Queen of Camelot

by Nancy McKenzie

  “Galahad! What means this? How did you come here?”

  His smile was sly. “By the garden gate, my lady, and up the stairs. A family trick.” Then he bit his lip and crossed himself. “My lord, forgive me,” he said to no one.

  I glanced at Anna. I had shared with her some of Mordred’s story, enough for her to know this boy was not in his right mind. She backed quietly against the nightstand, where, since the night of Gareth’s murder I kept a jeweled dagger, and surreptitiously opened the drawer. But Galahad bore no weapons, no scabbard, not even a knife tucked in his belt. What did he want?

  I had not raised him. He still knelt before me. In the dimness, he looked beautiful, calm and serene; so must his father have looked, once, when his whole future lay before him. Lancelot had been his age at Caer Eden, when he first met Arthur.

  “Have you news of my lord?” I asked him swiftly. “Fares he well?”

  Galahad turned to me a guileless face. “Who is your lord, Queen Guinevere?”

  “You know well who!” I retorted. “I ask after Arthur, and none other!”

  He paused. “May I rise?”

  “Will you behave?”

  He smiled again, a smile that made me shiver. “I am tamed, lady. Your lord and husband has bound me round with oaths. I will not harm you. See? I come naked.”

  I raised him, and he thanked me. He was taller than I was by a head, and so handsome a youth, it took one’s breath away. He had eyes that entrapped the gaze and mesmerized the mind, if one looked at him too long.

  “Why are you here?” I asked him bluntly.

  “I come from Arthur,” he replied. “I have a message.”

  “You?” I gasped. “You travel with him? Were you aboard his ship?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said easily, brushing the water off his cloak. “I have been at his side this long while. I am his beloved, now that Gawaine is dead.”

  I swallowed hard. “Gawaine dead? How? Where did he die?”

  “On a Saxon beach. He led the charge, and I was right behind him. I saw it happen. Cynewulf’s ax got him. He died in Arthur’s arms, when it was over.”

  “So—you have fought for the King, after all?”

  “I have rid the earth of a hundred godless savages!” he cried, and then faltered suddenly. “I owe the King my life, twice over. Would I could be so cool in battle!”

  I trembled and walked about the room to still my fear. “And how fares Arthur? Does he sleep? Eat? Is he weary?”

  “He is angry. Fury drives him. His allies attacked him and bar his way.” He shrugged. “That’s what comes of making treaties with heathen bastards. Their oaths are soon forgotten.”

  I shook my head. “You don’t understand it, Galahad. There is much more to this than you can see. But no matter. Has he his health?”

  But again, he did not seem to understand me. “He is sick at heart, and weary. There is a knife in his back. The traitor kills him.”

  “Traitor! What traitor?” I gasped, fearing his answer.

  “Mordred, of course,” he replied calmly. “We saw him, plain as day, come take the field against us—against us—and beside Saxons!”

  “Dear God!” I whispered, sinking to a chair. “It has come.” I grasped at the last straw. “But Mordred never raised a sword against him!”

  “No, the coward! The King attacked, and the coward turned and ran! It broke his heart.”

  I bowed my head. All was lost. It was time to be going. “One more thing. Does—does your father live?”

  His eyes flamed, but he kept still. “I knew you would ask it—but I have promised the King politeness. Bedwyr lives and fights with us. Of my father, I say nothing.”

  “Please, Galahad.”

  “No.”

  I gave up. “Give me your message, then. Are you going back to Arthur? Will you take him a word from me?”

  He reached in his tunic for a scroll as he shook his head. “I have a mission. I’m going on to Ynys Witrin to seek audience with a witch. The King would see her. Then I must purify myself at the monastery there. I have a Quest, you see.”

  He handed me the scroll, bowed low, fastened his cloak, and put his hand to the latch.

  “Go with God, Galahad,” I said softly.

  He turned back and raised his hand in benediction, making the sign of the Cross in the air between us. Then, with a strange smile upon his lips, Lancelot’s poor tortured son let himself out into the storm and crept out of Camelot by whatever way he had come.

  “Anna, a light,” I said softly, shivering from the encounter. With trembling fingers I broke the seal and slowly puzzled out the words. He had written it himself.

  My dearest Gwen, I pray this finds you well and whole and free. I do not believe the rumors. I am beset on all sides and fear for your safety. Get you gone from the traitor Mordred and fly to Amesbury. I will take back what is mine and, when I am free, will come to you there. The abbot will take you without questions. He is beholden to me. Be quick and silent. The fox is sly. I hold you in my heart and trust you. Your once and future King, Arthur.

  And at the bottom, hastily scrawled: Forgive my sending Galahad. He has promised to treat you as his mother—there is no one else—I cannot spare Bedwyr. Lancelot lives. He will join me as soon as God gives him strength to walk. Pray for us both.—A

  My heart leaped with joy in the same moment it sank in despair.

  “We are lost, Anna!” I whispered, rereading it with speed. The traitor Mordred. “Oh, Anna! We are lost!” I will take back what is mine. Oh, my dear Arthur, how take it back? Only by killing your son—and when we meet, what will you say to me then? “Come!” I said, thrusting the letter in my pouch. “My riding clothes. Quickly! It is time to go!”

  “Now, my lady? But the storm!”

  I laughed at her and saw her eyes widen in amazement. “Do you not know this about me, Anna? Why, I love riding in bad weather! Come.”

  It took us four days to make the journey, and for four days the skies were dark and leaden, cloaking our passage. Each night we spent in a peasant’s cottage. The poor people of Britain gave us shelter, never asking who we were, but understanding the desire of women to seek shelter in the house of God. It was an omen of change.

  The abbot took us in, good man, with tears at Arthur’s letter. I did not want his finest rooms, but begged for a small cell. I needed no ornaments or furnishings beyond what the other women had; I needed only Anna nearby. He gave me what I asked for. My window looked out past willow trees to the river that wound slowly southward toward the great plain, and the Giants’ Dance, where Ambrosius and Uther lay buried.

  Ambrosius had been born here—hence the name of the place—and now it lay but a day’s ride from Cerdic’s lands. But this did not concern me. The Saxons might be entwined in Arthur’s destiny, but I knew in my soul that they played no part in mine.

  I could not think of Camelot without an ache in my throat. It had been my home for twenty years, and I knew every foot of it—chambers, towers, gardens, stables, and grounds. I thought of it as I had seen it for the first time, on that bright summer day: shining and golden upon its green hill, with flags flying gaily from its towers; a citadel of greatness and glory! The Kingdom was new then, and we had all been so young! I knew I should never see it again. Whatever the future held, I could not go back. I had but one room now; but it was more than enough for my needs.

  I kept to my cell, apart from the others, joining them only for prayers in the little chapel. I knew from their sidelong looks and hushed whispers that they knew me, and I did not want their worship. Anna stayed by my side, and together we knelt and prayed for Arthur and Mordred, together we took our meals, together we took the air in the walled garden or in the grounds.

  We often walked to the water’s edge, arm in arm, saying nothing. It was a time of waiting. The weather cleared, and we had those calm, bright days that make September welcome, with cool breezes in the morning and the warmth of summer at noon. Leaves edged themselves
with yellow, then gently fell and rustled underfoot. My heart was held by some unnatural calm; I did not weep or sigh, but found joy in the careful perusal of small things: a bird’s feather, dropped upon the lawn, held soft and tickling between the fingers; the gleam of morning sun on the dewy grasses; the pleasant chuckle of the brook as it danced and frothed around the boulders in its way; the beauty of sunsets, the soft glow of chapel candles, the gentle, soothing strokes of Anna’s brushes in my hair. I kept my thoughts to these, and so survived.

  One lovely afternoon as we sat beneath the willows Anna told me stories of her childhood. I attended now and then, but my thoughts were on the tiny creatures that ran up and down along the rough willow bark. What heights they scaled, these mighty runners! What cliffs they overshot and valleys fell into, all unharmed! It amused me to watch their frantic efforts—did they have goals? I wondered, or did they scramble about undirected, for the sheer joy of running? And what end would they come to? A spider’s web, most likely, or food for birds.

  On the thought, I heard screaming in the sky above me and felt a cold horror grip my soul. I looked up—ravens in flight, no more, heading westward—but I felt the day grow dark behind the shadow of their passing.

  “My lady Guinevere!” Anna cried. “Why do you shake so? Why do you weep?”

  I rose unsteadily, and she took my arm. “Let us go in and pray.”

  “What is it? Oh, please tell me, what have you seen?”

  “Nothing,” I whispered, “nothing at all. Only ravens flying westward. Men believe—they can scent a battlefield fifty leagues away.”

  “Oh, no, my lady, these are old wives’ tales. I am surprised that you believe them. It is the season for their movement, that is all.”

  But I knew, as we knelt in the chapel, that Arthur walked the earth no longer. He was gone from me forever. I knew it by the heaviness of my spirit and by the grief that shadowed me, a brooding thing, waiting upon a courier’s word, waiting to engulf me. I would not recognize its presence and give it entry, but put on my white veil of mourning and prayed, day and night, for the salvation of Arthur’s soul.

  On the seventh day, the abbess came to me.

  “My lady Queen,” she said with a curtsy, “Father Albin wants you to know we have a soldier with us, convalescing, who would speak with you.”

  “A message?” I asked quickly. “From whom?”

  “Not a message, my lady. The man is from the village and left with the King to fight in Brittany. He returned only yesterday, to recover from his wounds.”

  I clasped my hands together and held them hard. “Is he coherent? Does he wish to talk?”

  She raised her eyes to me, and I saw compassion there. “Yes, my lady. When he learned the Queen was here, sent hither to await the King, he asked to see you. Will you come?”

  “Indeed I will.”

  I dropped my veil and followed her. We passed Anna in the garden, and she left her task at my signal and came to me. Behind the convent cells was the house of healing. Avoiding the main chamber, which smelled, we were taken to a small, rude hut of wattle. On a dirt floor, strewn with straw, lay a pallet with the sick man wrapped in bloody rags. It was a far cry from Niniane’s House of Healing, and I doubted anyone could recover here. A servant tended him and placed stools for us, then ducked out.

  “Kerwas.” The Mother addressed him gently. His face was gray, and his eyes dull. I did not know much about healing, but to me he looked beyond their help. “Kerwas, this is the Queen.” She glanced at me. “A servant will be within call, if you need him.”

  I thanked her and turned to the dying soldier. He was about my age, at a guess, but ravaged by hard use and pain. He looked me over carefully.

  “Are you truly the Queen?”

  I was dressed in a plain gown of dull gray and wore no ornament of any sort. He had no way of knowing who I was.

  “Yes, good sir. I am Guinevere of Britain, Arthur’s wife.”

  “Let me see your face.” Obediently I lifted my veil and drew it back. Anna loosed a pin and brought my hair forward. He sighed and closed his eyes.

  “Good Kerwas, I would not tire you, but if you bear a message from my lord, or even news of him, good or ill, I would hear it.”

  “I have news.”

  “Does he live?” I blurted, not intending the question, and pressed my fingers against my lips, fearful of his answer.

  He opened his eyes and looked into my face. “I do not know, my lady. But it is unlikely.”

  I nodded. “Go on,” I whispered. “Tell me what you know.” Anna gave me a clean cloth for my eyes.

  “I was with him,” he said slowly, “in the battle of Autun. I fought there in the company he led. We broke them. We broke the Burgundians and the Romans, and they outnumbering us five to one.”

  I smiled and slid off the stool to sit at his side. I took his rough hand in mine. It was cold, and I chafed it gently.

  “My lord is the victor,” I said softly, “in every field he takes.”

  He closed his eyes. “Aye,” he said, “and the enemy knew it well. But near the end of the day, when we were mopping up and driving out the stragglers, we were ambushed.”

  “So we heard from Lancelot. He got a message home.”

  Kerwas grunted. “No doubt he meant well, but ’twould have been better for us all if he hadn’t sent it!” He shifted in discomfort.

  “Tell me about the ambush.”

  “Well, they came at us from behind, and we fought them across the stream. Savages they were—I will not tell you what they did. We were a handful only, thirty foot soldiers and only the King and Sir Gawaine on horseback. They must have been a hundred, easy. Maybe more. But the King has a cool head; he kept us in formation, and we repulsed them. Nay, we followed them into the wooded hills and killed every last man of them by nightfall.”

  “How many did you lose?”

  “Half, my lady. But they lost all.”

  “You are a brave man, Kerwas. Were you injured?”

  “No, my lady, not there. We had magic that day, God be praised.”

  “Why did not the King send a messenger back to the field headquarters, to report his whereabouts?”

  The pale eyes opened, then, and met mine. “My lady, he did.”

  “He did? They—they never received it.”

  “We know this now. He sent young Dunstan, a fast runner, to Sir Lancelot. We were two days in the hills, scouting for stragglers and burying our dead. On the way back—”

  “Two days! Why so long?”

  He looked away and stared pensively at the thatched roof above his head. “Ahhh. The King was weary, my lady. And we thought, since we had sent Dunstan, there was no hurry. We would be at Autun a week, easy, just burying the dead. But on the way back, we came across Dunstan’s body, locked in a death grip with a Roman youth, beside the stream. Then we hurried and found the troops in a panic because the King was lost. There was rejoicing when they saw his face, I can tell you!”

  A glimmer of a smile crossed his lips. I called for the servant, but no one came, so I lifted his head myself and gave him a drink of the broth the servant had left.

  “Everyone is always glad to see Arthur,” I said gently, and pillowed his head on my lap.

  “Aye, my lady. That’s true enough.” He looked better, and spoke stronger and kept his eyes on me. “But we held no celebrations, for Sir Lancelot was wounded and lay near death. For three days the High King sat at his bedside while he raged in fever. Sir Gawaine was always at the King’s elbow and came out to give us news from time to time. The physicians were sure that Lancelot’s suffering would end in death, but the King would not leave him. No one knew, until Lancelot passed the fever and opened his eyes and spoke, of the message he had sent home to Britain. Then was the King distressed and sent another courier off that instant, but in his joy at Lancelot’s recovery, he did not think to double-check. We learned later, the man was thrown from his horse in the Perilous Forest and died of a broken nec
k.”

  “It seems, indeed,” I said slowly, “as if God wished Britain to think him dead.”

  “Aye, lass. I mean, my lady. We stayed until Lancelot could be moved and our dead had been buried and their belongings gathered. The King made a list of all those killed and sent another messenger home.”

  “Another?” I cried. “But he never got here!”

  “He left as the winds were rising on the Narrow Sea. Chances are he was drowned. We escorted Lancelot to his home in Benoic. We carried him on a litter. He vowed to follow us to Britain as soon as he was able, to fight the traitor Mordred.”

  “Mordred!” I gasped. “Dear Kerwas, you have left something out. Why did the High King think his son a traitor in Brittany?”

  “Aye,” Kerwas said slowly, with some reluctance. “I have indeed left something out. Constantine sent a letter.”

  I froze, staring at him. “Constantine? Duke Constantine of Cornwall?”

  “Aye. The winds favored his courier, although they stymied ours.”

  “He sent a letter? To the King?”

  Kerwas watched me carefully, and it seemed to me that he guarded his face, as much as was in his power.

  “Why are you afraid, my lady?” His head lay in my lap, and he could feel my trembling.

  “Duke Constantine is no friend of mine, nor of the King’s. He bears me a grudge. I am surprised that he would send to Arthur, and surprised that my lord would read it.”

  “But he did read it,” Kerwas said firmly. “And it brought him sorrow.”

  “And how,” I asked, “do you know all this? Were you in his councils?”

  “My lady, I stood guard upon the entrance to the tent. I was there when the courier brought the letter. Lancelot lay calling out in his fever. The King asked for quiet on his behalf, so he could hear his moaning and know that he still lived.” I shut my eyes, and he went on. “The camp was quiet. The night was hot; the tent flap lay open. The King read the letter in silence, but Sir Gawaine, who was always with him, was not so skilled, and worked out the words aloud.”

  “And what did he say?” I asked, trembling, afraid that I knew already.