“I wish that Morgan could see you now, Modred,” she crooned. “She thought you’d rejected her completely.”
“I did. The old whore made this even harder for me. You know how I feel about your petty vindicta.”
“What did you feel when Gareth died, and Gawain?”
Modred squirmed. “Nothing, nothing at all. They were fools.”
“So are you if you ignore the blood ties. I never cared about avenging our mother’s rape by Uther. But you can’t ignore the bonds; they’re part of the weaving that holds all things together. Arthur has tried to ignore them with his laws and artificial justice. Even the Romans were smarter than that. They gave the power to the families who had always wielded it, as long as there was order and prompt payment of taxes. In return, Rome gave its civilization. Arthur believes that veneer is enough. But what survived were merely Romanized Cornovii and Dumnonii and all the other tribes of Britain.”
“Morgause, I am very tired of history lessons. I’ll write my own, thank you. ‘Modred, High King of Britain, Conquerer of the West.’ That’s what the bards will sing of and the scribes copy into their books. When Arthur and Rome are just shadows, it is I who will be exalted.”
“Wonderful.” Morgause was not impressed. “I will believe you when it’s all over and you sit in the King’s chair at the Round Table.”
• • •
The summer days were long and sultry at Camelot. It was hotter than anyone recalled. The baths were kept cool all day and the sound of children splashing and calling overlaid all others. Guinevere found her balcony too hot and spent most of her time near the women’s quarters, where there was often a breeze. It looked out on the northern wall and the forest, so that was how she missed the messenger.
She only knew about it when the wailing started. Risa bade her sit still while she ran to see what it was about. She came back almost at once, her face wooden with shock.
“Oh, my Lady dear,” she cried. “News has come from Armorica. King Arthur is dead!”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Modred was a model of kindness and sympathy in the days that followed. Guinevere knew they could not have borne the news without him. Even Risa admitted he was wonderful at calming the panic felt by everyone.
“But I still don’t trust him,” she insisted. “A man who is cruel in bed won’t be kind anywhere else. Anything he does will be for his own good, not ours.”
“Risa, he has given of his own wealth to so many people. What can he hope to gain from that?”
“Just what he has gained, my Lady. Your admiration.”
Guinevere refused to listen. Even if Morgause made her nervous, Modred had never been anything but kind and gentle to her, even in those horrible days at Cirencester.
Risa drooped in the unusual heat. She was tired and not willing to continue the debate.
“All right, believe what you like. I don’t know why you won’t listen to me, though. I know that man and he is evil. He’ll do his best to destroy us all.”
• • •
Vainly, Guinevere tried to get more details of Arthur’s death. Had he drowned, been killed in battle, or fallen ill? What of the rest of the men? Was Cei safe? Lydia was thin and sleepless with fear. What of Constantine? Letitia was pregnant now and had been sent home to her mother and grandmother for care. Why did no other word come? Wouldn’t Arthur’s body have been sent home with a guard of honor, even if the war went badly?
Something odd was going on. Guinevere told herself she was being foolish, that Risa’s feelings were affecting her too. But why did no one else come back from Armorica? And who were those men who came by night and left before dawn? From the cool darkness of her perch, she had seen them, forms only, taken at once to Modred’s rooms.
Then they came by day. The children brought the first warning.
“Saxons!” they screamed as they raced through the gates. “A whole Saxon army on the road! Mother! Mother!”
They sat for a moment, paralyzed by terror, each clutching a child. Then they ran for the towers to see for themselves. Guinevere limped behind, half supported by Lydia.
“I can’t climb the ladder,” she snapped in irritation. “What do you see up there?”
Brisane called down, “Sweet Mother, it’s true! There must be a hundred of them!”
Modred had heard the noise and come running.
“Come down, all of you!” he yelled. “There’s nothing to worry about! Come down, no one is going to hurt you!”
“But the Saxons . . .” Guinevere began.
“They aren’t Saxons; they’re Jutes.”
Guinevere looked at him strangely. “I see. That makes a difference?”
“Of course. They’re here to protect you. I’ve hired them. Now, come down!” he shouted again.
Guinevere was not to be put off. “What do you mean you hired them? For what reason and with what right?”
“They’re foederati. Arthur took all the men worth anything to fight the Franks. He left us nearly defenseless. The Jutes are willing to defend us for land and gold. They have no love for the Saxons.”
“But who are we in danger from? I’ve heard no rumors that the Irish or the Saxons are near.”
“You can’t understand such things, Guinevere.” Modred spoke indulgently. “It’s my duty to see that Camelot is safe.”
“Don’t you think you ought to wait until Constantine returns before doing anything so sudden?”
Modred whirled around. “What do you mean. What about Constantine?”
Guinevere was bewildered. “But Arthur said that he told you that Constantine was to follow him as King. You’re to be seneschal, like Cei.”
“That’s a lie!” Modred’s face grew red with fury. “I am to be King. I am King now! Arthur always meant me to be his heir. Constantine is just another minor lord. Arthur wouldn’t even have considered him to take over at Camelot! I am King! Do you understand?”
She thought she did. Terrified, she nodded.
“Good.” With an effort, he calmed himself. “I don’t want to hear about this again.”
Then he strode briskly toward the waiting army.
Guinevere stared after him, her mouth open in horror. “He’s gone insane!” she thought. “Dear Lord, we’ve all been left in the charge of a madman!”
• • •
The next days seemed to prove her right. More and more soldiers came to stay at Camelot, and Guinevere began to fear for the safety of the women and children. Modred said the men were there to protect them but there had been more than one attempt to break down the barred doors of the women’s quarters. She conferred with Risa and Lydia, but neither one could think of a plan.
“You see now, don’t you?” Risa spoke with sadness.
“Yes,” Guinevere admitted. “I wish I had believed you.”
“We must do something, though.” Lydia tried to keep panic out of her voice. “My Enid is nearly twelve now, and the way they look at her terrifies me.”
Guinevere looked at them. “I’ll go to Modred,” she decided. “We are worth nothing to him. Perhaps I can convince him to let us go.”
“But where?” Risa demanded. “Most of the women have only empty lands to go to, where they would be no safer than here.”
“They can go to my family at Cameliard. My sister-in-law, Rhianna, is there and we still have our own men-at-arms along with all the peasants and farmers in the country around. Now, what can I say to make him let us go?”
• • •
Modred seemed more amused than angered by her request. “Why should all the women wish to take their children and leave Camelot? It’s lovely here, don’t you think? And so well protected.”
“It is the protectors we fear, Modred,” Guinevere replied. “If you are, as you seem to be, preparing for war, then all those children and babies will only be in the way. Also, your soldiers may be Jutes and they may be friendly, but they look like Saxons to us and they look at us like something they expect to
get as a battle prize.”
Modred laughed at her indignation. “You are as closeminded as the rest of your race. They are only men, with wives and children of their own. You’re worrying about nothing.”
“Nevertheless,” Guinevere said firmly. “I want to take our women and children away from here.”
He sat at his table a long time, considering her. He etched something in the wood with his belt knife. Her foot was hurting dreadfully, despite the cane. But she wouldn’t back down. She continued glaring at him until he spoke.
He smiled. It was not a warm and friendly expression. “Very well,” he said slowly. “The women and children may leave Camelot if they wish. But it would look very inhospitable if no one remained. I wouldn’t like that. I think I would like to propose an exchange.”
Guinevere was wary. “Of what sort?”
“There has been talk that I have usurped Arthur’s place. People who don’t know the truth might become difficult. I don’t want that to happen. I think you should remain behind here at Camelot.”
“All right.”
“As my wife.”
“What? That’s impossible. I’m Arthur’s wife.”
“Arthur is dead.”
“I need more time to mourn.”
“You can do it after the wedding.”
“I can’t walk!”
“You won’t need to.”
“I’m old and barren.”
“You’re only six years older than I am, and despite your infirmity you look much younger. As for your childlessness, you might be mistaken. At any rate, I have bastards enough. I have no prejudice against them.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, yes. Our marriage would quiet the accusations. I would hear no more about Constantine if you gave my rule your approval.”
“There must be another way!”
“Not one that would amuse me as much. Make your decision, Guinevere. Marry me and you can send all the women and children wherever you wish. Defy me and the army gets what it wishes. It’s a fair trade, don’t you think?”
He waited, his expression pleasant, as if offering her the choice of an apple or an orange. Guinevere felt sick. She closed her eyes, but the nausea didn’t go away. With a groan, she lurched over to the window and vomited, retching until her stomach was empty. Calmly, Modred walked over and handed her a cloth to wipe her mouth.
“Does that mean yes or no?” he asked.
She gave him a look of contempt.
“If that’s what you want, I’ll marry you. But not until word comes from the head guard at Cameliard that all the women and children of Camelot are there and safe. I want to hear it from him and no one else.”
“Done!” he said, and flipped his knife into the floor at her feet where it stuck, quivering.
She didn’t tell the women why she was staying behind and their relief was so great that they asked no questions. It took only a day for belongings to be packed and stowed in carts for the journey. Lydia promised to send word as soon as they arrived.
“Then you come join us, dear. I worry about you here, alone.”
“Risa has insisted on staying with me. We’ll be all right,” Guinevere answered. She couldn’t believe she was saying these things. When had she become brave? Or was it just that, without the men she had loved, nothing really mattered any more.
When they had gone, she told Risa of the bargain. Risa gaped in horror.
“You can’t do it! He’s a monster!”
“Would you have wanted me to keep your children here?” Then she bit her lip. “Is he so very cruel?”
“Oh, my poor lady! He can be; he knows how to hurt. But don’t you fear. I’ll get a knife to you for the wedding night, if I die for it.”
“A knife! It’s so awful that you want me to kill myself?”
“Don’t be foolish, my Lady; I want you to kill him.”
• • •
Aulan came two weeks later and reported that everyone was fine and Rhianna and Letitia were delighted with all the company. Letitia, by the way, had had a boy, whom they wanted to call Arthur. He left the next day, but did not return to Cameliard. Instead, he rode for Portsmouth faster than if he had been chased by demons.
Morgause was not thrilled by Modred’s intended nuptials.
“Why are you bothering with her? Take one of Maelgwn’s daughters and cement the alliance.”
“Are you jealous, dear Aunt? Don’t worry, I won’t neglect you for her. This should please you above all people. Just think what it will do to Arthur when he hears of it! The deepest cut.”
“Don’t tell me you’re doing this just to hurt Arthur,” Morgause sniffed. “You’re fascinated by her.”
“Perhaps. There’s something about her. You should have seen her when they led her to the pyre. She looked like a goddess.”
“And you’ve decided to worship her?”
“Maybe. My father’s wife. That’s very appealing, rather the final nullification of his existence. I have his country, his castle, and his wife. Arthur no longer exists.”
Father Antonius came to Guinevere when he heard of plans for the wedding.
“Are you sure this is what you want to do?” he asked. “I won’t perform the ceremony if you’re being forced into this.”
“I have to do this, Father. I have sworn to.” She took his hand. “And I will tell you why, but as a priest, you must never let anyone else know or something terrible will happen. You must promise.”
“Of course.” So she told him. His eyes were wet when she finished.
“I will do what I can to help you. No, don’t worry, I won’t say anything. But there are things I can do without speaking, at least to guard your immortal soul.”
“Thank you, Father. Good night, then.”
“Good night, my Queen.”
• • •
Modred had announced the betrothal at once and had a bridal gift of a necklace of moonstone and gold delivered to Guinevere. Her acceptance of it would seal the marriage more than any rite. She held the ponderous thing in her hand, dreading the thought of it lying around her neck.
“It’s a slave torque,” Risa said in disgust.
“He must have known how I loathe things around my neck. I never wear anything but the pearl Caet sent me when Arthur and I were married. Oh, Risa! Must I take off Arthur’s ring?”
“Modred hasn’t sent you one for the betrothal. Perhaps he won’t notice. Guinevere, dear, there must be a way out of this. Look at yourself! You’ve lost weight, you haven’t slept, and you have a rash on your arms that’s pure fear.”
Guinevere absently scratched at the rash.
“If I thought he’d just kill me, I might resist him. But he has threatened to destroy everything I have left. Anyway, I’m tired. Risa, in my life I’ve been kidnapped by vengeful Saxons, a game-playing king, and fanatic saints. Good people have died for me. Always, I waited for someone else to come and get me, like a parcel. Arthur, or Lancelot, or Gawain. Arthur and Gawain are dead and Lancelot is in Banoit and probably has no idea of what’s happening. This time no one is going to come, and I have to survive the best I can. I can’t grab a sword and fight my way out. I made a trade using the only currency I have.”
She leaned back, her eyes closed. Her skin was so pale that the veins in her arms showed clearly through the rash, like blue lace. Risa knelt beside her and held her tightly. My poor Guinevere! She doesn’t know! What can I do? How can I save her?
There was nothing to do. Modred’s men were all around them and even their dinner knives were confiscated after every meal. Modred, for reasons astrological, had chosen the ides of August for the wedding. The day was hotter than ever, the sky clear and angry, the sun striking every exposed surface relentlessly.
Risa clasped the hated necklace on over the red-and-gold silk tunic. She draped the veil over Guinevere’s head and tied her sandals.
“Modred doesn’t want anyone to see me limping,” Guinevere said dully. “
He’s sending a chair for me, with bearers. A curtained sedan chair! I’ll feel like a fool.”
“I knew he was working up to declaring himself emperor,” Risa sneered. “You’ll be dripping wet in that box.”
She was. Modred handed her down from it and then had to wait while she regained her balance. He made as if to help her into the chapel, but it was more as if he feared she would somehow manage to get away, even then.
Father Antonius rushed through the Mass, stumbling on the old Latin and dropping the chalice after mixing the water and wine, so that he had to start again. Finally it was over. Modred had huge casks of beer opened for the soldiers. Morgause kissed Guinevere coldly. She gave Modred one also and whispered loudly, “I’ll be in my rooms later tonight, dearest.”
Guinevere fervently hoped Modred would be there, too.
She tried to stay at dinner as long as possible, but with a laugh echoed by his friends Modred swept her up and carried her to her room. He deposited her on the bed and began to remove his clothes.
“Hurry up!” he told her. “I’m not interested in waiting.”
She made one last plea.
“I’m your uncle’s widow, Modred. How can you do this? It’s like incest!”
To her astonishment, Modred began to laugh so hard that he collapsed into a chair.
“Guinevere, you can’t know how little that means to me! Incest is an old family custom. It’s a pity you can’t ask my mother. She knew all about it. Arthur, too. Your good and precious husband wasn’t above getting a son on his own sister. Shall I tell you his name, or can you guess?”
She shrunk away from him in horror. For some reason, she knew he wasn’t lying.
“Dear Lord! You tell me you’re his son and you expect me to lie with you? I’ll never let you touch me, Modred, never.”
“That’s all right my dear. I like rape.”
He blew out the light and came to the bed.
Guinevere Evermore Page 23
