“Don’t blame yourself,” I told him carefully. “Or let Lance fret over it. He broods too much as it is.”
Gareth murmured some response but made no effort to move. In the hallway my escorts stood as still as stone, a terrifying lethargy holding them captive.
What was it Mama told me, just before she died? Once you know what you have to do, you just do it…no matter how hard it is or how much pain you feel. It’s as simple as that, really.
Lifting the skirt of my shift with one hand, I gave Gareth’s arm a squeeze with the other and urged him forward.
Time to get on with it, while I still can. One step at a time. Eyes on the ground, looking neither to left nor right, lest you find compassion in someone’s face. Concentrate on not tripping—on what has to be done, for the people’s sake. As a Celtic queen…as part of the Royal Promise.
Chapter XXX
The Stake
The sky overhead was gray when we made our way to the Square at the heart of Carlisle. A light fog had risen off the river, blurring the edges of the buildings and swirling around us as we came into the open space.
I looked up once and saw, half-hidden in the mists and shadows, a pile of logs and branches heaped up around a stake. It was tall, like the pyres they build at Beltane.
There were ghostly figures moving in the Square, and those nearest to us parted silently to let me through. Shoes and hems, and the edges of cloaks drew away. Many of them were near the fountain…the same fountain where I’d been drawing water the first time I saw Arthur.
Thought he was a country lad, as no doubt he thought I was a scullion, standing there barefoot with the bucket slopping over. Great Gods, was it almost thirty years ago? Seems more like yesterday…
I stumbled suddenly and clutched Gareth’s arm to keep from falling. A groan rose from the phalanx of men around me, but still I didn’t look at them.
Stairs, not a ladder, leading up to the little platform. Thoughtful of them. An extra bit of work for the carpenter. If only he’d included a banister, to help me keep my balance.
Gareth was half supporting me now, guiding me across the boards to the post that rose, rough-hewn and sturdy, out of their center. I leaned back against it, grateful for its solidness, and raised my eyes to the Fair Unknown. I wished I could trust my voice enough to tell him how much I appreciated his help.
He leaned forward, as though to whisper something, but Agravain pushed him away, roughly slipping the rope around me—a good thick rope, such as might hold a snorting bull. Or a fractious Queen, too prone to letting the words leap out unbidden.
Someone began fussing with my hair, trying to tie it back before they slipped the hood over my head.
“No need for that,” I snapped, turning to glare at the man. “At least let me look on the new day dawning.”
He paused, uncertain as to what right of authority I—an about to be dead queen—might have to give orders, and I mustered a wan smile. “I promise I won’t lay a curse on anyone, if you’ll leave it off.”
The man backed away, chastened.
As the mist began to clear, I could make out the crowd more easily: farmers and peasants, merchants and townspeople, all come early to get a good spot for seeing the spectacle. A herald with a drum was marching up and down, periodically disappearing into one of the adjacent streets, his booming instrument waking anyone who might be tempted to sleep through the event. When he came into the Square for the last time, he took up a position in front of the pyre, still beating out a steady cadence.
Across the paving stones the Smith was tending his forge, his helper making the flames leap up against the declining darkness as he clapped the bellows’ handles together. A bevy of pages stood in place, each holding a resinous torch ready to be lit and brought to my feet.
I looked hastily away, seeing for the first time the members of the Court. They were coming from one side of the Square, some anxiously peering my way, others speaking in hushed tones among themselves.
On the other side of the plaza, the Bishop stood on the steps of his church, no doubt intoning prayers for my salvation in order to ease the conscience of the sizable crowd surrounding him. They were too far away to make out their faces, but judging from the bright colors they wore, a number of them were nobles.
And Arthur? I put the question aside with a shudder. God help him, don’t let him watch! We have shared too many good times to leave him with a last memory of this.
Lifting my eyes to the sky, I stared at the high, small clouds that riffled toward the east like water foaming over rocks. They were beginning to hint at sunrise splendor. Salmon it will be today, perhaps going to pink when the sun finally rises. At least it isn’t red.
Below me the drummer continued, and I thought grimly that on this day, at least, he was calling up the sun just as harpers do.
A sentry on the wall was watching for the first brilliant sliver of sun to break the horizon, and at his signal the great belling warhorns, whose call to death and duty make every warrior’s blood run hot, roared out their challenge. The ancient sound echoed away down the alleyways as the people grew hushed. Someone from the town’s Council—I did not know who—strode into the Square, signaling for attention.
In a terse, clipped voice he read the proclamation of my guilt. In spite of itself the mob let out a gasp when the man came to the sentence. “Death at the stake come dawn.”
As the first wedges of sunlight sliced between the buildings and began to stripe the Square, the fellow declared it was time.
A low, moaning chant came from the throng, throbbing in time with the renewed beat of the drum. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the motion of the boys dipping their torches into the forge-fire, then running with youthful eagerness to plunge the brands into the logs at my feet. I wanted to scream to them, to order them to go back, to ask why they were doing such a dreadful thing, but I had promised not to make a scene and was determined to hold my tongue as long as possible.
The morning breeze had risen, bringing the smell of burning pitch to my nose, making the Dragon Banner above our house flutter and unfurl. When I looked at them, the Queen’s Men seemed to waver and shift in the smoke that began to rise between us.
I looked deliberately around the Square, doubt and fear and bitterness sweeping through me. For the good of the people? For this you gave up a life of your own, and any promise of love and personal freedom? For what? To hear their every request? To listen to their complaints? To care about the rabble who are now waiting to see you burn?
A sudden rage raced to my heart as my eyes filled with tears. I stifled a scream of denunciation and searched frantically for distraction.
The sky. Look at the sky. Forget your duty or who you’ve done it for. There is no more they can ask or you can give. Galahad knew that…sought out solitude, went among the fields, away from the throng he wanted to save. Forget the people, ignore the crowd. Hold on to the sky—the dear, wide vault of blue, arching deeper and darker here than anywhere else in the world.
High over the plain a golden eagle circled, lovely and clean in the first rays of light. The crackle of flaming twigs exploded in my ears, and the breeze wafted capriciously, sending waves of heat first from this side, then from that. I stared upward, refusing to be tethered to my panic.
Free—free as the eagle. Soon I shall soar above the valleys and fells of my own land, winging my way to the Isle of the Ever Young…and never again be born a queen!
I clung desperately to the thought, trying to ignore the pounding of my heart, the increasing heat from the flames, the storm of noise that washed over me.
Someone screamed—was it me?—and the platform beneath my feet began to shake. Perhaps the crowd had gone mad, was charging the bonfire in order to rip some poor part of me away as a souvenir, a memento of my service, my loyalty to them. Blinded by tears, I swore at this untidy ending with all the power at my command.
Suddenly my bonds loosened and the post no longer held me. I crumpled,
sobbing, only to be grabbed roughly, dragged down the stairs, and thrust abruptly up onto the withers of a large horse. Someone’s arms went around me, pulling me close in against his body, and I stared up, uncomprehending, at Lancelot’s face.
Chaos was sweeping the Square—men pushing and shoving, the ring of iron on white shields, a bedlam of swearing and groaning interlaced with screams of surprise, of outrage, of deathblows raining.
Lance swung Invictus around, intent on getting away. As the animal whirled, bunched, and prepared to leap forward, I saw Gareth pause at the base of the stairs, smiling at us. Out of the smoke, a blade flashed red in the fire glow.
There was no warning. The blow caught him above his mail tunic, in the juncture of shoulder and neck, severing the jugular. A geyser of blood fountained upward, splattering Lance and me and the horse.
The moment froze in time. He did not even scream. A dreadful grimace of surprise and disbelief contorted his features as the gentlest of heroes raised his hands slowly to his face before sinking—first to his knees, then to the stones already slick with his life’s liquor.
The snorting horse reared and plunged, then raced away as I let out a wail of despair and fainted.
***
Light…brilliant, shattering light and the thunder of hoofbeats pierced my head. Dimly I knew our lives depended on the speed and endurance of the stallion, and the drumming of his hooves, hard against the paving, clattered in and out of my consciousness. I heard the sound, felt the motion, was vaguely aware of the Breton’s arms holding me firmly before him. Time and space had broken their bounds and I was tossed violently between them. Here I caught a glimpse of the present, there a flash of memory—everything and nothing tumbled in my head like leaves in a whirlwind, and I could no longer tell what was real and what was not.
The fire-bright sun lay directly ahead of us, but when I closed my eyes against the pain of it, a pall of smoke and blood engulfed me and the sight of Gareth’s death’s head rushed into view. With a strangled scream I opened my eyes, struggled to throw off the nightmare, and Lance leaned forward, his mouth barely inches from my ear.
“Don’t think,” he commanded, tightening his grip on me as I started to sob. “Don’t think about anything.”
We flew down the supply road at the base of the towering Wall. Guards were not posted at the quarter-mile towers so close to the city, and there was no one on the road, since most people had gone to Carlisle to witness their Queen’s death. We might have been fleeing across an empty world.
The stallion was growing winded as we came to the ford of a small stream, and Lance turned off into the wooded watercourse that meandered between gentle hillocks. No sooner were we hidden from sight than a pack of riders went flying past. I began to shake.
“Bors and the others,” Lance reassured me. “But I have no doubt the King’s men will be close behind.”
He dropped the reins and let Invictus pick his way slowly between the trees along the burn. When we reached the edge of a broad meadow, Lance drew the animal to a halt and helped me dismount, then spread his bedroll beneath a birch well back from the verge of the woods. He also tossed me his monk’s habit with the admonition to put it on.
“Did you get any sleep last night?” he asked when I’d complied. I shook my head uncertainly, unable to remember what had happened the night before.
“I thought not. You rest—just lie here and rest—while I take care of the horse. We’re going to need him for some days to come.”
He leaned across me to tuck the blankets closer, and I looked up at him, too tired and confused to speak. For a moment he paused and stared down at me, his eyes crinkling in a weary smile. That we were both alive and here in this sylvan glade was almost beyond believing. How we had gotten here was of no more consequence than whether this was all a dream or not.
I let myself float in the beauty of the moment, disconnected from any reality but this. Above me a red squirrel frisked in the branches, while a thrush filled the morning with glory from the higher canopy.
Lying there, safe in the dappled shade of the grove, I watched as Lance unsaddled his mount and walked him long and thoroughly around the edge of the meadow. The lea was wild, full of both grass and flowers, and there was no sign of fences or buildings within sight. We might have been the only people in the world at that moment. It was a heavenly thought.
Seen from that distance, Lance looked like any horseman caring for his steed. Although he was wearing a mail tunic, both sword and shield had been left with me. There was a bandage on one arm from the night we were trapped together, but one might still think him simply a man of the land—a farmer, probably a horse breeder. All of his attention was directed to the needs of his animal just as, when we were together, all of his attention focused on me. A good husbander, I thought softly. Definitely a man of the land.
When the stallion had cooled off, the Breton brought him back by the trees and rubbed him down with handfuls of grass.
“What he really likes is to roll after being ridden,” Lance sighed, “but as long as we’re in hiding, he’s in hiding too.”
Hiding. The word wandered slowly around my brain, devoid of meaning. Once Lance hobbled the horse and threw himself on the ground beside me, I shifted to rest my head in his lap, staring up into the leaves overhead.
“Hiding?” I murmured. “Why ever should we be in hiding? Didn’t you save my life?”
“Aye, and that with the King’s help. Arthur sent me a message before the trial, saying that if it came to the worst, he’d make sure your escort was unarmed. He begged me to save you if he could not. The Banner was our signal, and when I saw the Red Dragon flying over the house this morning, I knew he had not found a way to keep you alive. That’s why I came.”
“But if the Queen’s Men were unarmed, why was there so much fighting?” I whispered, trying to make sense out of the disjointed memories that had begun to creep back to me.
“I don’t know—I was concentrating on you and didn’t see how it began. At a guess, I’d say it was likely to have been Agravain who broke the faith. It…it wasn’t supposed to be that way. My men promised they wouldn’t use their weapons unless they had to. Now, God knows how many have been maimed or killed.”
“Besides Gareth?” I formed the name carefully, praying all the time it wasn’t true, “He died, didn’t he?”
“Um-hm,” Lance nodded miserably. He was silent for a long while, gently brushing my hair from my face. When he spoke, his voice was husky. “Gareth insisted on being next to the stairs, so as to be able to cut you down and bring you to my horse. It meant I didn’t have to dismount. It was his choice, his moira.”
The reality was even worse than I feared, and the realization that he had given his life for mine brought out a deep, aching moan.
Lance gathered me close in his arms, shushing me softly and crooning a little wordless lullaby just as he had when he’d carried me to safety after the rape all those years ago. That had been in the middle of the night, with stars flung all around us; now we were in the first flush of morning, with the peaceful flutter of a green bower overhead and a splashing brook nearby—a time fresh spun, separate and away from all the past.
“Sleep if you can,” he whispered, rocking me gently. “We have to wait till evening before moving on anyhow. They’ll be expecting us to use the Road, and patrolling along the Wall, so we’d best stick to the cover of streams and forest paths for a while. If necessary, we can follow them all the way to Northumbria, and make Joyous Gard in little more than a fortnight.”
Joyous Gard—that memory of pleasure and delight, the haven in the midst of difficulty, the peaceful home untouched by violence. Like a child, I repeated the name over and over, until it became a murmur akin to the sound of the nearby stream, and I drifted into a heavy, dreamless sleep.
Chapter XXXI
The Journey
A full day’s rest and only moderate travel that evening did much to restore my strength. We talked li
ttle—perhaps both needing to come to terms with the devastation we’d left behind—but we touched often, in the simple, companionable way of partners facing hard times together: a hand on my shoulder when I bent to dip up water from the stream, a pat on the knee before rising from a meal. At night, fully clothed and sharing the single blanket, we cuddled together for warmth with the innocence of children. Both age and circumstances were bound to have banked the fires of passion, a fact I noted with only mild interest; no doubt exhaustion had something to do with it as well.
The stream we’d been following joined the South Tyne just before the waters of that rambunctious river went leaping through a gorge where soft gray cliffs rise above the water, their crests festooned by hanging forests. Above the high branches a flock of rooks filled the air with their raucous cries and endless acrobatics. The blue streak of a kingfisher skimmed above the water like a peacock jewel flashing amid the mossy, fern-clad steeps, and the serene majesty of the place filled me with a sudden, sharp joy.
Clearly death and fighting, intrigue and power were not the only definitions of life; the grandeur and simplicity of places such as this touched my soul more deeply than any fancy court ever could. I would have liked to stay there and let it heal my battered spirit, but Lancelot, ever mindful of the danger we were in, insisted we press on.
By then we’d developed a routine of sorts. Lance spent the early morning catching fish or fowl while I searched out wild turnips, greens, and whatever edible fungus was available. We moved our camp during midday if there was a cover of trees, or in the long evenings if the land was open, and took turns riding or walking the stallion.
Where the river opened out into a broad, grassy vale, I found a blackberry patch and we stopped to pick the sweet fruit with the glee of youngsters on a holiday. It was the first time in years that I’d seen Lancelot enjoy himself so thoroughly.
We lived simply for the moment, as much intent on finding food and shelter as on our travel, and both body and spirit grew stronger. The horror in Carlisle’s Square began to fade, as though all that went before had happened to someone else.
Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn Page 37
