Guinevere, the Legend in Autumn: Book Three of the Guinevere Trilogy

by Persia Woolley

  With one last glare of defiance, Elaine turned and stalked out, leaving me both shaken and speechless.

  Vinnie trotted after her, hoping to soothe the young mother. Whether she succeeded or not I never learned, for the Maid of Carbonek left Court at next light, still complaining of me and swearing to wait her whole life long for Lance to return to her.

  Poor Elaine—for all that she lacked the magical talents of Morgan le Fey, she’d become as adept at self-delusion as the High Priestess, and like her, had only herself to blame for her fate.

  And yet, if she hadn’t played such a wretched trick on the Breton, I could have commiserated with the girl…There was no way to forget Lancelot, once he’d come into your life.

  Chapter VIII

  Aftermath

  Elaine’s sudden departure from the Hall broke the spell of silence that had gripped the household. There was a rustling of comment as people turned to their companions, everyone having something to say about what had just happened.

  My face had gone crimson and I stood there shaking with anger and embarrassment. Not only had the girl insulted me as Queen, some of her barbs were perilously close to the mark. I stood naked before my courtiers, knowing of no way to retrieve the situation.

  “The Maid of Carbonek is obviously mistaken,” Arthur announced, his voice bullying the room into silence. “One can understand her being upset, if she expected Lancelot to greet her with joy and approval. But it’s quite unfair to blame my Queen for the Champion’s decision.”

  There was a general muttering of agreement, and I sank back down on my chair, grateful for Arthur’s help. Dagonet leapt forward, making some amusing comment on the nature of love, and before long he had everyone laughing. True to his duty as a jester, he drew the audience’s attention to lighter matters.

  But when Arthur and I were in our chambers that night, we prepared for bed in silence. The sting of humiliation Elaine’s words had brought was fading, but the shadow of her accusations lay between us. Suddenly I wanted to tell him she had been wrong…I hadn’t tried to keep her and Lance apart, hadn’t sent him away for loving her. Hadn’t meant to send him away at all. It was the presence of the child which had shattered me, making me say things I didn’t mean. I wanted my husband to know that.

  Dragging the comb through my hair, I said as casually as I could, “I’d like to talk.”

  “Talk?” He sounded as though it was an appalling idea. “Whatever for?”

  “Well,” I hedged, turning to face him, “just so that we understand each other.”

  “Yea Gods, Gwen. We’ve been married for more than a decade now. What is there to understand?” He turned away, intent on hanging his tunic on the peg. Clearly he wasn’t going to make it easy.

  “I mean about Lancelot and me, and the things Elaine said.”

  There was an instant when Arthur froze; a moment when, reaching up to the hook, his whole body went taut as a warrior’s does at the first shock of a mortal blow. I saw it in the muscles of his shoulders, the power of his forearms extended toward something not yet grasped. And then it was gone. With a snort he completed the motion and began to speak, still with his back to me.

  “Hmmph! Pretty little thing, Elaine, but I’d say she’s a bit unstable. A girl like that can cause a man all sorts of woe. Lance was right in not wanting to marry her. Now, don’t you worry about it. She’ll be well enough cared for at Carbonek.”

  Somehow he’d taken the conversation away from my intent, and I watched, confused, as he came to the foot of the bed and bent to rummage in the wicker chest for a clean nightshirt. Never once did our eyes meet.

  “That’s not what’s bothering me,” I declared, doggedly plowing toward the truth. This time, I thought, this time he’s not going to deflect me, and I’ll bring the matter into the open. “It’s about my relationship with Lance…”

  Suddenly I didn’t know where to begin, how to put into words the years of love and denial, of tenderness and appreciation and sharing with each other the things I couldn’t share with Arthur himself. Without that as a background, how could he possibly understand that I could love and need Lance as well as him. “It goes back a long way…”

  My husband pulled the nightshirt over his head and, still without looking at me, went to the basin and began splashing about like a duck landing on a pond.

  I stared at him in disbelief, anger flickering beneath my confusion and sorrow.

  “Listen to me, damn it. I’m your wife and I’m trying to tell you something important!”

  “I am listening,” he declared, his words muffled by the towel as he rubbed his face dry.

  “No, you’re not. You’re avoiding me, as usual.” Frustration and exhaustion stifled my voice and, throwing down my comb, I stalked to the window. The silence crackled with unsaid words. He came to stand behind me, and when he spoke again, his manner was calm and reasonable.

  “You want to tell me you weren’t trying to break up a love-match. Well, I know that. The whole Court knows that. Or that you and Lance are…” Reaching out, he put his hands on my shoulders as his voice dipped. “…are very close. Well, I know that, too. I knew someone would come for you, eventually. I just didn’t know it would be him. Even though you would not leave me, still I knew I could lose you. That I could lose you, even though you stayed. I suppose he gives you things I don’t have time to—don’t know how to. Poems and philosophies and such.”

  For a moment the silence returned, soft and aching this time. His grip had grown stronger, holding me firmly so that I could not turn to face him and see the sorrow I heard in his words. Then his hands relaxed and his voice strengthened.

  “The Court know that as well, and they’ll make of it what they choose to. I choose to be glad my lieutenant and my wife are such good friends—there’d be hell to pay if you were enemies, considering how closely I work with both of you! And as far as what happened in the garden last night…I don’t want to hear about it. It’s none of my business, and when he comes back—in a day or a week, or whenever—I won’t let him tell me, either.”

  Arthur’s hands were sliding down my arms and came to rest, gently clasped, across my belly. “We may live in the public eye, my dear, but at least we can respect a bit of privacy among ourselves.”

  I sighed and leaned my head back against his chest, knowing that this was as close as he’d ever let me come to talking about it. Whatever grief or conflict either of us felt would remain resolutely hidden. Still, just as Lance and I controlled our passion by focusing on Arthur, Arthur and I could give each other solace by focusing on Lance.

  “What if he doesn’t come back?” I whispered.

  “Oh, he will. You’ll see.” Arthur’s tone steadied into his usual confidence. “Once he’s had a chance to adjust to the shock of parenthood—bound to unsettle a man, learning about it that way—then he’ll be back. And if we haven’t heard from him by the end of a week, we’ll start making inquiries. He’s probably gone up to Joyous Gard. Now, come on, Lady”—he dipped his head to whisper into my ear—“my feet are getting cold and it’s time for bed.”

  And so the subject was dropped. Thinking about it later, I didn’t know if I was glad or sorry, but Arthur obviously saw the matter as settled.

  Lancelot didn’t come back that week, or the next, and everyone began to be concerned. We made queries throughout the area, and when he wasn’t found close by, Cei organized a broader search. In his typically thorough way, the Seneschal sectioned off areas of the map and designated a different Companion to cover each. Lance’s cousins, Bors and Lionel, and his half brother, Ector de Maris, led search parties of their own. Yet the Breton was nowhere to be found, and as the search broadened, our men began bumping into Geraint’s in Devon, Pellinore’s in the Welsh Marches. Even the messenger who was dispatched to Warkworth returned from Joyous Gard with word that no one had seen him there.

  All my life my hasty tongue had gotten me into trouble, and this time it had wounded one I loved. A smal
l, merciless voice in my head reminded me of it constantly. The only respite was during my morning rides, racing Etain along the local tracks or running pell-mell down the Roman Road that leads to Ilchester, with the wind whipping through my hair, banishing all thoughts. If Mordred wondered why we spent more time in the saddle than at the scrolls, he didn’t mention it, and while it gave me a chance to get better acquainted with my fiery little filly, it no doubt improved my stepson’s seat as well.

  But if the days were hard, the nights were worse. When the Hall was snugged down and silent, despair overtook me. Not only did I miss Lance’s presence—his conversation, his laughter, his assurance that I could do anything—I feared for his safety, seeing him alone and hurt or ill, set on by bandits or bleeding to death in some accident, with no one near to give him aid. Only sleep could blot out such fears, but all too often it was riddled with nightmares.

  These were strange, ambivalent dreams, more full of dread than action, and often focusing on a holy man who materialized out of the mists. Druid or priest, I couldn’t tell, but the eerie silence that surrounded him was like the pall of death, and I fled from it with the same terror I used to flee from the nightmare of Arthur dying in battle. Sometimes I woke drenched in sweat, heart pounding and covers tangled, and would wrap my arms around Arthur, clinging to my husband for dear life.

  It was Arthur who asked Nimue to use her Sight in an effort to locate the lieutenant. The doire found nothing, even after conjuring up the most powerful of the Old Gods, Cernunnos, the trampling, snorting, antlered god of the woods who is consort to the Goddess.

  “But did you tell Him to bring Lancelot back?” I asked.

  “Tell Him?” she queried, bemused by my arrogance. “One doesn’t command the Gods, Gwen. One can only ask their help, not tell them what to do.” I hung my head, ashamed that my distress had made me so rude. “I do have something for you, however,” the doire went on with a forgiving smile. “A small spell to use yourself, when the moon is new.”

  So she gave me a special set of words, and from then on I watched the phases of the Goddess’s orb impatiently, carefully repeating the incantation when the new moon glimmered, pale and shining, in the western sky. I always added my own prayer as well, pleading with the Gods to return my love safely, for I could not imagine facing the rest of my life without him.

  Arthur was equally concerned, and as the weeks passed we both poured all our energy into ruling the realm. With autumn full upon us we started to receive reports on the harvest. When the tally of grain milled and meat smoked, fish salted, and apples stored began to take shape, we could see who had a surplus of things and who was in need. The actual trade arrangements would be left up to the local leaders, but we were able to tell each emissary how things stood in the other regions.

  Yet I noticed that whenever a new envoy arrived with report in hand, the first question Arthur put to him was, “Have you any word of Lancelot? Heard any stories about the Champion from Brittany?”

  Invariably the response was a shake of the head. After a time I came to dread the answer, for Lance was the most admired member of the Round Table, and stories of his adventures flew across the realm like swallows coming home for summer. If no one was talking about his exploits, it must be because there weren’t any. I lived with the secret conviction that Elaine had been right, and if Lance died, his passing would be on my head.

  Finally, in early October, Gawain suggested we contact the Ancient Ones.

  “For all that they avoid people and cities, there’s precious little that goes on among mortals they don’t know of, M’lady,” the Prince of Orkney allowed. “The Prydn came to admire Lancelot during the winter they stayed at Stirling, and word of his reputation spread among all the tribes. If anyone can tell us where he is, they can. Whether they will or not…” He shrugged eloquently, doubt clouding his countenance. “Still, I am willing to ask.”

  The graciousness of his offer was touching, for Gawain had avoided the Little People ever since his parting from Ragnell. Even now I noticed that he had not mentioned her by name.

  We drew a message in picture form on the face of a wax tablet and carefully closed the wooden cover before taking it to a special spring in the wildwood. There he heaped a small pile of stones over it, poked a sprig of rowan berries into the rocks at the top, and quietly walked away, confident the Ancient Ones would find it shortly.

  But when the Orcadian went back a week later, the rowan had been replaced by a cluster of holly leaves, and the wax face of the tablet was blank.

  “Blank? What do you mean, blank?” I demanded as he handed it to me.

  “See for yourself, M’lady. The wax has been smoothed out, and the cover replaced. I have no idea what it means.”

  The ambiguity of the response terrified me. It could mean Lance was safe in the Ancient Ones’ care, or equally signify that he had died. I’ve always believed I could face anything, as long as I knew what it was; but this was unknowing at its worst, and I wanted to run, screaming, out of the Hall.

  Slowly, grimly, I faced the fact that there would be no word, either from the Ancient Ones or from the commoners. And for the first time in my life there was nothing I could do—High Queen or no, I was powerless to wring news out of the depths of silence. I might never know whether Lancelot was alive or dead.

  We stayed at Camelot that winter, leading the rituals and looking after the welfare of our people. On the last night of October, the terrible night of Samhain, both Pagans and Christians huddled together around our fire. It is the time when Gods and ghosts are known to stalk the land while the ancient sidhe, spirits from before the time of man, steal the souls of careless mortals. Mindful of the danger, our household took pains to be safely indoors before the sun had set and the gate between this world and the Other swung open. And next morning we began the rejoicing of survival when Arthur sacrificed the white bullock with Lionel, the Mithraite, in attendance.

  Then, just as winter closed the Roads, a Christian priest from the Continent made his way to Camelot. He was a mild-mannered man of middle years, gone mostly bald, who bowed when he presented Arthur with a scroll on the laws of King Theodoric.

  “It’s only a condensation and not a complete rendering, Your Highness,” Father Baldwin noted apologetically. “But Boethius thought you’d be happy with anything that gave you some idea of what they cover.”

  Arthur opened the scroll, which appeared to be old and much used already, and carefully scrutinized the Latin phrases of its beginning lines. From the expression on his face, it was more than satisfactory.

  With a broad smile, my husband invited the clergyman to winter over with us. “The Queen will find a room for you,” he added nonchalantly, then, remembering that I did not get on well with clerics, gave me one of his “this is important” looks.

  I watched the new priest suspiciously, sure that he would reflect the Church’s attitude that women were second-class citizens. But Baldwin proved to be a gentle soul, prone to self-effacement rather than paternalistic scorn, and before long I grew comfortable with his presence.

  With a resident priest to hand, we celebrated Christmas in the Hall that year, combining it with the holiday for calling the sun back from its winter wanderings. All the household and many of the Champions, whether Pagan or Christian, came to hear Mass, and both Arthur and I knelt through the service. At the end Bors spoke up, asking the Christian Father God to protect his cousin, Lancelot. It seemed that Bors was beginning to put his faith in Father Baldwin’s religion.

  During the dark winter months Arthur pored over the legal scroll, discussing various points with Baldwin and Bedivere or the Companions who lounged around the fire when the weather was bad.

  “Did you notice that Gawain now supports my idea of a legal system?” Arthur asked. He moved restlessly about the room as I snuggled under the comforter. “Don’t know why, for sure,” he mused.

  “Maybe he sees it as a matter of honor,” I quipped.

  “Maybe. At
least the Companions have accepted the idea of justice based on evidence and testimony rather than Trial by Combat. With any luck, they’ll never again have to put their lives at stake in order to prove someone else’s guilt or innocence.”

  I thought of my own ordeal, when Morgan made the people believe I had tried to poison Arthur. Lance had saved my life by risking his own in Trial by Combat. It was then I realized the Lady of the Lake would use any means to get rid of me, though it had taken my husband a greater time to recognize his sister’s treachery. Only Lance had seen it clearly and tried to protect us.

  At the thought, fear and panic rose up again. Oh Lord, if only I knew that he was safe…

  Arthur gave me a perfunctory glance as he came to bed. Something on my face must have shown my thoughts, for when he slipped between the sheets, he slid his arm around my shoulders and pulled me to him.

  “You’re still worrying about the Breton, aren’t you, lass?”

  “Aye,” I whispered miserably.

  “Me too—me too,” he admitted, patting my shoulder in commiseration. “But we’ll find him—no matter how long it takes, we’ll find him and bring him home. In the meantime, you go ahead and cry for both of us.”

  Such unexpected tenderness weakened my resolve, and a long sigh went through me, followed by wave after wave of gusty sobs. Finally, at last, the tears broke loose and I wept long and hard in my husband’s arms. It was one of the dearest moments Arthur and I ever shared, and I’ve always remembered it with gratitude and love.

  ***

  As the gray, bleak winter came to an end, Father Baldwin baptized Bors. I thought Palomides might convert as well, but the Arab seemed to be struggling with larger questions and was not ready to declare his acceptance of Christ as the only path to the Godhead. He came to see me one afternoon, however, hopefully suggesting that Lance had gone off on some spiritual journey of his own. “We often talked about the need to leave the lures of the world in order to find God.”