So I lay back on the pillows in the guest bed, grateful for the familiar, gentle bossing of the woman who was the closest thing I had to mother or sister. How many times she’d come to my aid—whether bandaging up childhood cuts or keeping me alive during my illness after the rape, it was Brigit who had always known what to do and done it well.
Once I was settled and my foster sister sat down beside me, I related the whole adventure, though without mentioning that Mordred was Arthur’s son.
When I finished, Brigit’s face folded into a frown. “Morgan has always resented you—at least since the moment you married Arthur. How it must have rankled to see her mother favor you above either of her own daughters! Oh,” she added when I started to protest, “I know they had been estranged for years, and you did nothing to cause the rift. But what with her anger over that and the fact that if it hadn’t been for Arthur, her own husband might have become High King, Morgan no doubt still thinks she has ample reason to wish you ill.”
The Irish girl looked down at me and softly shook her head. “Between your own willfulness and the moira the Gods gave you, it seems you’ll always be tempting fate.”
I managed a grin of sorts, wondering if she’d forgotten that as a Christian she wasn’t supposed to believe in the Old Gods. A wisp of bright red hair had strayed from under her veil, and I reached up to brush it back, teasing that she was forever seeing boggarts and hobgoblins lurking in the shadows.
“Be that as it may,” she answered, hastily crossing herself, “we both know how cunning Morgan can be. I want you to promise that if things get too difficult—or unsafe—at Camelot, you’ll come stay with me, wherever I happen to be.”
“Of course,” I assured her, never dreaming it would come to pass. “But only if you will promise the same, and let us shelter you if you need it.”
So we made the pact, and when I was ready the next day, parted with a fond hug.
“Don’t forget,” she admonished as I swung into the saddle, “to give my best to Arthur when he returns. You know I pray for his well-being daily.”
I smiled down at the freckled face and dancing green eyes, thinking how lucky I was to have such a close friend. And on the way home I made a little prayer of my own to the White Christ—after all, it couldn’t hurt to ask both the known and unknown deities to send my husband home safe and sound.
Chapter XIV
Distant Kings
Just as you said, his hair hangs all the way to his ankles.” Arthur paused to give me one of his sidewise looks.
“No…” I shook my head in amazement, and he burst out laughing.
“Well, maybe not quite that long. But you were right about Clovis being a scoundrel. Tyrant, assassin, opportunist, bully—and sly. Very, very sly. And to top it off, he loves practical jokes!”
Arthur stretched contentedly. The boat from the Continent had barely made it across the Channel before the autumn gales set in, sending the men riding hard from Dover to Camelot as the weather darkened. They arrived at the Hall just before the evening meal, and now, after a good night’s rest, my husband and I were catching up on the news before getting out of bed.
I glanced at Arthur, glad that the trip had been such a success. He’d returned happy as a boy with a creel full of fish, overflowing with news and comments and ideas.
“Those Franks started out as a bunch of nomads—just another tribe of barbarians who became Federates of Rome, taking shelter on the Empire’s border in return for fighting off invading Goths. But after the enemy had been chased over the Pyrenees, one way or another Clovis got rid of the other Federate leaders. Now he’s set himself up as king of a sizable territory.”
“And the Emperor didn’t stop him?”
“By that time Theodoric had taken over Italy, so there wasn’t anyone closer than Constantinople who might have reined him in. And when Clovis became a Catholic, the Byzantine Emperor responded by making him an honorary consul.” Arthur shrugged ruefully. “Palomides said old Anastasius was picky about having ‘proper’ Christian allies.”
“Hmmm.” I grimaced. Trying to follow the in-fighting between different branches of Christianity seemed as pointless to me as trying to tell the difference between one wine and another: some people found it fascinating, but I had neither talent nor interest in it.
“Actually, he made a very canny decision,” my husband went on, still thinking of Clovis. “Ever since Rome collapsed, the Catholic Bishops have filled the breech when it comes to governing—offering shelter, settling disputes, organizing relief when famine or plagues arose. The people of Gaul have been Roman Christians for generations, so naturally they look to the Church to protect them. For Clovis, who was an intruder, converting to their religion was a wise move, politically—it put him on the same side as his subjects and enlisted the aid of the only civil organization around.”
“But that’s hypocrisy, if he doesn’t truly believe.”
“Well…” Arthur stroked his mustache. “It certainly helped to unify the country.”
Unifying Britain had been Arthur’s dream since before I met him, and I suddenly sat up and stared hard at him. “You aren’t thinking about converting for the same reason, are you?”
“Not personally…but more and more people are espousing the White Christ, Gwen, and if it’s what our people want, we’ll have to support it to some degree.”
Without thinking, I made the sign against evil, shocked at the idea he might change gods for political advantage. Arthur saw the motion and grinned. “Now don’t get your Pagan hackles up. I think our policy of never declaring for one specific religion is still the best. But just as we honor all of the Old Gods, we have to honor the Christians’ too.”
I lay back, mollified, and my husband swung his feet over the edge of the bed, half turning so his back was to me. “Spent a fair time in Brittany as well,” he noted a shade too casually. “Met with Urien’s son while I was there.”
“Uwain?” Clearly this had been a remarkable trip.
“Indeed, lass.” The High King of Britain stared at his hands, suddenly at a loss for words. Some inner struggle went on before he admitted, “Not only met with him, I apologized for having sent him away—maybe unfairly—after Morgan’s attempt on my life. The lad has grown into a full-fledged man…and he was gracious about forgiving me.”
“Oh, love, I’m so glad!” I threw myself across the bed, wrapping my arms around his shoulders from behind. “Truly, it was a fine, upright thing to do…and I’m proud of you.”
“Thought you might be,” he grumbled, then broke my embrace as he got to his feet. Relief in getting through the ordeal was plain in his voice. “And you can be proud of him, too. The boy you set to work caring for the horses has become famous as an animal doctor. One hears stories everywhere about his deeds—they even say he took a thorn from the paw of a lion and the beast follows him around like a pet.”
“A lion!” The trip was sounding more and more interesting, and I began to regret I hadn’t gone along. “Did you see it?”
“Um-hm.” Arthur reached for his breeches. “The only lion I saw was the one painted on his shield. But then, you know how stories like that spring up.”
I sighed and climbed out of bed myself, secretly sorry the lion wasn’t real. Uwain deserved something special to make up for the injustice we had dealt him, and a pet lion would have been just the thing.
***
The Hall was overflowing for dinner that night, full of the good cheer that comes of greeting comrades home. Arthur reported on his stay in Paris—a hodgepodge place of brick and stone perched on a pair of islands in a river called the Seine—and the precarious balance of power between Clovis the Frank and King Theodoric in Italy. The Frankish leader continually threatened to grab off adjoining territories while the Goth sat in his splendid capital in Ravenna and checked his every move. And both were recognized by Anastasius while we were not.
“If you ask me,” Arthur concluded, “the Emperor in Constantinopl
e is using each to keep the other in line. So far it’s worked to our advantage: Clovis is too distracted by Theodoric to harry the men of Brittany.”
“Thank goodness,” Bors interrupted. The colorful blond Breton flexed his muscles as he reached for another chunk of venison. “If that weren’t the case, I’d be home defending my father’s borders instead of enjoying a place at the Round Table. By the way, has anyone heard anything about Lancelot while we were gone?”
The question dropped like a stone through water, and I felt the scab of forgetfulness ripped off the old wound. After two years there was still no word, and hope of finding the missing Champion alive had grown dim.
There was a general murmur of demuring, and Bors’s brother, Lionel, spoke up in his slow, deliberate way. “I think I shall go south to look for him. No one’s checked that area yet.”
Although there was nothing to draw Lance to the south, I had to admire the mulish sense to the man’s logic. But having made that declaration, he lapsed back into his customary silence, and a pall began to settle over the Hall.
“It’s important not to take those Continental bastards too lightly,” Gawain said quickly, shifting attention back to the European trip. “They may claim to be the heirs of Rome, but they’ve naught in the way of honor.”
“Ha!” Arthur chided his nephew affectionately. “Between their honor and your hotheadedness, we almost had a war on our hands!”
There followed an account of Gawain’s encounter with an envoy from Rome, in which the Orcadian tweaked the beard of an upstart diplomat. The warriors cheered their favorite as the story spun out, full of pride that one of their own had shown the effete remnants of the dying Empire what a real Briton could do.
“Took all the skill I had to smooth it over,” Arthur whispered to me. “Heaven help us if the Orcadians ever slip the rein I keep on them.”
I studied my husband, wondering what he would think of the news about Agravain and the Lady. So far I had not mentioned it to anyone, not wanting my own presence at Stonehenge exposed. Now I debated how to tell him what had happened, and when.
But Gareth brought the subject up that night, pleased and proud to recount how his sibling had been forgiven not only by the family but also by the Goddess. “Pledged himself to serve the Great Mother for the rest of his days,” Morgause’s son averred. “He would like to return to his place in the Fellowship, Your Highness, if you’ll have him. And as his brother, I do humbly beg you consider his request.”
Arthur’s face was a study in conflict, mirroring his rage at Morgan’s defying his edict against her coming to Logres, then his recognition that the Companions would be glad to see Agravain reinstated. In the end he bowed to Gareth’s gentle urging, suggesting that the culprit need only ask our forgiveness for having broken the peace. But the next day, when Arthur and I bent to the tasks of ruling the realm, I brought up the question of the man’s involvement in Pellinore’s death.
“It would be as hard to prove as the stories about the Green Man,” my husband countered, pushing back from the long table spread with maps and reports. “Agravain claims amnesia, and there’s no more than circumstantial evidence linking him to the murder. Just because he was in the area isn’t sufficient reason to bring him to trial, though I grant you, he bears close watching in the future.”
I snorted at the understatement, thinking that Arthur’s concepts of justice might prove to be a double-edged sword if a likely felon was let free in the name of fairness. At least, I told myself, it should protect the innocent from being found guilty of unwarranted charges.
Arthur had brought home several new warriors from Brittany, making sleeping space harder than ever to come by. I blessed the fact I’d made extra mattresses, converted a portion of the guest rooms to a woman’s dormitory, and even accepted Griflet and Frieda’s offer to share the Kennel Master’s quarters. It was Bors and his brother who bunked with them, fitting right in with the homey domesticity of the little house. Frieda was pregnant again, growing riper with each month, still chasing her energetic twins even as she made ready for the new bairn. Once I’d yearned deeply for such a state; but now I watched my favorite Saxon with gladness for her pleasure rather than envy at my own lack. Time seemed to have drawn the sting from that sorrow.
Toward the end of April, when the rooks took to tumbling in the cloud-racked skies, Mordred and I strolled along the wooden platform that tops the great wall of Camelot. Since he’d become a squire, the morning lessons had come to an end, replaced by hours of sword practice, cavalry drills, and the learning of battle tactics. What little time he had to spare was generally spent with the other squires or, more likely, with the towheaded hostage, Cynric. Looking at him as we turned to lean against the parapet, I realized he was well-nigh as tall as I was and taking on the cast of a man.
“It’s as though he holds some kind of grudge against me for an offense I can’t even remember,” Arthur’s son said softly. “Oh, I know he recognizes me as kin—Mama always said he must do that—but it’s clear that of all his nephews, I am the one he wants least contact with.” When he turned to face me, his brown eyes were full of doubt and confusion, and I caught my breath in fear of the question that was bound to follow. “Do you know why that should be, M’lady? Or if there’s any way I can make amends?”
I held his gaze for a long minute, feeling my heart break with his innocence. Damn it, Arthur, why did you always punish him for your own guilty conscience? Anguish at the nakedness of the boy’s pain, and the sure, dreadful knowledge that I would keep his father’s secret at the expense of the lad’s right to an answer, brought tears to my eyes, and I turned away with an oath. “Drat this wind, it blows dust in your eyes even on a clear day.”
Mordred was immediately all concern, bringing out a handkerchief and offering to find the offending particle. I dabbed at my eyes, trying to say it was nothing while I struggled for composure. “Perhaps,” I offered, “you should ask the King himself.”
“Mmm…” The response was leaden with the knowledge it would do no good, and he turned back to the parapet with a sigh. The mask of unconcern settled over his features again, and I wondered if he’d seen through my ruse. At least it was clear he had no idea of the blood-tie between them. Then suddenly he was scowling, bent forward in concentration.
“There’s riders down there.” He pointed off toward the track that leads from the Roman Road to Camelot. “See, M’lady—coming on at a real clip. Too many to be Royal Messengers, but too fast for normal travelers.”
I followed his gesture, picking out the tiny group that moved toward us at a canter. Without a banner to announce them, it was impossible to tell where they hailed from, but as they broke from cover at the foot of our hill, I caught sight of Lionel’s insignia on one of the shields.
“Quick,” I told my stepson, “go tell the King that Cei and Lionel are returning from the south.” The two of them had headed off for Cornwall not two weeks back, hoping to see if King Mark knew anything of Lance’s whereabouts. Considering the speed at which they approached, it was likely they were returning with news of import.
The two Companions burst into the Hall without even pausing to wash off the dirt and grime of the Road before reporting to their King. Lucan rushed forward to relieve them of their swords, but they brushed past him, hustling a third member forward between them. A long black veil swathed the small frame of the newcomer, and when they all three knelt before us, a woman’s hand lifted the garment aside, and I saw her tear-stained face.
“Enid!” My exclamation filled the Hall as I leaned forward. “What on earth…?”
“It’s Geraint, Your Highness.” Cei’s normally caustic tone was tempered by the importance of his news. “The King of Devon has fallen in a battle against the Saxons.”
Arthur stiffened beside me, and I saw Enid sway at the pronouncement. But she gripped Lionel’s arm for support and spoke out firmly, determined to recount her husband’s death with all the respect that was due him.
“He kept the peace for eight long years, and served Your Majesty’s Cause well and faithfully. Never mind that the northerners chided him as having grown weak and womanly; he shrugged off such comments for the hollow posturing they were. But M’lord, when our spies reported Saxon longboats being beached—dragged ashore by armed men in mail, not moving up a river, waiting while their occupants pillaged some small steading—that’s when Geraint donned his buckler and called for his houseguard. There was such fire in his voice, no one could doubt his bravery.”
Enid could not go on, and she crumpled against Lionel. It was Cei who spoke up, his words rising over her quiet sobs.
“We’d arrived the day before, and when the news came, I tried to get him to wait for reinforcements from Bagdemagus and the men of Dorset. But Geraint was intent on engaging the enemy before they could establish a beachhead and hoped that if he took them by surprise, it could be kept to a skirmish rather than a pitched battle.”
So Geraint and his warband swooped down on the invaders, and all through the afternoon the battle raged, now in the surf, now on the strand. Time and again the elegant King set upon the barbarians until the foam of the ocean turned red and the blood of the enemy ran down the flanks of the British horses. But neither could rout the other, and at dusk the two sides drew apart, retiring to makeshift camps at different ends of the beach. Cei was relieved, for he felt confident the morning would bring fresh warriors from Dorset.
A ghostly fog began to roll in, shrouding the shore like a damp, thick fleece. The men eyed it nervously, wondering what it hid, until a terrible voice boomed forth from its heart. “They say the King of Devon is only fit to stay at home with his head pillowed in his wife’s lap,” it jeered.
Geraint, who was taking off his armor, turned in rage at the words. Slipping on his bull-hide vest, he grabbed up shield and sword and called for a fresh horse. The light of battle flared on his brow, as though the Morrigan, great Goddess of blood-lust and death, had descended on him. He leapt to his mount and rallied his men, then with a bloody yell, charged into the dank, unholy mist.
Guinevere, the Legend in Autumn: Book Three of the Guinevere Trilogy Page 17
