“It’s time, Your Highness,” he announced, though which of us he was addressing wasn’t clear. Arthur blanched and turned away and the Orcadian pushed me roughly toward the door. As I stumbled into the hall I caught one last glimpse of my husband. Arthur stood there, alone—an isolated man drawn in on himself, struggling with a dozen inner demons. I wanted desperately to go to him, to reach out and hold him and encourage him to give voice to the fears and dreads he had so long denied. But Agravain slammed the door between us and led me, sobbing, back to the room in the wine cellar they were using as a dungeon.
After that came silence as I languished in the cell, closed in, bereft of friend or freedom…
It could have been worse: the guard didn’t keep me chained, Cook sent a tray of hot food from the kitchen every day, and I could see both treetops and sky through the high window. Even the long days of inactivity were bearable. But what the days didn’t bring in torture, the nights did.
Horrible dreams—dreadful, familiar nightmares that have haunted me in times of terror since childhood. There was the vision of my father, jigging and capering atop the Beltane blaze, only this time he wasn’t thrusting the flaming brand into the center of the pyre. He danced in the heart of that inferno, not scrambling down as he had in reality but endlessly giving up his life for his people as I wailed disconsolately and woke sobbing.
Or Morgan’s laughter, silky and gleeful, gloating over the loss of my only child. Anger and pitiful helplessness knotted my stomach, and I woke, retching.
But worst of all was the sight of Arthur in battle, slowly, inexorably run through by a spear when he fought Maelgwn in retribution for my having been kidnapped and raped. Fatally skewered, his death agony sent wave after wave of pain through my sleep as he reached out to me from the blood-blackened pool of disaster and I woke, screaming.
Just so the most awful fears of my life came back, parading grotesquely through the dark. In between, I prayed. As hard as I’d prayed for Lance when he was so close to death, now I prayed for his safety and that the trial might prove our innocence…
By the time the trial was held, my eyes were sunken from lack of sleep, my spirit dampened by so much horror. I moved slowly into the big room with the mosaic floor and sank down on the chair Agravain gestured to—a plain, hard-backed piece of furniture that was a far cry from the carved chairs I had used for years as Queen. Those at least had cushions.
The position of judge was eliminated after Arthur stepped down, and since no one would accept the job of sitting on the jury, the entire household was enlisted. I looked slowly around the room, blinking at the sight of so many strangers. Here and there I found a familiar face—Enid and Elyzabel sitting together, Lynette with her newest babe at breast, Frieda holding a grandchild on her lap, Cook still wearing her apron. Nimue was present, but she kept herself separate from the rest, as befits a priestess.
Among the men, the Companions fidgeted—adjusting belts, studying their boots, playing with their daggers. Gareth and Griflet held my gaze and tried to smile encouragingly; Gawain stared at the ceiling; Cei sat beside Arthur with Palomides on the other side, offering whispered comments. Of the rest, not even Ironside met my eyes.
It was Agravain who presented the case against me, swaggering about the small open area in the center of the group, making his points with flair and dramatic gestures.
“Captured in her own chamber,” he stressed. “As good as lying naked in her lover’s arms…”
“I wasn’t naked, and we were standing,” I interrupted, but my voice was too weak to carry, and he ignored my statement.
Holding up Morgan’s letter, the handsome Orcadian declared that Arthur deserved better in a wife. Watching him, I wondered vaguely what drove the man to attack me so. His jealousy of Lancelot was well known, as was his devotion to the Lady who had absolved him of matricide. Still, to carry the charges from the two of us being lovers to that of treason was preposterous. I listened to his ravings and had trouble taking them seriously, so outlandish did they seem.
When Bedivere rose to defend me, he pointed out the flaws in Agravain’s argument, the lack of evidence, and the fact that Morgan herself had once attempted to have Arthur killed by her lover, Accolon. “Is it not a bit of irony,” he said dryly, “that the Lady of the Lake should now accuse the High King’s wife of the very action she herself was guilty of?”
He went on to note the lack of proof in Agravain’s case.
“But you have years of proof of loyalty, years of service to the King and Round Table—by both Lancelot and the Queen. The Breton brought honor and courtesy and courage, while M’lady brought the human touch that kept the Fellowship from being just another gathering of warriors. Has she not always been there to listen to your problems, cheer you when you were down, lead the celebrations when you triumphed?”
And, as his final argument, he reminded the Court that by ancient custom Celtic women have the right to choose their bed partners on the basis of merit. If I had chosen to exercise that right, what would be more natural than that I turn to my personal Champion and finest warrior in the realm?
When Bedivere was finished, I breathed a sigh of relief. I had begged him to find a way to defend me without ever casting doubts on Arthur as a husband, and he had done it brilliantly.
It was a splendid and spirited defense. Every God I had petitioned, every spirit I had called forth guided Bedivere’s rhetoric. At the end I would have applauded if I’d had more strength.
His words had their effect; the newcomers looked at me with curiosity, and possibly respect, while the rest nodded in agreement and reminded each other of this favor I had done or that trouble I had taken on their behalf. The hope that Arthur’s hard won legal system might produce justice after all gave me confidence. I sat up straighter in my chair and resolutely faced my accusers.
That’s when the Bishop from Carlisle’s cathedral stepped forth—the man Vinnie used to encourage me to entertain. Old and venerable now, with a long white beard, he looked kindly and wise as he leaned against his shepherd’s crook and sealed my fate in a thunderous voice…
“Can you say you are innocent of adultery in spirit as well as body?” he demanded.
“What right have you to judge my spirit?” I flashed back, stung by the old man’s righteousness.
But the moment the words were out of my mouth, I wished desperately I could take them back. The patriarch turned from me to the household with the grace of a born orator.
“Thus you see clearly the dangers of a prideful Pagan monarch ruling a Christian Court, my children. Overweening pride invariably leads to other sins—unbridled lust, treason against her husband, all forms of arrogance and plotting for personal ends. I have heard that this Queen thwarted the true and rightful union of Lancelot and Elaine, and banished the girl from Court, simply to keep her lover close at hand. What was that but a misuse of power, a corruption of her position? And yet she continues to go among you with a total lack of shame.”
He paused and turned back to me, making such a sweeping gesture with his arm that everyone’s eyes traveled from his accusing finger to where I sat, transfixed, in my chair.
“Look at her now,” he intoned. “Even now, defiant when her vile actions are exposed. Only if she confesses her sins, renounces her proud ways, and submits to the authority of God and her husband can she be saved.”
It was then I knew the cause was lost. A cold chill reached my heart, and I lowered my head lest my judges see the despair in my eyes. The Bishop, naturally, took it as a sign of belated contrition.
I stayed in the cell while they all deliberated, and when Lucan came to escort me back for the verdict tears were running down his face. Elyzabel walked beside me, ostensibly to hold me up should I feel faint, though I noticed that it was she who clutched my hand. I avoided looking at Arthur, glancing only at those who had known me well; yet whether Christian or Pagan, their faces reflected a terrible doom, and not a few among them cried. For the rest, a bare
few looked away in shame. The others stared me down, scornful of the monarch they were about to depose and send packing back to Rheged. Once more I bowed my head.
Standing there in the sandals and shift of a penitent, long since stripped of crown or robes, or even the golden torc I had so loved, I witnessed the indictment of Pagan Queenhood; the ending of co-ruling as an equal and respected partner…
They had heeded their Bishop’s demand, and I heard, rather than saw, their verdict. “Guilty.” “Guilty.” “Death at the stake come dawn.”
It was only then that I raised my head, horror-struck by the sentence. Loss of my Queenhood, exile from Court, even banishment—these were the worst I had imagined. Not public execution.
My knees went weak, but I held my head high and walked out of the room with the greatest dignity years of practice could provide. They might take my life, but they would never find me crying over it.
And to think that wretched churchman wanted to see me afterward! I sent him packing with a well-invoked curse when he came to offer his pious consolations. Bravado can only last so long, however, and the moment Nimue stepped into the cell, I collapsed, sobbing, in her arms. She held me gently, reminded me of the Druidic teaching on death and reincarnation: “A new life, Gwen. A fresh beginning, a whole new start.”
But I was not so much worried about afterward as I was about the morrow…
“I don’t want to die,” I whimpered, clinging to her frail form. “I love this life, I love Arthur and Lance and the Round Table, too. To be burned to death in public…” A fit of shaking seized me, and the doire wrapped her cloak around me as the words tumbled out between sobs. “What if I can’t face it? What if I can’t make my feet work, or keep from screaming, or remember suddenly some little homely thing and sink down, bawling in despair before we even reach the pyre? I can’t do it, I tell you—I can’t do it.”
“Of course you can.” Her voice was normal and not that of the Mother, but with one simple phrase she called up every imperative of my life. How many times had it come down to this—moments of fear or uncertainty, times when I shied away from doing what must be done, only to have someone else give me the confidence that I needed?
“Of course you can.” She said it a second time for good measure, lifting my tearstained face and looking hard into my eyes. “Don’t forget, Gwen, I was Merlin’s protégé and I have the Sight. You will face it well, you will come through the ordeal. I know. I have seen.”
And so she poured her strength and belief into the leaky basket that held my courage. By the time she left, I was all cried out, and moderately able to face the dawn. When Enid came to spend the night praying for me, I was calm and poised. Even Gareth has found me at least coherent company this night. But still I wonder how it came to this…and where Mordred is.
The one face I did not see, either at the trial or sentencing, was his. Where did you go to, my son? Into the wildwoods to find your soul? Back to your Auntie to report on your success? Or simply away, as Lance has gone away, to be healed somewhere of the wounds life dealt you? I cannot say I wish to see you this morning, when the fire lights up the sky in bloody competition with the sun…but still I would like to know the truth of your motives.
“I think,” Gareth said suddenly, “that Mordred is deeply distressed by what has happened. He ranted a good deal against Lancelot after he read the letter—became obsessed with outrage toward the Breton. But he’s always spoken well of you, M’lady.”
I managed a faint smile, hoping Gareth was right. Perhaps Mordred’s resentment of the Breton reflected some kind of twisted loyalty to Arthur, hidden and unspoken though it might be. But the crack around the edge of the shutters was growing lighter, leaving me little time to ponder such matters. The best I could do was consign him to the Gods and know I’d done all that was in my power to give him a good childhood.
There was a mumbled exchange outside my cell, and Gareth rose when a key grated in the lock. In her corner, Enid stirred to wakefulness and hastily crossed herself as the door swung open.
Standing next to the torchbearer, looking gray and old as death, was Arthur Pendragon.
I scrambled off my pallet, startled by his visit and horrified at his condition. All thought for my own situation fled at the sight.
“Leave us,” he said in a hoarse voice, and Gareth hastily led Enid out.
We stared at each other, he no doubt as shocked at my state as I was at his. Once before I had seen him thus—hollow-eyed and gaunt-faced, frail as an old man hunched against a storm. It was back before we’d wed: standing in the moonlight on the Wrekin, the night I’d realized that our moiras were entwined. Old and haggard, beaten by a crushing weight…
I’d thought then that there was something I could say, something that would heal the anguish I beheld. But what do youngsters know of visions? It had disappeared before I understood it. Now it was here in reality; the husband I loved and admired, racked with a need to hear—or say some word of release.
“Ah, Gwen.” He spoke in a raspy whisper, and the sound went creeping around the stone walls like a mouse looking for a way out.
I moved toward him, but as I reached up to put my arms around his neck, he stepped back and took me firmly by the shoulders. By sheer force of will he brought his voice under control.
“I’ve come to give you your freedom…thought of nothing else since the verdict, really. Gawain and some of the Companions are pressing for a pardon; Nimue says it is not time for you to die; and I—my life is over without you by my side. So I have decided. I will walk out with you before the entire Court and pardon you by Royal Decree.”
“Arthur!” I gasped, shocked that he would even consider such a thing. Using the royal power to overturn the legal system he had himself worked so hard to establish was unthinkable. “You can’t do that.”
“No, lass. What I can’t do is sit by silently and let them lead you to the stake.”
Gritty-eyed and grimy, the High King of Britain and I confronted each other, my life hanging somewhere between us. To live, to laugh and love and dance again on the greensward…tears of hope and gratitude filled my eyes, and threatened to undermine the little hoard of bravery I’d collected these last hours. I stared at him, awash with tenderness and love—and the realization that everything we had lived for was about to be scattered in oblivion. Driven by the terror of such a thought, I pulled myself up to my full height and looked him levelly eye-to-eye.
“Of course you can,” I said, my voice trembling only a little at the beginning. “If I can face it, you can face it. To do anything else is to make a mockery of all your life. What else have you striven for but the rule of law, where all people, noble or not, are held accountable for their actions? The trial was fair, the jury as impartial as could be gotten under the circumstances. If you overturn their verdict, the whole of our reign will end as a sham.”
He was looking into my eyes, more open and vulnerable than I had ever before seen him.
“Gwen, without you, life would be a sham anyhow.”
The words tore at me like eagle’s claws. It broke my heart to realize that the man who had such difficulty admitting love was willing to throw the whole of his life away just to keep me alive. He was the King all Britain had prayed for during the days of the tyrants; the leader Merlin had created—by magic or otherwise; the one who was destined to keep the flickering light of civilization from being swept into darkness by the barbarians. His name, the Wizard had said, was writ in the stars, and would be remembered for all time. To this task Arthur had brought honor and wit, an appreciation of his men, a loyalty beyond question, an openness of personality and spirit that drew all to him. The dream might be the Sorcerer’s; its accomplishment was the man’s. I could not see it founder over me.
“I won’t accept,” I said curtly.
He gazed at me in silence, puzzled and hurt by my response. Thank goodness he still held me by the shoulders; a warm, protective embrace would have undone me entirely.
The muscles of his jaw tensed as though he meant to argue the point, and I rushed to head it off in a half-bullying way.
“Don’t you dare start crying, you sentimental oaf. I’ve work to do, and I’ll not have you getting the whole front of my dress sopping with tears.”
My change in tone seemed to startle him, and he let go of my shoulders as the sound of marching men came to a stop outside the cell. I stepped back and took a deep breath. “Get on with you, man. I’ve still got to fix my hair.”
The guard rapped on the door before opening it. My escort—all members of the Queen’s Men, their white shields draped with the black of mourning—waited outside.
Arthur paused a single heartbeat more, still holding my eyes. For a moment I thought he was going to say something further, so I raised my chin defiantly and gave him the thumbs up. He turned his face away, blinking, but returned the salute before bolting out the door.
Fix my hair, indeed! What silly, mundane things we cling to in the face of chaos! I’m doing well to be on my feet, swaying like a sapling and unable to move, much less worry about my hair all hanging down. Well, buck up, girl. It’s the last of your public appearances, and Nonny would never forgive you for making a botch of it.
The thought of my old nurse brought a wry smile. When Gareth came rushing to my side, I reached gratefully for the arm he extended. He started to speak, no doubt wanting to give me some word of understanding, but I interrupted, fearful that any delay would leave me unable to face my destiny.
Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn Page 36
