Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn

by Persia Woolley

  The High Priestess was studying me with a cold contempt, and I realized too late that statesmanship had been forgotten and I was close to losing control of the entire meeting.

  Morgan’s gaze had gone to my throat. “She, too, wore that torc whenever possible. You’re very like her, you know…smug, complacent pussycats, constantly preening yourselves in the belief you can wrap men around your little fingers. Though my mother, of course, was quite foolish about it. She thought those men loved her, when she was nothing more than the pitiful receptacle for their stupid rutting.”

  Shocked by the ferocity of her attack on Igraine, my already frayed nerves gave way and I lashed back.

  “How dare you speak of your mother that way! What do you know of her life, you who never bothered to talk with her, who never came to visit? Why, you weren’t even there when she died. It’s no wonder Igraine considered me the daughter of her heart when you and Morgause cared so little.”

  “Cared?” Morgan’s laughter had a hollow ring, as though it came from the sad, embittered core of her. “Don’t talk to me of caring. Have you forgotten she sent both her daughters away the moment Uther Pendragon entered her bed, and farmed Arthur out to Merlin as soon as he was born? Such a singular lack of maternal instinct does little to inspire a sense of caring.”

  The High Priestess’s face was hard as flint, and she flung herself from the chair. I blinked in consternation, realizing there’d be no chance to deal with truces and treaties until she’d given vent to the years of anger she’d compiled. So I settled back in my chair and watched the Lady of the Lake throw herself about the room like a wild animal trotting frantically back and forth at the end of a tether.

  “All her life Mother was a pawn, a stupid, silly pawn, too proud to admit what a dupe she had been. Sold as a child bride to a man old enough to be her grandfather and kept like a pretty toy in the fortress at Tintagel. Tales of her beauty stirred up the jack-a-napes throughout the realm until the High King murdered my father, just to see for himself. Uther Pendragon”—Morgan’s voice dripped venom—“raped my mother and placed her on the High Throne of Britain like a trophy, all to satisfy his own lust. And she let herself be gulled into thinking it was an honor to be so used. By the Goddess, I call such self-delusions criminal!”

  Morgan stopped abruptly in front of the window and, folding her arms, glared out at the river Thames. Her shoulders were shaking, though whether with rage or tears, I couldn’t tell. As the silence lengthened, I judged the worst of the outburst was over, and slowly, as if dealing with a fractious horse, I began to talk to her, quietly and calmly.

  “There now, that’s but one way of looking at it. I was with Igraine when she died, heard her last confession and know how she, herself, saw her life, Morgan. Igraine honored your father highly. Yes, he was much older, and yes he had raised her after her family was killed during the Time of Troubles. But that’s hardly the same as purchasing her for prurient reasons, and she was proud to be his wife and bear you and Morgause for him.”

  Morgan kept her back to me, but her shoulders no longer shook, so I went on. Perhaps, in some benighted way, I thought that hearing the truth might help her let go of the anger she had nurtured for so long.

  “As for Uther Pendragon—he did not murder your father. And she lay with him of her own free will, and with full knowledge and desire. Neither Arthur nor the marriage that followed was the result of rape, and neither your mother nor Uther had any idea that your father would die that night.”

  “Not true!” The Priestess whirled from the window, spewing denials in all directions. “Lies, all of it lies!”

  Her face was contorted with fury and her hands balled into fists. The green eyes held a glassy malevolence as she stalked across the room, advancing on me with the intent of stopping my words at all cost. It was as though by physically closing my throat she could wipe out the reality she would never admit to. I shrank before the force of her onslaught and threw up my arms in defense just as the dwarf stepped forward and intercepted his mistress.

  Carefully and firmly the little man took her hands in his own, staring up at her and murmuring some kind of private message. When her eyes began to fill with tears, he led her gently to the chair across from me. He was as tender with her as a mother with a frail child, and after she was settled, he gave her a courtly bow and resumed his post by the door. At no time did either one of them look at me, and I suddenly felt like an intruder in a very private partnership.

  Once Morgan had her emotions under control, she reached for her gloves as though preparing to leave. “I really must get on to see Mordred, you know,” she announced with a brittle smile, though she didn’t look at me.

  “But what about my offer?” I spoke hastily, jolted by the realization that because statesmanship had been forgotten, the chance of averting war had been lost.

  “Can you guarantee Arthur will support my cause? That he will make worship of the Goddess mandatory throughout the realm and tear down the churches?”

  “I will do my best,” I pledged, knowing I could only commit myself, not my husband, to her demand. “I will work tirelessly for you.”

  “Not good enough.” She got to her feet. “There’s no way to hold Arthur accountable for your pledges.”

  It was obvious her outburst had wakened resentments more important to her than either political or religious ambitions. With dread tugging at my soul, I pressed on.

  “What would satisfy you?”

  Morgan gathered her cloak around her shoulders and stared down at me like the Goddess in Her hag aspect. Our eyes met, and I saw scorn turn to curiosity, then real interest. No doubt she saw, for the first time, just how desperate I was.

  “You want my help that much?” A half-smile crossed her features, and she sat back down with a graceful gesture. Lifting her teacup from the table, she stared at me over its rim, dark brows knit in contemplation.

  “There may, in fact, be something I can do,” she said at last, her rich voice going low and thoughtful. “Mordred is counting on me to raise an army in the north for him. If he realizes I could just as easily take it to Arthur’s side…perhaps he could be convinced to negotiate.”

  A long silence followed while Morgan continued to study me. She was now completely in control of the situation, and I waited, fascinated, wondering what the price would be. “And in return?” I finally prompted, my voice barely above a whisper.

  “Something only you can give.” She held the teacup in one hand and let the fingers of the other rub slowly around the rim. “Yes, an agreement we can make between us—one that doesn’t need Arthur’s approval—in return for my coming to his aid.”

  I held my breath while she continued to play with the cup. At last, quite certain of herself, she nodded and looked at me pleasantly.

  “I swear to protect Arthur in every way I can; to attempt to dissuade Mordred from battle, or act as his mediator; even to bring my healing arts to Arthur’s side if he needs them…all this I promise to do, once you abdicate as High Queen of Britain.”

  “What!” Disbelief shattered my reserve, and Morgan smiled outright.

  “Of course not,” I exclaimed, shock ricocheting through me. “I can’t just up and leave my people.”

  “Oh, I think you can. You abandoned them when you fled from Carlisle, and later you abdicated your position in Rheged for Lancelot. Of course, it may be you secretly want this war—if Arthur dies, Lancelot could return to Britain. That is, if Mordred doesn’t kill him as well.” Painting such grotesque futures seemed to amuse her, and she shrugged eloquently as she put the cup on the table. “In the end, I suppose it all depends on how much you want any of them to live.”

  Outraged at her proposal, infuriated by her jibes, utterly powerless to deflect the demands she was making, I glared at her like a cornered animal.

  “There is nowhere for me to go,” I temporized, “unless Uwain will let me come back to Rheged.”

  “A popular Queen who has only recently
given over her crown? No, my dear. Uwain may be awfully like his father, but he’s not so dumb as to allow that.” Morgan’s voice turned to silk. “I’ll make sure that Arthur doesn’t die, provided you write out a statement saying you are renouncing your position at Court…in order to go live in a convent.”

  “Convent?” A wave of panic engulfed me, and I said the first thing that popped into my head. “I’m not even Christian.”

  “Oh, I think something can be arranged, as long as you promise to stay there for the rest of your life. Until you die. Otherwise Arthur’s life will be forfeit.”

  Terrible carnage, Nimue had said. Blood and gore and all the horror of civil war that I had so long tried to avoid. No matter what I did, the specter rose again, spattering me with death and the knowledge I could have averted it.

  Yet the concept of knowingly, willingly entombing myself behind walls for the rest of my life was worse than facing the stake. My mind darted frantically here and there, trying to find a way out of the predicament.

  And all the while Morgan sat in silence, watching me wrestle with my love of freedom and my love for Arthur. No doubt she knew what the end would be.

  “If I agree to this, how do I know you’ll do as you say?” I asked finally, hoping to gain some last advantage in the bargain.

  The Lady of the Lake drew her head back and gave me a haughty look. “I am a Celt, and I do not lie,” she intoned, sounding exactly like Gawain.

  “Of course,” she added, getting to her feet again, “if you are unwilling, I must be on my way—Mordred is waiting for my answer.”

  It took every ounce of strength and dignity I could muster, but I rose and looked my sister-in-law in the face. For a long moment we stared at each other, the fear and loathing lying naked between us until I finally bowed my head,

  “I will go to the convent in the Chiltem Hills,” I said slowly and distinctly as the world constricted around me.

  “Good. You’ll write out your abdication now and leave for the holy house immediately thereafter,” the High Priestess ordered. “My lieutenant will escort you, to make sure you arrive…safely.” She paused a moment more, eyes on the golden torc around my neck. “By rights that should be mine.”

  “Igraine gave it to me as a wedding present,” I objected, instinctively reaching up to touch it.

  But Morgan was too quick for me. Grabbing the lovely rope of gold that had been the badge of freedom since time began, she jerked it off my neck, springing it out of shape and abrading my skin at the same time.

  Without another word she turned on her heel and left, while I stood there, a woman bereft of both past and future.

  So it was done. What I had treated as a matter of diplomatic barter had turned into personal revenge for the Lady. And the bargain I struck to save Arthur’s life became the agreement that destroyed my own.

  I wondered if he would ever know the final gift of love I’d given him.

  Chapter XXXVII

  Camlann

  I stood in front of the only entrance in the convent wall and waited, dry-eyed, while Morgan’s lieutenant used his sword hilt to reach the knocker.

  It was a stout oaken door, banded with iron straps. A small square panel was set into the wood at head height so that visitors could be identified without compromising the barrier of the door itself. The novice who peeped through the panel in response to our knock was young and timid, and lacked the authority to let us in, so we waited while she ran off to find an older nun. Security here was nothing if not thorough.

  When it was decided we posed no threat, there was much scraping of wood against metal as the door was unbarred from inside.

  “Ah, you wish to see the Abbess,” the sister responded when I asked for Brigit. “Whom should I tell her is here?”

  “Gwenhwyvaer of Rheged,” I answered. “Tell her Gwenhwyvaer is here.”

  The nun looked at me critically, noting my fur-trimmed cloak and soft leather boots. But these were no more than any noble lady might wear, and if she recognized me, she kept it to herself. There was no point in upsetting the peace of the holy house by announcing who I was—or rather, who I used to be.

  I waited, my heart in my throat, while the novice went off to fetch my foster sister. Morgan’s dwarf pointedly took up a position between me and the door and began flicking his riding crop against his palm. At last there was a commotion at the end of a far corridor and the sound of footsteps running toward us.

  Brigit burst into the room, veil flying and wisps of red hair escaping from her coif. “Holy Mother be praised, it is you!” she exclaimed, enveloping me in a joyful hug, as though she’d expected never to see me again.

  I leaned against her, grateful for the support and welcome. Suddenly, with nowhere else to go, nothing left to be done, I felt utterly and completely drained.

  “Enid’s waiting in the courtyard,” I murmured, “…the one who married Geraint.”

  “Both you and your company are always welcome,” Brigit said gently, but I felt her stiffen as her eye fell on Morgan’s lieutenant.

  “I’m here to make sure your new charge is settled properly,” the man announced. “I’ll be returning to London once you agree to accept her lifetime pledge to stay in your house.”

  “Lifetime?” Brigit pulled back to look at me, incredulity written all over her freckled face.

  “Aye, I’ve come to seek asylum. I have promised to spend the rest of my days with you.” The words came out in measured cadence, though I had no volition to say them.

  Brigit stared at me long and hard, then turned to the dwarf, “You may tell your mistress that we will take care of her,” she said firmly.

  So she remembered, and knew who was driving me to this. I looked at her gratefully.

  “Come, let us get you settled.” Brigit sent a novice out to fetch Enid, then gave Morgan’s lieutenant a curt dismissal before leading me down the hall to a guest room. “There’s been rumors of all kinds that you were dead and buried already! I can’t tell you how glad I am to have you here, safe and sound!”

  When we reached the guest room, she offered to have a tray of food brought, but I was so weak and tired, all I could do was shake my head.

  “You just rest—rest and sleep now, Missy,” my foster sister said, taking off my boots and handing me a sleeping robe. “There will be plenty of time to talk tomorrow.”

  So I crawled under the simple wool blanket and, pulling the covers up over my head, slid into the deep, dreamless sleep of exhaustion.

  The next fortnight was a time without measure, a waking dream in which real and unreal blurred into a kind of trancelike blur. The nuns might live behind stout walls, but events in the outside world filtered through to them. Refugees streaming north for fear of the battles to come, worried holy men and busy clerics, even the farmer’s wife who delivered milk and cheese—all brought bits and pieces of news, and I hung on their words as though they were messages from the Gods.

  Arthur’s landing at Dover was much spoken of, along with the death of Gawain. The very audacity of landing in Federate territory seemed to have worked to the High King’s advantage, for Mordred had not bothered to reinforce the troops along the Saxon Shore, and among the Federate commoners there were as many for Arthur as against him. It was said that the initial skirmish had put Mordred’s troops to flight, though no one knew what would happen next.

  “We always remember him in our prayers,” Brigit consoled me, “and now we’re including you and Enid as well.”

  “And Mordred,” I said. “Ask your Father God to make him change his mind.”

  “Perhaps the Son would be more appropriate,” the Irish lass quipped, and I smiled wanly, warmed by the wit which had sustained me all through childhood. If I had to be imprisoned, I was glad it was here.

  Like one in a trance waiting for the release that might never come, I moved through each day, taking part in the pattern of work and worship that makes up convent life. Since I had not been baptized, I was not expecte
d to join the sisters in chapel for the midnight prayers, though I was often awake when the bell rang to summon them from their beds.

  My sleep was fitful at best, and beset by nightmares—the old, familiar terrors now shifting from known fear to unpredictable grotesquery. When I dreamt of my father dancing in the flames of Beltane, it was myself I saw, though nowhere could I find Lancelot and safety. Sometimes Gareth’s dying face rose to haunt me, or Morgan came to call, her voice high and cold as she laughed at my heartache. But by far the worst—and most common—was the nightmare of Arthur dying in battle. It was this vision that haunted me every night.

  I’d been at the convent for almost two weeks when the farmer’s daughter, coming in her mother’s place, stopped by the kitchen, full of news about the warriors gathering near the bend of the river on the Plain. “Camlann, we calls it. Dog-leg, you might say. Proud men on proud horses, with shields and helmets, and swords all shining in the light. Thousands strong, they say.”

  “What insignias?” I asked eagerly.

  The girl shrugged slightly. “White horsetail standards swishing in the breeze…Saxon, someone said. And the High King’s Dragon.” She frowned, trying to remember. “And maybe a White Boar, from Cornwall.”

  “Constantine,” I whispered thankfully, my mind seeing rank after rank of men spread out across the Plain, as in my dream.

  “Dear God,” I prayed, suddenly going weak in the knees, “give Morgan a tongue of gold. Give Arthur all the strength and courage he needs. And Mordred…give him some sense to see the futility of what he’s doing.”

  That afternoon the first of the autumn storms passed through, soaking the woods and making the streams and rivulets spring to life. Come night, I lay on my cot, listening to the distant honking of geese moving down from the north, and wondered if the redstarts had left Northumbria for the winter. High in the dark sky a curlew’s call fell to earth, wrapping me in dreams.