“All right.” Arthur gave up. “What have you found out about Modred?”
They were seated in the best room that the wayside inn could offer, but it was small and poorly ventilated. The room was sweating as badly as the people in it. Cei absently chipped pieces of plaster from the wall with the toe of his boot.
“It’s worse than we thought,” he said. “This is not a sudden idea of Modred’s to take advantage of your trust. He’s been laying the ground for it for years. He has his own mercenaries—Jutes he’s promised land to. He has support from the kings in the North, too, and St. Caradoc has been preaching in his favor, for what that’s worth.”
Arthur scowled. “And how does the good saint get around his abduction of the witch, Guinevere?”
“Modred is saving her soul,” Cei replied tersely.
Arthur’s knuckles were white and his teeth clenched with anger but he made no comment.
Cei continued. “If he decides to withstand a siege at Camelot, we might be there all winter. You made that place too well, Arthur. There’s no way we can storm it.”
“Then we’ll have to force him to come out to fight,” Arthur told him.
“I don’t see how.” Cei reviewed the land in his mind. “He has all the advantage there. If he came out, the armies would be even.”
“He will, though. He’ll have to face me to kill me, and that,” Arthur suddenly knew with piercing clarity, “is what Modred wants most.”
• • •
Guinevere knew that the activity inside Camelot had increased, that there were more drills and mock battles. Every day new people arrived; more Jutes and Dal Riada and possibly other Irish from the tribes settled in the west. But she didn’t know why. She had more than enough hours to spend in wondering. Most of the time she was alone. She only left her tower to attend Mass or, after dark, to bathe. But every moment of the long, broiling weeks she spent gathering resistance and courage. She fought for dignity and endurance. Modred did not give up. Every few days he would appear again, unexpected and cruel. Sometimes she felt she was made up of nothing but terror. But her pride or her anger or something else she couldn’t name kept her from allowing him to master her. She wouldn’t comply and she wouldn’t beg, though sometimes he forced her to cry out in sudden pain.
In her struggle, everything else grew blurred and distant. She buried her grief for Arthur and her yearning for Lancelot. It was only by keeping the most minute watch on every aspect of her mind that she could hope to survive. She had no idea what month it was. She had early on lost track of time. Outside the furious sun scoured Camelot without pity. Timid clouds evaporated under its glare. The summer seemed very long.
Risa came every day with food and sanity. Father Antonius prayed and was outraged that a divine hand had not immediately struck down Modred where he stood. Then he decided that the Lord intended him to do something more active, so he started planning. But how could they escape and where could they go that Modred wouldn’t seek them? The priest thought of Sir Lancelot but dismissed him. Antonius couldn’t lead Guinevere from physical into spiritual danger. Another few days of this, and he might be driven to it, though. That monster had bruised the poor woman’s face so that she could barely open her mouth to receive communion. Father Antonius wished for the first time that he had learned to fight before he had consecrated himself to peace.
When the news finally reached them, it took Risa several minutes of exclaiming before Guinevere came out of herself far enough to understand. The first reaction she had was irrational anger. If Arthur were still alive, how could he have let this happen to her? The feeling swept over her swiftly and was gone. But it did its work, shaking her to full awareness.
“Risa,” she stated. “We have got to escape from here and find him.”
“He’s coming here, my Lady, dear! Soon, I think. Those filthy saints visiting from Gwynedd are preparing to sneak out tonight. They have no intention of being martyred for Modred.” Risa squeezed her hands. “So we need only to wait. He’ll get us out.”
Guinevere pulled away. “No. That man will use us as hostages. Arthur must be free to destroy him! We are going to get away from Camelot on our own. Father Antonius, too.”
“But how?” Risa was thrilled to see her so determined and alert but it seemed impossible. Camelot was full of armed men.
Guinevere set her lips. “I don’t know yet.” She paced her room. She had done it so much that she was able now to walk without the cane, although the limp would never quite vanish. Then her eye fell on the little ivory box containing Galahad’s baby teeth and curl. She picked it up. Everything else she could abandon. This must come with her. She remembered when Galahad had found it for her, just after he came to live at Camelot. It had been brought by a merchant from Egypt with a load of pottery. She had not even noticed it at first among all the painted cups and plates and bowls. It had been insignificant among so many. Only someone like Galahad would realize its simple beauty and pick it out from the mass.
“Risa,” she said suddenly. “I think we should go to the chapel for religious instruction. We have neglected the welfare of our souls during our trials.”
“What?”
“Hurry! While they’re still eating. The guard downstairs speaks some British, doesn’t he? Tell him it’s the eve of a holy day for us. Ask him to help me across the compound.”
“Guinevere, I don’t know what good . . .”
“We are going to become saints, Risa, if we get there in time. Go on! I’ll follow as quickly as I can. Send the guard up for me. No one should become suspicious if I’m escorted.”
She left her room carrying only the little ivory box. On the bed, twisted until the rings broke, lay her betrothal necklace from Modred.
• • •
Father Antonius knew he would have to do an onerous penance for what Guinevere was suggesting. The bishops were very strict about violence, especially against a brother religious. But he was still so angry with them all for being too weak to defend Guinevere that he thought he would enjoy himself while he was sinning. It would be a relief to knock some heads together.
“Providence must be on our side,” he announced after checking the courtyard. “That silly St. Olanidd left only two men to watch their belongings while all the others went to fortify themselves for the journey. This heat is a blessing, too, or they would never have decided to travel by night. Risa, can you get those two to come into the chapel?”
Risa smiled. “If they’re still men, I’ll bring them, even if I have to lure them with the promise of cool ale, rather than my warm . . .” Guinevere looked at her. “I mean, certainly, Father Antonius.”
When she left, Father Antonius grinned sheepishly at Guinevere. “I know this is deadly serious,” he said, “but I have this feeling of elation all the same. I must be as wicked underneath as my old teacher believed. To take delight in the prospect of damaging a fellow priest!”
Guinevere took his arm. “You don’t need to damage them seriously. Just long enough for us to get away. You can beg their forgiveness later.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not backing down, just reconsidering my vocation.”
“Please do it later, Father. They’re coming.”
Risa led the men in, laughing and talking. She might not be young any more but she had not forgotten the art of being charming. She never once looked over their shoulders as Antonius and Guinevere came up behind them and brought the stone slabs down on their heads. They crumpled like empty clothes. When they awoke, they were certain that only the wrath of God could have struck them so unexpectedly and deservedly.
In the cooling twilight, Father Antonius offered to walk a while with the departing saints. His conversation was so provocative that no one noticed the two slighter hooded figures among them, one leaning on the other’s arm.
• • •
Arthur was alone in his tent when Cei came to tell him that a hermit had arrived who wished to speak with him in private. In the depths of
his misery, Arthur failed to notice the barely suppressed excitement in Cei’s voice.
The night was moonless and the tiny lantern gave little light. He knew her by her hands, the short and practical fingers that she had always hated. He was afraid to say her name, though, lest she vanish. She stood for a minute by the doorway. Then she pulled back the hood.
She turned her face away at once, but he saw it. He grew very still.
“I had to come see you, Arthur,” she explained, still staring at the tentskin. “To let you know I was not with Modred. I wasn’t sure if you would want to . . .”
“Guinevere!” Very gently, he touched her cheek and drew her face to his. She looked at him and all the tears she had refused to shed came spilling out. She stumbled against him and continued sobbing on his shoulder.
“I left you with him!” he accused himself. “I trusted him for the most illogical reason in the world. It was my stupidity that did this to you.”
She tried to regain control. She had not come to bring him guilt. She had had enough of that. She groped at the belt of the hermit’s robe.
“Arthur,” she begged, still on the edge of hysteria. “Do you have anything I can wear instead of this? I can’t stand it another second.”
“I’ll find something,” he told her. “Wrap yourself in this blanket while I go see. Here, let me take that out and burn it.”
“No,” she said abruptly. “I mean, I’ll hand it out to you.”
Arthur looked hurt. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think you would mind my seeing you.”
“Oh, no! It’s not like that!” She closed her eyes. “I hate to have anyone see me now, even you.”
“Guinevere, give me the robe.”
She took a ragged breath and gave it to him. She winced at his gasp of shock and grabbed frantically for the linen. She couldn’t look at him. It must disgust him horribly to see her so cut and bruised. How ugly she must be!
“Oh, my love,” he choked as he wrapped her tenderly and carried her to the couch. “Until tonight, I’ve been grieving that Modred has forced me to fight him. Despite all he has done, I didn’t want to hurt him. Now I can kill him in cold vengeance and smile.”
“I’m glad of it, Arthur, although it’s an awful feeling. I think that is the worst thing he did to me, I never knew how to hate before. Now it eats at me. I want him destroyed. Oh, Arthur! Don’t go, yet! Please stay with me. Hold me; talk to me. I just need to feel safe again.”
He stayed with her, cradling her in his arms with her face hidden on his chest. Slowly her breathing grew more peaceful, and finally she slept. He put her down with bitter reluctance. Her hair gleamed in the lamplight. He blinked rapidly to stop the blurring of his eyes. Then he knelt and kissed her before gingerly picking up the discarded robe and leaving the tent.
Guinevere didn’t wake when Morgan slithered in, pulled Excalibur from its sheath and replaced the sword in the new one she had brought. She vanished as quickly as she had come. No one saw her at all.
• • •
Risa had explained to Cei what had happened. She was looking for Cheldric, her most faithful lover, when Arthur found her. He thrust the robe at her.
“Here,” he commanded, “have this burned.”
“King Arthur,” she pleaded running after him. “Don’t blame her.”
Arthur stopped. “Blame her! What are you talking about? In the morning, I want you to take her to the hill overlooking the river, the one they call the glass tower. There is an old temple there where the two of you will be safe until it’s over. If we win, someone will come for you. If not, well, if not you will have to decide for yourselves what to do. Risa, take care of her, please!”
He strode on. Risa felt a bit piqued. ‘“Take care of her.’ Haven’t I always? I did the best I could,” she muttered, “while he was off at his wars. And she was the one who got us out of Camelot. Ah, well, poor man! It must be awful for a king to feel helpless, and I’ll wager anything the sight of my dear battered lady must have undone him.”
She held out the robe at arm’s length. Her own had already gone into the fire. “Those saints must all be mad. Three days in one of these filthy things is enough penance for any sin!”
Arthur did not look undone, but grimly determined, as he made the rounds of his army. Cei walked just behind him, afraid to do more than give short answers to questions equally short. The men were ready, seasoned but not worn by their weeks in Armorica. Frankish gold shone from some of their arms. They were satisfied with themselves and looked forward to looting more tomorrow. But most of them would have fought for Arthur’s sake alone. Arthur sighed. He knew that they were here for love of him, but how much more wonderful it would have been if they had been willing to fight for his laws and his dreams.
“Idiot!” he told himself. “Only martyrs fight for ideas. I asked too much of them. But it would be nice if there were one man left by my side who still believed. Not even Cei understands. He is here because he is my milk-brother and we are closer than kin. And the others, because I am their king. I was a fool to think I could change the way things have always been.”
His self-pity was interrupted by a commotion. The guards were leading a man on a white horse across the camp. They had taken his sword and his hands were tied behind his back. He made no resistance.
“Lancelot!”
The man looked up at the sound of his name. “Arthur. I came when I heard what had happened. I beg you to let me join you. My eyes are not good anymore, but my arm is as strong as ever. Send me into the fray first. That way I won’t harm my own side. But please let me fight!”
“Untie him!” Arthur ordered. “Why did you come, Lancelot? Even if we win against Modred, Camelot will never be the same. The Round Table is ended. We’re too divided to ever unite Britain again.”
“I won’t believe it, Arthur.” Lancelot dismounted, rubbing his wrists, and fell into step with Arthur out of old habit. “We would all be speaking Saxon now, if it weren’t for you. You taught the people of Britain that it is possible to live by one law. Not even the Romans could do that. They had different rules for everyone. Even‘more, you’ve showed me what a king ought to be. I couldn’t stay rotting in Banoit if I could help you. Will you have me, Arthur?”
“Yes, Lancelot. Of course! Who else would I want at my right hand?” Arthur paused, then went on. This wasn’t a time to perpetuate old bitterness. “Lancelot, Guinevere was able to escape from Modred. She’s here now. Would you like to go see her?”
Lancelot stopped, then looked away. Arthur’s generosity always shamed him. “Thank you, but I made a promise and it would be better if I kept it. Don’t let her know I was here.”
“All right, but if I don’t survive this battle, Lancelot, I want you to remember that your vow dies with me.”
“If you don’t survive, old friend, then neither will I. Where do you think we will fight?”
“There is a field by the river Cam, not far from here. If Modred brings his men out, then that is the most likely place for us to meet. Ke’ll try to drive us into the river. We have to keep him from returning to Camelot. My men have their orders. Those on foot will circle through the woods and try to cut off his retreat. The knights and other mounted men will attack him face on. It seems too simple to work, but there is nothing else we can do.”
Lancelot ran over the plan in his head. “I remember the place. We used to have picnics there with races in the grass. It makes this whole thing even more like a nightmare, to be killing men in Camlann field.”
The clouds were thick over Britain the next morning, dark and lowering, but unable to rain. Modred looked at them with pleasure and wondered if Morgause had conjured them up. It was easier to fight under gray skies, cooler, with less chance of being distracted by reflection off shield and armor. He had fought with Morgause the night before. She thought it was stupid to leave a fortress to fight in the open.
“Stick to your sorcery,” he told her. “Warfare is my business and I k
now what I’m doing. We’re stronger than he is now. After a siege, it might not be true. He’d have all winter to gather new forces while we would remain trapped in here. Trust me in this and be ready to welcome me back.”
“I suppose I can expect you, since you let the Queen get away,” she sneered at him, jabbing at a lock with her comb.
“You were a fool ever to take up with her. I should have left you then. No, don’t sputter more excuses. I don’t want to talk to you.”
He had thrown one more razor-cut remark at her anyway and left before the dish hit the door. She wasn’t in a good mood.
Looking at the sky that morning, he decided that she must have forgiven him. It was going to be a fine day, and, at the end of it, there would be no question as to who ruled Britain.
“You wouldn’t give it to me, Father,” he whispered to the wind. “You kept it from me out of shame. Your incestuous bastard. You could have avoided this. But I will take my rights just as I took your city and your Queen. I will stand on your body and proclaim myself your heir.”
Then a chill passed through him, a sense of the sickness destroying him. Briefly, he longed for warmth, for a friendship he would never have.
“Mother!” his mind screamed in anguish. “Look what you’ve done! Are you satisfied now? Why did you drive me to this! You never should have made me!”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Guinevere and Risa followed Cheldric up the tor. At the top was a tiny stone temple, dedicated to Lugh and Apollo, sun gods of two peoples. It was near dawn, time for the priests to welcome the god, but the priests had died out fifty years before and the day was one that wanted no greeting. Fog and shadows made the landscape alien, ignored by the guardians of men. If the scorching summer had not dried the bogs between Camlann and the tor, they might never have arrived at the top. As it was, they turned the wrong way and had to retrace more than once before they reached the overgrown road leading to the sanctuary.
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