Guinevere's Gamble

by Nancy McKenzie

  “No? How then did you know?”

  Guinevere shifted in her chair. “I—I know Trevor. He—he couldn’t be who he is if—if you were the kind of mother who could sleep while he lay at the gates of the Otherworld.” Guinevere looked up at the queen with anxious eyes. “I don’t know if that makes any sense. I can’t put it any better.”

  Queen Esdora smiled. “You have put it very well. I begin to think Alyse was right not to have you whipped.”

  Guinevere stared at her, openmouthed.

  “It’s a tender upbringing you’ve had, whatever you may think,” Queen Esdora said. “But then, I never raised a girl.” She leaned forward, her eyes intent. “I have been waiting for you to come. You are the only person who can tell me what happened to my son.”

  Guinevere swallowed. What a terrifyingly direct woman Trevor’s mother was! She had braced herself for tears and abject apologies, and here she was instead, calmly relating the events of that windy afternoon on the Roman road. She tip-toed around the mention of Llyr and said nothing about finding Lord Riall’s treasure, but in every other respect she told the queen all she could remember.

  Queen Esdora sat perfectly still, her bright brown eyes focused on some invisible spot in the middle distance. From time to time her gaze traveled to Guinevere’s face and lingered there, speculation clear in her expression.

  “When Sir Bedwyr and his men finally came,” Guinevere finished, “Trevor was thoroughly wet and cold. They wrapped him in blankets and brought him back in a litter. I rode with them and led his horse.” A lump rose in her throat. “Please, my lady, please tell me how he fares. No one will tell me anything, and I want so much to know….”

  “Did he say nothing to you when you went back to him? Did he not wake at all, in all that time?”

  Guinevere shook her head. Tears filled her eyes, and she clenched her fists to keep them from falling.

  “If he was wet and cold, so must you have been,” said Queen Esdora. “Sir Bedwyr told me that you covered him with your cloak.”

  Guinevere shrugged.

  “Pull up your sleeves.”

  Guinevere hesitated, not sure she had heard aright. Queen Esdora leaned forward and spoke gently. “It’s quite all right, my dear. I’m only testing Sir Bedwyr’s truthfulness. Grown men have been known to tell tall tales when a pretty girl is involved.”

  Obediently, Guinevere pulled up the sleeves of her gray gown. Queen Esdora saw the red welts across her forearms, the scratches and the broken nails that made her hands look like a commoner’s, and her gaze lingered on the girl’s face.

  “One more question. If you and my son were alone on the road, how did you send for help?”

  Guinevere’s head jerked up. She met Queen Esdora’s steady gaze and knew instinctively that a lie would be unforgivable.

  “A friend came upon us. I sent him to fetch Sir Bedwyr.”

  “That was opportune, surely.”

  “… Yes.”

  “Who was this friend?”

  Guinevere drew a long, slow breath. “His name is Llyr. His father is Bran, leader of the White Foot of Snow Mountain.”

  The brown eyes widened. “You are a brave girl to befriend one of the Old Ones. Most people fear them.”

  “Only because they don’t know them.”

  “The Old Ones often have little respect for boundaries or the property of others.”

  “They don’t steal. Their ways are different; that’s all.”

  Queen Esdora smiled. “Llyr must be a good friend to you.” She rose. “Come with me.”

  She drew aside the curtain and led Guinevere into the warm, smoky room beyond. Trevor lay on a pallet near the brazier. His body was covered with soft woolen blankets and only his head, buoyed on downy pillows, was visible. As she watched, his eyes flickered open and he smiled at her.

  In her race to his bedside, in her release from torment, in her joy at his escape, Guinevere did not notice the tall, dark figure in the shadows behind the brazier. As she knelt beside the pallet, tears blurring her vision, Merlin’s thin fingers reached out to sprinkle more medicinal water on the fire. In the fog of steam and herbscent that rose hissing to the roof, he silently slipped out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Answered Prayers

  Princess Morgan bent over her black bowl and stared into its inky depths. Her lips moved in a muttered incantation, while around her the heavy stillroom air, dark and stuffy with herb-scent, breathed on the back of her neck. Night sounds came muted through the tent walls. The dim halo of a solitary candle provided the only light.

  She focused her gaze on the oily surface of the liquid and waited in utter stillness for something to appear. She counted her own heartbeats to measure time—thirty, fifty, one hundred, two hundred—but nothing came to her out of the night. All she could see in the black bowl was her own wavering reflection. For the third night in a row, the Goddess had refused to answer her summons.

  “Beg pardon, my lady, but you’ve a visitor without.”

  Morgan turned hastily, startled by Marcia’s voice. “Don’t ever interrupt me in the stillroom!”

  Marcia curtsied to the ground. “I beg pardon, my lady, but I am told that the matter is an urgent one.”

  “By whom? Who goes calling at such an hour?”

  “Lord Riall of Caer Narfon, m’lady. He begs your indulgence.”

  She remembered Lord Riall, a thin man with untidy red-brown hair and a straggling beard, one of Queen Alyse’s poor relations. He could have nothing to say that would justify the lateness of the hour, and it was on the tip of her tongue to refuse him when she recalled the black bowl and her prayers to the Goddess. Perhaps Lord Riall’s call was no coincidence….

  “Tell Lord Riall I will be with him shortly,” she said, “and shake out my crimson gown. Oh, and I’ll wear the crown of pearls my brother gave me.”

  Marcia’s eyes widened. “For Lord Riall?”

  “I think so. Yes.”

  “But it’s all packed away. For when we are presented to …” her voice trailed away to return on a warning note. “What are you after, Morgan?”

  A half smile touched Morgan’s lips. “I have a feeling about this visit. It could be important.”

  “I can’t see how.”

  “No, of course you can’t.”

  Marcia scowled. “That circlet was given to you for—”

  “Precisely. It was given to me. It’s mine, and I have decided to wear it. Do as I say, Marcia. Unpack it.”

  * * *

  Princess Morgan found Lord Riall standing nervously in the greeting chamber, a flat, heavily wrapped package clutched tightly beneath his arm. He greeted her with a mixture of awe and anxiety, going down on one knee as he stared at the quadruple string of river pearls across her brow and showing his teeth in a placating smile.

  “Princess Morgan, it’s very good of you to see me. I know the hour is late.”

  “Lord Riall. Pray be seated. It is not too late for me, as you can see. I value the dark hours.”

  Beads of sweat appeared on his brow, and he hastened to take the chair she indicated. He reminded Morgan of a mouse, a little russet mouse, twitching with anxiety but determined, for some reason of its own, to face the cat.

  She seated herself in a swirl of skirts opposite him, and haltingly he began to explain the reason he had come. His mother, Lady Gemina, had stumbled upon a treasure, an ancient royal treasure, which had once belonged to her ancestor Magnus Maximus, Emperor of the Britons. Lady Gemina wished to give this treasure to King Arthur and had sent Lord Riall to Deva to present it to the King on her behalf as a token of her great esteem for his wise rule and his reputation for justice.

  On the word justice, Morgan heard his voice harden and saw something bleak and angry flicker behind his eyes. She suppressed a sigh. Of course. He had a grievance, and he hoped to buy the King’s intervention with his treasure.

  She waited impatiently as Lord Riall waded through the byways of his ances
try and lingered on every detail of the old wrong done his father. He spoke with passion, but somehow the feeling did not ring true. It was not his passion, then, but another’s. It was not hard to guess whose. The old woman who spoke through her son seemed far more impatient for a crown than he did. Of course, for the old, the wheel of time turned so much faster than for the young. Lady Gemina clearly had ambitions but was running out of time.

  When Lord Riall embarked for the third time on a protest against his grandfather’s villainy, Morgan could endure no more.

  “Lord Riall,” she interrupted. “If you have come here to show me this treasure, I suggest you do it now. I tire of your grandfather.”

  He obeyed at once. She watched as he laid out his package on the low table between them and proceeded lovingly to unwrap it. She expected some hastily fashioned, gaudy display, and so was unprepared for the antique splendor of the weapon.

  “A dagger,” Lord Riall announced unnecessarily, drawing the blade from its sheath. “It belonged to the Emperor Maximus himself. Look at the inscription.”

  Morgan took the offered weapon in one hand and, without a glance at the inscription, slid the blade home to its sheath. It was the sheath she wanted to examine, not the dagger. The chasing was rather fine, and the gold shone with a mellow luster, but what took her breath away was the large, dark, deep-set ruby centered in the goldwork.

  “Fit for an emperor, is it not?” Lord Riall prodded.

  Morgan looked at him thoughtfully. “If you want it to go to Arthur, why bring it to me? Take it to Sir Bedwyr.”

  “Sir Bedwyr is too close to Pellinore, my lady. But you are not. You are the High King’s sister. And you are rumored to have … powers.”

  Morgan sucked in her breath. It was one thing to be known as a witch—and pleasing that her reputation had spread as far as Wales—but that so lowly a lord should presume to make use of her gifts for his own purposes! The insolence of the man! Did he expect her to put the King under a spell of enchantment to make him do her bidding? Arthur had grown up under Merlin’s tutelage. Anyone less vulnerable to enchantment was hard to imagine.

  “I am on my way to Rheged, Lord Riall,” she said stiffly. “I may not see my brother for years. I cannot—and will not—serve as your messenger.”

  Lord Riall heard the ice in her voice and changed course without demur. “You misunderstand, royal princess,” he bleated. “I have long heard praise of your beauty, your wit, and your … gifts. That is why I am honored—indeed, privileged—to present this royal dagger to the most charming descendant of Maximus—to you, Princess Morgan, as a wedding gift from my mother, Lady Gemina, who wishes only that she could give it to you herself, from one queen to another … from the queen of Gwynedd to the queen of Rheged.”

  Morgan smiled. “Thank you. I accept your lady mother’s gift with pleasure.”

  Lord Riall grinned nervously, unable to take his eyes from the sheathed dagger in her hands. “On the understanding, of course, that you will do everything within your power to see that justice is done? I have your promise, princess, to use your powers of, er, persuasion?”

  “I will use my powers to the utmost, Lord Riall. Have no fear of that.”

  “It is an exceedingly valuable weapon.”

  “Indeed. And a very lovely gift.” She paused as an idea occurred to her. “Have you shown this dagger to anyone else in camp?”

  “No, no,” he said hastily, looking about him and beginning to sweat. “I trust no one but King Arthur … and his sister, of course.”

  A silence fell between them. At last Morgan smiled. “That was wise of you. The less said about it, the better. You have my thanks, Lord Riall.”

  Her tone implied dismissal, but Lord Riall made no move to go. He sat and sweated and stared at the dagger in her lap. Morgan rose abruptly from her chair, forcing him to his feet, yet even this had no effect. He lingered, shuffling his feet and sweating, but unable to tear himself away from the dagger’s presence. Morgan signaled to Marcia, who came forward to escort Lord Riall to the door. He cleared his throat unhappily.

  “Just … one more thing, Lady Morgan.”

  She waited, cold and silent, the smile gone.

  “Um, uh … When may we expect the … restoration of our rights? My mother will ask me, you see, when I get home.”

  Morgan’s nostrils flared. She had half a mind to slap his face for insolence, but she caught Marcia’s warning glance and held hard to her self-control. After a moment, she leaned toward him and spoke softly into his ear.

  “Within the year, your lady mother will see her kingdom, I have no doubt. Under one condition.”

  Joy and relief flooded Lord Riall’s narrow face. “Anything, princess! Anything at all!”

  “Tell no one that you gave this dagger to me. If you do, I shall destroy it.”

  “I’ll say nothing—I’ll be as silent as the grave! Oh, royal princess, a thousand thanks.”

  She extended her hand and looked away. “You may go.”

  He kissed her fingers obediently and finally left.

  “That’s a handsome dagger,” said Marcia. “But how are you going to persuade King Arthur to give his mother Queen Alyse’s crown?”

  Morgan smiled sideways at her as she turned away. “Is that what you think I’ve done?”

  “What else?”

  “She’s a Christian, isn’t she, the lady Gemina? Then there is more than one kingdom that concerns her.”

  “The kingdom of heaven, you mean? Oh, shame, Morgan!” Marcia followed her to the stillroom. “How could you? It’s a sin to wish her death upon her.” She stood in the entranceway and watched as Morgan, still clothed in her gown of Pendragon red and her crown of pearls, took a knife from the shelf and bent over the dagger. “What are you doing?”

  Morgan grunted, straining with effort, as she worked at something Marcia could not see. Finally, she uttered a little cry of satisfaction and turned around. In one hand she held a dark red ruby, and in the other, the mutilated sheath.

  Marcia gasped. “Oh, Morgan! It was so beautiful, and you’ve—you’ve …”

  “Prized out its heart.” Morgan held the stone to the light of the single candle and watched it gleam. “This is why I took the dagger from him.” She held up the weapon in its damaged sheath. “And this can be useful to me, too. I shall wound the little vixen with it. I shall tear out her heart.” She smiled maliciously at Marcia. “You see what comes of my labors in the stillroom, Marcia? The Goddess has answered my prayers.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Trevor’s Warning

  “That’s a very pretty stitch,” Queen Esdora said, looking down over Guinevere’s shoulder. “You’ve an excellent hand with a needle. If you like, I shall show you a stitch I learned from my aunt Jolie, who was born a Frank. Now, that was skill.”

  Guinevere looked up, smiling, from the work in her lap. “Thank you, my lady, I would like it very much.”

  “Not so formal,” Trevor protested from the pallet. “Less of the my lady please. You’re among friends.” He winked up at his mother. “Nearly family.”

  For half a moment, Guinevere held her breath. Was it possible the thing had happened, was agreed upon and decided with King Pellinore’s consent? But no—there hadn’t been time. It was only six days since Trevor had regained his senses. Flat on his back and in steady pain from a broken leg and a sore head, he hadn’t been able to pay much court to Elaine. Negotiations were going forward without him, however, carried on entirely between Queen Esdora and Queen Alyse. They had hardly been out of each other’s company in the last six days. Elaine had come once to visit, but she hadn’t stayed long. Guinevere was almost certain she knew nothing about the matchmaking being carried out on her behalf.

  “Nearly, but not yet,” Queen Esdora said firmly, bending down to kiss Trevor’s cheek. “And be nice to Gwen. She has suffered on your behalf.”

  “Gwen. Much better. Gwen’s going to be my sister if you do your job. I’m allowed
to tease a sister.”

  Queen Esdora ruffled his hair with her tiny hand. Their affection for each other was open and unfeigned, and Guinevere envied them for it.

  “Now get going,” Trevor said gruffly. “You don’t want to make her wait. Queen Alyse is famous for her temper.”

  Queen Esdora adjusted her dark green fox-trimmed cloak over her exquisite moss-green gown and sailed away like a ship to battle.

  “Heavens,” Guinevere said once the tent flap had closed behind the queen. “I’m sure no one else dares order her about. They’re all afraid of her.”

  “As well they should be.” Trevor smiled. “She’s a single-minded woman. But you weren’t afraid of her.”

  “I was. Ask Derfel. I was shaking with fear.”

  “You came alone, uninvited and in the dead of night. Not the act of a fearful woman.”

  “It wasn’t courage.” She looked away. “I just couldn’t stand it any longer, not knowing …”

  “Bless you for that,” he said gently. “I’d be bored to death without you, Gwen. Why doesn’t Elaine come to see me? We’d have a jolly time together, the three of us. Bring her next time. She makes me want to shout with joy.”

  “I’ll try,” said Guinevere doubtfully. “But she’s not speaking to me at the moment. She’s been in an evil mood for days and I can’t get her out of it.”

  He grinned. “Tempestuous as ever, eh? Why?”

  “I really don’t know. It must have been something Princess Morgan said or did, but she won’t tell me what it was.”

  “Bring her to me,” Trevor said, wincing as pain stabbed his injured leg. “I’ll flatter her into a good temper.”

  Guinevere reached for the bowl of medicinal gruel by the side of his bed and ladled a spoonful into his mouth. He lay back on his pillow and grimaced.

  “Ugh. Disgusting. You’d think an enchanter as powerful as Merlin would be able to devise a better-tasting potion than this.”

  “Merlin the Enchanter? He’s in camp?”

  “Of course. Didn’t you know? He’s my physician now, thanks to Mother. But of course you know: you saw him at your presentation to Princess Morgan. He was standing right behind her chair.”