone.”

  He came on the day the weather broke and rode in drenched from rain. The skies lay low and black on the hills. Thunder rolled up the valleys and pounded on King’s Gate. It sounded like a thousand evil spirits clamoring for entrance. I shivered and reminded myself I was a Christian.

  Ferron summoned me to hear the courier’s message. He had no letter, but had got his tale by heart. The High King—for it was he, indeed—had gathered his forces on a rise and saw below him the Saxon army and the Briton, marching together to meet him. He had not waited to greet them or send a messenger to beg a parley—veteran that he was, he had attacked.

  In my mind’s eye, I saw him, weary to death and sore of heart over his losses, confused by the Saxon hostilities after he had treated with them for peace, bewildered, perhaps, by the rumors of King Mordred coming in arms against his father. I saw him as he must have stood, looking down upon them, Mordred and Cerdic talking together even as they came in sight of him. I could imagine his grief, and his fatigue, and then his anger, as the old, cold hatred gripped his soul; and the Sword trembled in his hand, crying out for Saxon blood. No, to Arthur it must have seemed that the Saxons had turned against him, and he must have thought, if his son loved him, he would join his cause.

  King Mordred, continued the courier, had recognized the High King and had withdrawn the Britons from the field. Ferron glanced at me swiftly and looked relieved. He would have parleyed, repeated the courier, but was given no chance. His host fell back and were returning to Camelot, for he refused to lead his troops against King Arthur. He would return home and wait for him here.

  And Arthur, I thought, always cool and far-seeing in battle, had seen his son turn, not to come to his aid against the Saxons, but to desert the field altogether, leaving him alone to fight Cerdic with the ragged remnants of his strife-torn army.

  By nightfall,
the courier continued, Mordred’s troops received word that Cerdic’s forces were broken and had fled in disarray before the High King Arthur, who stopped only to regroup and bury his dead before pressing onward. Within three days Mordred’s army would be here; within seven Arthur himself would come. Then, said the man, staring straight ahead, trancelike and unseeing, the Kings would parley and fences would be mended, misunderstandings cleared, and peace restored.

  No, I thought sadly, none who knew them well could think so. Father and son they were, both proud men, each feeling betrayed by the other, whom he loved dearly, both Kings of the same land. Which one would bend the knee and say: I was wrong, my lord?

  I shook myself out of my dark thoughts and found the courier had gone. Ferron tried to look cheerful, but I soon spared him the effort.

  “I will retire, my lord. I am not well. I thank you for your care of me; we have had good times together; let us remember those days and not what is to come.”

  He let me go; perhaps he understood me better than I gave him credit for. I found my maids peacefully sewing, as unaware of the doom that threatened as they were of thunder on a dry day. But Anna was not there. I passed into my sitting room and thence to the stair to my chamber. I stopped, holding my breath. I heard voices above. One of them was Anna’s, and the other was male. I went up silently and paused in the doorway. The room was dim, for the day was black, and Anna had lit no candles. The curtain across the terrace doors was partly drawn. Anna stood there, fastening the latch. Beside her in the dimness stood a tall, cloaked figure, dripping wet, and whispering his thanks.

  “Anna!” I whispered, seeing by their quiet movements this was a secret thing. “What goes on here?”

  She whirled to face me. “My lady!” The cloaked figure went down on one knee.

  “Queen Guinevere.”

  I walked quickly to him. “I know your voice. Who are you?” His hood slipped back; he looked up, smiling. It was Galahad! I stepped back and caught my breath.