“Well now, ’tis done,” he said, throwing off the covers and looking about for his boots. “I must be off to find Cynric before he decides the goblins caught me on the Road.” There was a new brittleness to his voice that had not been there before.
I watched him stand and stretch, thinking how much he moved like his father. He turned at the door and gave me a sardonic smile. “After all, one must uphold the honor of King Arthur’s Court.”
O Mordred, would that we had bridged the chasm then, dragged the hidden anguish into the light and been done with silent wars. Neither you nor Arthur would have found it easy, but at least it would not have come to this.
But I lacked the courage to refuse this one special favor, and made a promise there was no way I could keep. By then I myself was complicit in your betrayal, whether by silence or by speaking…and the Witch of Wookey laughed in her cave.
***
Arthur returned from the south a fortnight later, coming in tired but happy. A week on the Road had left him gritty from head to foot.
“Bagdemagus’s friend Gwynlliw has matters in Devon well in hand,” he reported as I scrubbed him down in the niche of the garden I reserved for bathing. I used a fresh chunk of soap to work up a full lather, and he sputtered when I poured a bucket of rainwater over his head, then rose and shook himself like a dog.
“Those hill-forts are full of crusty old veterans and youngsters eager to take on the devil himself! Good to see their spirits high, in spite of Geraint’s death. If anything, that battle gave them a keener edge, made them more alert.”
My husband groped for a towel and, wrapping it around his loins, stepped dripping from the tin tub.
“How does that sit with the Federates?” I asked, thinking of those settlers who had been loyal to the British crown all along. “Don’t they resent being treated with suspicion? We don’t know that they would have sided with the invaders, after all.”
“True.” Arthur turned his attention to drying himself. “I need to establish better ties with them—show them we respect their ways and want to live in peace, not just as overlords.”
I watched him rubbing down his back—a fine, proud king in the prime of his life. Only graying at the temples, not yet badly weathered. He had no notion of what had transpired at Wookey Hole, and for all that I ached to blurt out Mordred’s story, I was loath to shatter my husband’s happiness. Besides, it would be breaking my promise. So I, the woman whose tongue was always running away with her, silenced the clamoring of my own common sense.
As it happened, Arthur didn’t ask to hear Mordred’s report for several days, by which time the lad had returned from his private journey. The High King scrutinized his scroll on the status of the settlements and forts along the Bristol coast, then began asking for further details. Mordred joined him at the map, and the two of them went over it together.
“The only real problem is the band of brigands that have holed up on Brent Knoll, that single hill to the south of Weston,” Mordred noted. “They’re nowhere near as destructive as the Irish raiders, but are causing the locals some concern. I’d suggest you send a group of four or five warriors to rout them out…it shouldn’t require much more than that.”
“You’ve done a more than competent job,” Arthur said, raising his head to look his son fully in the face. My heart lifted, seeing the effort he was making to overcome his aversion.
“Thank you, Your Highness,” the young man replied courteously enough, but he refused to hold his father’s gaze.
“I’ve been thinking,” Arthur went on, rising to pace about the room. “You and the Saxon hostage, Cynric, have become pretty good friends, haven’t you?” He turned to catch Mordred’s reaction, and when there was an assenting nod, Arthur smiled. “I need a representative to the Saxon Federates. If you think Cynric can be trusted, you could use him as a kind of liaison when you meet the individual leaders. That is, if you want to be my envoy to these people.”
Mordred was staring at Arthur, summing him up for the first time with the knowledge of their kinship. Whatever thoughts or feelings lay behind those brown eyes remained hidden, unmoved and unmoving. At last he inclined his head. “I’m at your disposal, Your Highness, and willing to serve in any capacity you choose.”
My eyes flicked to Arthur, wondering if he heard the cautious hope in his son’s voice. But Britain’s High King was already thinking of other business. “Fine. It’s settled, then. We’ll make the trip to the Saxon Shore this summer—visit the settlers and introduce you at the same time.”
He was rummaging about, looking for a different report, the matter of Mordred having been dismissed. I saw the younger man’s face before he bowed to his father’s back and walked stiffly to the door. Whatever hope he had of recognition, of having earned the right to his father’s candor, died in him. He was retreating, hurt but not yet harmed. That’s when I realized that, promise or no, I must tell Arthur how things now stood.
“What!” The exclamation was so savage, my husband’s voice cracked. “Who told him, and why?”
“The old crone at Wookey…seems she had some grudge against me.”
His dear, familiar features were changing into those of a savage animal and a look of raw, primal hatred flashed across them. In the blink of an eye he’d gone from being the finest of kings to a beast confronted by the unendurable. I jumped to my feet as he whirled away from the long table, his fists doubled, shoulders shaking.
“How he found out isn’t what matters!” I declared, following my husband across the room. He was moving with a cold, determined air, and I searched desperately for words to reach a man who was on the edge of blind violence. “Now’s the chance, the time to make things right. Call him back, Arthur, talk to him…”
But I pleaded in vain. Instead of sending for his son, Arthur Pendragon lifted Excalibur down from its position on the wall, his jaw set like granite, his eyes hard as iron.
“What are you doing?” My voice rose with a wail of fear as he buckled the baldric in place and settled the sword within hand’s grasp. The gems in the hilt winked with a cold fire. “Arthur,” I begged, “where are you going?”
Without a word he headed for the door, murderous rage writ across his face. I rushed after him, but he flung me to one side without even breaking stride—as much the wild, bloodthirsty Celt as Gawain had ever been.
I lay where I had fallen, awash with the memory of seeing the redhead dancing over his foe’s body after a battle—a gleeful, giddy maniac whacking off the head and brandishing the wretched thing by the hair. It was terrifying to realize that Arthur, too, was capable of that kind of savagery.
“Dear Gods,” I whimpered. “Protect him, as well as his son.”
***
Arthur did not return at all that night. When it was clear that he’d left Camelot and that Mordred was still among the Queen’s Men at dinner, I relaxed a little. At least Arthur’s vengeance was not focused on his own offspring.
Indeed, it was only next morning, while I was at my gardening, that I learned what my husband had done.
“Dead.” The word fell flat in the morning air, followed by the thud of something dark and gruesome landing on the ground where I knelt. “And here’s her head for proof.”
I jumped back and stared up at Arthur. He was as worn and haggard as Mordred had been, and splattered with blood and gore besides. When he spoke, the words were wrenched out of him. “Bury it if you wish—or set it out for the carrion crows, it’s of no mind to me.”
He heaved a ragged sigh and turned to look out over the countryside like a fevered man reaching for a cup of water. Farmers were burning the stubble in their fields, creating the soft gray haze that always ushers in autumn’s gold. High above, a skein of ducks was heading for the winter on Glastonbury’s lake, their distant calls conjuring long nights and warm fires. Closer by, the hips on my rosebushes were beginning to ripen. Slowly, inevitably, Arthur’s gaze came home to me, and when I opened my arms and took him into the
m, tears coursed down his cheeks.
“It’s done,” he whispered. “The old witch will never again preside over her stream of sorrows.”
I’ve often wondered if he truly thought killing the hag had solved the problem of his son, any more than Lance’s disappearance had made me cease to love him. Perhaps it was simply a matter of at last having someone to take action against, a clearly defined foe he could confront. In the months that followed, my husband acted as though the question of his relationship with Mordred did not exist, and we entered a time of irony, for each man knew—and knew the other knew—but weighted silence filled the space where understanding could have grown.
Chapter XX
Winter
I was confident that Arthur would not renege on his promise to make Mordred his envoy to the Federates and that Mordred would do a conscientious job. They met several times to discuss the problems of the Saxons, but there was no warmth or personal trust between them and each would be silent for some time afterward. When Lance came back from Joyous Gard, I told him about it, decrying the fact that being open and truthful hadn’t made things any better.
“They’re only open and truthful with you, Gwen, not with each other,” the Breton pointed out. “Arthur is a long way from being able to acknowledge his son. But give him time. Now that Mordred’s an adult, things may begin to change—fathers and sons have different relationships at different ages, I’m sure.”
Then suddenly Arthur realized that his son had a keen interest in developing the law code. Before long Mordred was taking dictation, organizing information, and making suggestions as they went along.
“He asked Cynric about the way the Saxons handle trials,” Arthur mused one night. “Seems they choose a committee of men from the area—a jury of one’s peers—and together they judge the case. It’s an interesting idea…would take the pressure off the king to adjudicate everything.”
I listened and nodded, pleased to see a working partnership developing between them; hopefully it would help heal the wounds in each.
Winter was a delight that year—crisp and cold, with days of diamond brilliance and nights shimmering with sheets of color they call the Great Crown of the North. Since Mordred was so busy with the law, it fell to Lance to escort me on my morning rides, just as in the old days. We coursed the countryside, laughing and playing in the snow with a group of children, relaying messages from Gwyn about the training of our horses, and taking baskets of food to those crofters less fortunate than the rest.
One morning I carried a joint of venison to a tanner’s wife who was abed with childbirth. The hut was little more than a hovel. A single pot bubbled by the fire; there was but one chair to sit on; and a passel of children clambered in and out of my lap. The woman who was recently delivered lay on a pallet in the corner of the room, the swaddled babe in the crook of her arm.
“I’ve got a new brother,” a young tyke announced, happily tugging on my sleeve. His little sister crowded in, caroling, “He’s mine, too,” at which the boy made a face and pulled her hair. She ran to hide behind me, and soon both children were circling me as they swatted at each other until one of them hit the baby I was holding on my shoulder.
“No you don’t,” I admonished as their granny bore down on them, scolding everyone for inconveniencing the Queen.
“That’s all right, Carwen, I understand,” I assured her.
But afterward, as Lance helped me mount Etain, the Breton gave a short laugh. “Raising children makes managing a court look easy, doesn’t it?”
“Probably not all that different,” I allowed. “Just that the first are young in years while the second are childish by nature.”
His marvelous full lips compressed in a secret smile, and his eyes began to sparkle. “You’re the most amazing woman—running a country one moment, burping a baby the next. And beautiful…no matter what you’re doing, you’re so beautiful.”
I looked down at him, dazzled by the outpouring of love and appreciation. Once I’d have leapt from my horse and flung myself into his arms with joy and tenderness and all the openness of my heart. But years of caution, of duty, of keeping a distance between us, held me in check, so I leaned down and putting my hand against his cheek, simply said, “Ah, love, I could not do the half of it without you by my side.”
He caught my fingers and pressed them to his lips, a bright, fine laughter playing in his eyes. It was enough to sustain me through a myriad of duties, a month of conferences, half a year of boring routines. And I never, never took it for granted. That kind of soul-touching happens too rarely to be cavalier about.
***
When springtime came, Cei and I began the necessary preparations for the Court’s progress through the Saxon Shore. I was in the midst of packing baskets and panniers, saddlebags and wicker trunks the day Dinadan returned from Brittany.
Dinadan—closest friend and cohort of the Cornish warrior Tristan, he was the sleek little terrier to Tris’s wolfhound. For years, whenever Tristan blundered into love and combat, it was Dinadan who hauled him out, mopping up the mess and trying to mend the fences. In that sense, he was a shining example of what a best friend is.
“Nice to be back in the most civilized Court in Christendom,” the Cornishman announced with a knowing smile. “Howell’s a fine man, of course, and treats his warriors well, but it’s just not the same as being with you two.”
This last was directed at both Arthur and me, and I smiled at the compliment. Dinadan was best known for his droll and sometimes wry sense of humor, but I’d often thought he could have been a diplomat as well.
“What news from the Franks?” Arthur inquired.
“Ha! Each of the sons is chewing on the others, trying to wrest some larger portion of Clovis’s kingdom for himself. Thank God, it keeps them out of other mischief.”
“And Tristan?” Lance inquired.
“Quite the most effective warrior around—saving perhaps yourself,” the little man added, nodding comfortably to Lance. “And well beloved for his music. He still plays the harp like an angel. It takes a bit of talent, you know—being able to whack off heads in the morning and sing ballads in the afternoon.”
It was such an apt portrait of Tristan, we all burst out laughing.
Next day Dinadan accompanied me on my ride, for in spite of the piles of clouds skimming toward us, I needed to leave the tree-maker an order for the wooden bowls, trays, and utensils I’d be wanting in the kitchen when we came back in the fall.
“Never knew a queen who took such a personal hand in running the Court,” Dinadan commented. “Now Isolde of Cornwall, God bless her, let the housekeepers manage all that while she sat, pretty as a picture, working on her embroideries as Tristan played the harp for her.”
“She’s a far better needlewoman than I,” I shrugged, remembering the many times I’d seen her deftly decorating some bit of cloth with bright flosses. “As good at that as Morgan le Fey, I think.”
“And getting to be as famous a healer,” Dinadan said. “Even in Brittany she’s said to be one of the best. Of course,” he added, “her mother was a famous shamaness in Ireland—a real wizard at curing illness and cleaning wounds.”
Isolde’s Pagan background had been one of the problems between her and Mark, but Dinadan now assured me she had become the model Christian. “And not just for show. She’s really quite devout, they say.”
The White Christ was popping up everywhere, it seemed, and as we talked, it became clear that Dinadan himself espoused the belief.
“What of Tristan?” I inquired. “Is he, too, bending the knee to Rome in spirit as well as body?”
“Ah, poor Tris. Sometimes I think the big lout doesn’t know whom he wants, or what he believes. Take his marriage, for instance.” The Cornishman scratched his chin and stared thoughtfully at the sky. “I suspected something wasn’t right when he told me the bride’s name was Isolde White Hands. After declaring a lifelong passion for Isolde of Cornwall, asking White Hands to be
his wife seemed”—Dinadan cocked his head and squinted thoughtfully—“shall we say, a bit inconsistent?”
I grinned at the understatement. “We thought perhaps it was a political union. Isn’t White Hands Howell’s sister?”
“Aye, that she is,” Tristan’s friend nodded. “And a dear girl. But love is a very tricky business: catches you entirely off guard and makes you see only the things you want to.”
“Is he that besotted on his bride?” I asked, wondering if Tris had truly forgotten his earlier love. The first drops of a summer shower were pattering around us, so we reined our horses into the protective shelter of a beechwood.
Dinadan shook his head. “Rather the contrary. Oh, I think he wanted to love White Hands; certainly he courted her assiduously and made all the usual protestations. But the wedding night didn’t go well, if you get my drift, and it’s gotten worse since. He blames his inability to function on his love for the Queen of Cornwall.”
“You mean the marriage was never consummated?” Tris was a big, uncomplicated man, who saw both himself and life in purely physical terms. The idea of his becoming impotent was more than a little surprising.
“Ah, M’lady, it happens to the best of men at one time or another, and for some more often than not,” Dinadan noted wryly as the rain pelted the leaves above us. “It’s as unfair to judge a man by his randiness as it is to judge a woman by her looks.”
I laughed at the astuteness of the comment. Lancelot might see me as beautiful, but he was looking considerably below the surface. I knew full well that any courtier who praised my looks was indulging in flattery for some design of his own. “But how does Tris’s bride take his lack of interest?” I inquired. “Is she very upset?”
“The poor girl is totally devoted to him, trails around in his wake, sees to his every need—clean garments, mended hose, his favorite foods at every meal.”
Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn Page 24
