Morgan’s arrival must have been impressive, for Enid burst into my room without even knocking. “The Lady of the Lake is here, M’lady, with a whole cadre of druids and men-at-arms!” Her voice mirrored her astonishment. “She wants to see you at the portico.”
I took a deep breath and went to greet my sister-in-law.
The portico was full of people—women in white robes fluttering like butterflies, armed bodyguards standing at attention, and peasants begging to be allowed access to the High Priestess. Morgan herself was hidden by her devotees, so it was her lieutenant who left the group and strode toward me.
He was as barrel-chested and big-shouldered as a blacksmith, but something had crippled his legs so that they never grew in proportion to the rest of him. Dressed in a green livery, with breeches and high boots specially tailored to fit his stunted legs, his bizarre appearance gave him an ominous air.
The dwarf stared right through me as he approached. I studied his face, broad-cheeked and flat-nosed, and found it to be as closed to scrutiny as his mistress’s was. Whatever went on behind those masks of power was well hidden from the world.
“Her Royal Highness, Queen Morgan le Fey, Co-ruler of Northumbria and High Priestess of the Old Gods,” the dwarf announced, his deep voice filling the room.
Arthur’s sister emerged from her entourage. Petite as she was, she moved with an absolute air of authority. An elegant golden coronet bearing the symbol of the Goddess held her black hair in place and the chill of her sea-green glance silenced everyone it fell on. She glided across the distance between us, inky shadows trailing in the sweep of her black cloak. Its richly embroidered border contained signs and symbols of the Goddess—I had no doubt a number of spells had been worked into their stitching, for Morgan was famous both as a needlewoman and a shamaness. I watched her approach, thinking she was also a master at making the grand entrance.
But when I stepped forward, arms extended for a kinsman’s embrace, my sister-in-law drew back. I was left standing there, stupidly reaching out to empty space.
“I understand you’ve been to see a Saxon wicca,” Morgan spat at me, ignoring my stammered welcome. “That was very ill advised, Guinevere—a stupid action, even for a girl of your limited background. The Old Gods are jealous of their power, and do not take lightly to such foolishness. I will not sanction the results of your little excursion, whatever they may be. Now if you’ll have a servant show me to my quarters…”
I stared at her, shocked in spite of myself. It had never occurred to me she would hear of my trip to Westminster, or take umbrage at it.
A long silence spun out between us while I searched her face for some sign that she might listen to my explanation. Finding none, I turned away and asked Enid to escort the High Priestess to her chambers. Without a word the group trailed off after their leader and I wondered how on earth we’d get through the next five days…If only Igraine were here!
The tournament began next morning. Cei had erected an awning over the reviewing stand at the amphitheater, its bright colors adding to the gaiety of pennants and fluttering banners. Not only was it a festive touch, it was useful as well since the day turned unseasonably warm and by noontime everyone was sweltering.
I ordered the wine brought out and filled the hodgepodge of goblets myself. They ranged from glass to pottery, with a few stout pewter vessels and an occasional silver chalice, the last of some fine set long since lost or stolen. Ettard took the trays around to the nobles, and when she was done there were still three full goblets, two of them silver and one pewter.
The joust we were watching was long fought and hard won, for the horsemen were exceptionally well matched. A young man from Northumbria had come to court for the first time and was now acquitting himself marvelously. When he managed to unseat Palomides the audience rose to give the newcomer a standing ovation.
The victor dismounted and helped the Arab Companion to his feet, then made his way across the arena to where we sat. His hair was matted and he was covered with sweat, but pride glowed from his face when he bowed before his sovereigns.
I reached over and handed him one of the silver chalices, and passing the other to Arthur, raised the pewter goblet in a toast to the young man.
The crowd loved it, and after offering thanks to the Christian God the boy downed the drink in one long quaff. If I’d known he was that thirsty, I’d have given him water instead.
The lad held the chalice for an extra minute, examining the decorations that graced its rim. On a whim I called out for him to keep it—he deserved special recognition, and the vessel was a fitting gift.
The stranger went down on one knee with a simple thank-you and, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, rose and started across the arena toward his horse.
I grinned as I watched him go, glad that the fame of the Fellowship was attracting such promising young men. At this rate we would have Champions of the Round Table living in every kingdom of Britain.
The boy stopped midway across the arena. Throwing up both arms, he suddenly swung round with a sweeping motion and started to run back toward us. There was something wild and giddy in his movements, and a jumble of words poured from his mouth—half coherent praises for Arthur, half exclamations of savage glee. From the corner of my eye I saw Lancelot spur his horse across the arena to intercept the now hysterical stranger at the foot of our stand.
Staggering in the last few yards of his dash, the boy faltered, his arms flailing frantically. The Breton’s horse shied, white-eyed and snorting, as the youngster plunged forward beneath its hooves, collapsing like a broken doll. The silver chalice rolled free of his grasp.
Lancelot leapt from his saddle and began peering into the lad’s eyes, prying open his mouth and trying to read the pulse in his neck. But the stranger thrashed about so violently not even the big Breton could hold him still.
Jumping free, Arthur’s lieutenant picked up the goblet and examined it carefully before bringing it up to his nose.
Silence had descended on the throng, and after one long, terrible minute, Lancelot lifted his eyes to me.
“It reeks of hemlock,” he announced, never shifting his gaze. “It would seem the boy has been poisoned.”
His words stole the color from the autumn day and I sat down abruptly, shaking my head in disbelief.
Arthur was leaning over the balustrade and Lance climbed up to join us, proffering the chalice as evidence. The High King sniffed it, then handed the thing to me with a grimace. Sure enough, a faint mousy smell lingered in the bottom of the cup, and I turned away, sickened.
The boy was in full convulsions, screaming and writhing on the ground. Morgan’s dwarf was beside him, shooing people away while the High Priestess knelt above the youngster’s head, trying to press something under his nose. I had not seen my sister-in-law in the audience, but blessed her presence and prayed that the Gods would give her the power to cure the lad. A pall was already spreading over our festival—if the boy died, the fear of murder could tear the Round Table apart.
We went on with the Feast that evening in spite of the disaster. It was clear that the Companions were deeply shaken by the day’s events; standing in small, murmuring groups, they fell silent and kept their eyes downcast as we took our places at the Round Table. At my suggestion Dagonet called down a special blessing on the stricken guest before we started eating.
Morgan arrived midway through the second course and made her way to the center of the circle.
“The boy is dead.” Her voice carried throughout the Hall, freezing it suddenly to silence. “Foully murdered, probably by someone who thought the fancy chalice was the King’s own. There was no time to save him, just as there would have been no time to save Arthur, if he had been the one to drink the brew.”
No one moved.
“I would say,” the High Priestess went on, her green eyes narrowing, “that it was treachery gone astray, and we are lucky that the High King is still alive. For that we should thank the God
s, and pray the culprit be found and punished quickly.”
A gasp ran through the gathering as the threat to their king became clear.
“Is there any way to tell who did this thing?” Arthur asked, his normally sunny voice gone dark.
“I saw no more than anyone else at the amphitheater.” Morgan paused, waiting for the warriors to grow still again. “The Queen arranged for the goblets to be brought, poured out the wine for everyone, and later handed the chalice to the young man. That is all I know.”
My breath caught in my throat. The bones of what she reported were true—I had poured the wine, and I had given the boy his death; everyone had seen that. Yet Morgan was somehow implying that there was a connection between me and the poison, and the tension in the Hall became ominous. Caesar was lying at my feet and he raised his head, disturbed by the mood around us.
I looked more closely at my sister-in-law. She stood in the center of attention, black hair unbound and falling to her hips, heavy enameled armbands glimmering into view when she raised her arms and the sleeves of her white druid’s robe fell back. She was the picture of divine aloofness—her expression betraying no emotion and her voice remaining absolutely neutral. No one would guess she carried a personal resentment toward me. My skin began to prickle.
“Are you making an accusation?” I demanded, the question bursting out without my volition.
Morgan studied some spot midway between herself and Arthur.
“Of course not,” she said carefully. “I would never imply such a thing. Why, to plot to kill one’s own husband, who is also the High King, would be a crime that cries to the heavens for vengeance.”
She paused again, letting the idea sink in, then elaborately turned to face me. I cursed my unruly tongue as my stomach began to churn and the prickles on my skin turned to ice.
“No, I do not want to believe you capable of that sort of cunning.” Morgan sighed and smiled sadly as though pondering some hidden sorrow she was loath to make public. “Besides, whether you appreciate it or not, I love you as a sister and cannot imagine you’d turn without cause on my brother Arthur.”
Her words were as smooth as silk, yet beneath the honeyed tone there was a noose, and I could feel it tightening around my neck.
The Companions debated this new development in hushed tones, then fell silent as a young man rose and asked permission to speak.
“I am Cadwaladr, cousin to the one who is dead.” His voice filled with anguish. “I demand that the King charge whoever brought death to my kinsman with murder.”
The words echoed through the Hall and Caesar dropped his muzzle back to his paws with a sigh.
Shocked, Arthur turned the full weight of his majesty on the lad.
“Are you accusing the Queen?”
The boy gulped, glanced over at Morgan, and then nodded. “We all saw her give him the goblet, and whether it was meant for him or for you, a death followed.”
I could swear the fellow had been coached.
Arthur stared at him in disbelief, bafflement and anger beginning to war across his face.
Morgan raised her hands as though making a pronouncement from the Gods. “Such a charge requires the Queen’s name be cleared in a Trial by Combat.”
Arthur and I both caught our breath, horrified at the idea an antique ritual could supplant logic and justice.
“The Old Ways are very specific about removing a stain from the reputation of a queen, for she is the voice of the people, and must be trustworthy in all things.” The High Priestess’s voice was full of pious regret.
Arthur glanced at the men of the Round Table. They sat as though made of stone, some meeting his eyes, some not, but none so much as shifting in their seats. At last the High King directed his attention to the supplicant before us.
“Are you, Cadwaladr, willing to meet the Queen’s Champion at dawn tomorrow in a Trial by Combat?”
The boy, so recently bereaved, now found himself challenged by the very King he’d hoped to serve, and he quailed noticeably.
“Either agree to carry your accusation to the field, or withdraw it,” Arthur thundered.
Stammering, the lad consented to the Trial, and Arthur swung back to our warriors.
“Well now, which of you will volunteer to champion the Queen?”
There was an awful silence, and my stomach tied itself in knots.
Arthur’s fingers curled into a fist, and he slammed that hand into the palm of the other, cracking the knuckles as he did so.
“I don’t see how anyone could think Guinevere guilty of such a thing,” he bellowed, his voice rough with indignation. “She is a loyal wife, a true companion, a trustworthy counselor, and a fine Queen. Every one of you here has benefited from her caring and concern, and I am ashamed that you would impugn her honor in this fashion.”
He paused to glare at each Companion. I dared not look at them but stared only at my husband. When his gaze had swept the Hall he turned directly to me and reached for his goblet. Tossing the contents on the floor, he held it out for me to refill.
I leaned forward to do so, suddenly reminded that I had filled his cup on the occasion of our first meeting. Now, as then, I smiled at him gratefully.
He raised the goblet, and proposing a toast to me, drained it completely and turned the chalice upside down as proof of his trust.
But still the Companions were silent.
“Very well.” His voice was stern and measured. “I appoint Lancelot of the Lake to champion the Queen’s cause tomorrow. Should he be beaten and killed, it will be proof of Guinevere’s guilt; should he prevail, she will be considered cleared of all charges.”
Arthur looked slowly around the circle, daring anyone to take umbrage with his order, and the knot in my stomach threatened to bring up my dinner on the spot. Under the table I gave my husband’s thigh a pat, then excused myself and fled to my room, stopping at the courtyard drain only long enough to lose my food.
Brigit held my head and fetched a drink of water from the fountain. When we reached the royal apartment she bundled me up in the down comforter as my teeth began to chatter and my hands turned cold.
***
It gave promise of being a long and terrible night.
Chapter XI
Accusations
Morgan stood before me, laughing to herself as she lifted the infant from my arms. “Will not sanction, sanction, sanction it,” she cooed, dandling my dream child over an abyss.
I whimpered and the Lady turned on me with a hiss. “Shush—you’ll waken it; see how it cries to heaven for vengeance.” She capered on the edge of the chasm, threatening to drop my baby.
Sobbing, I lunged for it, twisted in the void, saw the young man writhing below, drawing me down…down into the darkness…
Brigit’s arms were around me, holding me, rocking me just as Mama used to when I had nightmares as a youngster. She was humming snatches of the lullaby that Mama used to sing, that Kevin crooned the night we escaped from the Black Lake. I gasped for air, for waking…and found the memory of possible death in the morning. Awake or asleep, terror lurked everywhere.
“Sir Lancelot wishes to see you.”
Ettard’s words filled my ears but their message escaped me. Drowsily I thought about Arthur’s choice of the arrogant Breton to defend me. Clearly he was the most reliable of the Champions, even if he did scorn me with silence. And now, through some strange twist, our moiras had become entwined, making us each central to the life—or death—of the other. His death in the Trial would bring about my death, too, and by surviving himself, he would guarantee my own continued life. It seemed an odd partnership for people who didn’t like each other.
“He’s requesting a personal audience,” the convent girl repeated. “And asks that it be private.”
I struggled to full wakefulness and saw Brigit’s eyebrows lift.
“There’s no need to worry about propriety where Lancelot and I are concerned,” I assured her. “You know we barely tol
erate each other.”
The nausea returned as I sat up, and I patted Brigit’s hand. It was she who had suggested that my upset stomach might be caused by pregnancy, if the wicca’s charm had worked.
That was the one bright hope in this otherwise horrible night, and I clung to it fiercely while Brigit combed out my hair and Ettard helped me into a robe. The irony that I was finally harboring a new life at a time when my own was in danger did not escape me.
A waning moon was scudding through the clouds and I paused to stare up at the poor, lopsided thing, wondering what Arthur’s lieutenant would say.
Perhaps, since both our futures depended on his prowess tomorrow, he was coming to offer a word of encouragement. That would be a kindness I’d appreciate right now. Or even better, he might be gracious enough to apologize for his past rudeness and agree to end our hostilities.
If that’s the case, I told the moon, I’ll meet him halfway.
When I was settled in my chair and the door opened, I turned toward it expectantly, a smile of appreciation already on my lips.
Lancelot entered without a word and planted himself midway across the room. In the dim light of the lamp I couldn’t read his expression, but his manner was quiet as he folded his arms and waited for my women to leave.
“Since I am going to be championing you in a few hours,” he began, once we were alone, “there is something I wish you to know.”
Queen of the Summer Stars: Book Two of the Guinevere Trilogy Page 12
