“But if you let her believe—if you were her lover…” My voice trailed off. Suddenly I didn’t want to hear his answer.
Lance lifted his head and turned to look directly at me.
“I was never that. Friend, confidant…no, more like guardian, or even older brother. But I swear, never lover. I would not have bedded her, even if she had been fully right in the head, because I love…another.”
The last word was spoken abruptly, as though he might have said something else and changed his mind at the last moment. And suddenly I knew, clearly and without any doubt at all, that I was the one he loved.
The very knowledge staggered me, making my head swim and my breath catch in my throat. I looked down at my hands, terrified by the prospect of meeting his eyes, of seeing all the love and tenderness I’d ever longed for in his face, of standing naked in my own response.
Through the silence that surrounded us I could feel Lance’s gaze on my cheek, my eyes, my lips, as tangible as if it were a caress. Blushing, I turned my head aside.
His hand beneath my chin was the gentlest of touches, lifting, guiding, bringing my face around to his. The tension grew unbearable as I raised my eyes and stared, trembling, at the fullness of his mouth. Slowly, inevitably, our lips came together in the barest of kisses.
A long soft flutter of pleasure rose through me, surging in ripplets of desire, and I felt my breath escape with a sigh.
And then I was on my feet, running blindly for the Palace, flowers and basket and shears all scattered behind me. I fled without thought or purpose or specific goal, and when I burst into the Palace I ran right past my husband.
“What on earth?” he exclaimed, reaching for his dagger. “What’s happened?”
I came to a sudden halt, my headlong dash ending as abruptly as it had started. “A snake,” I stammered, knowing my talent for lying was nil. “I was clipping flowers and accidentally disturbed a snake.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Gwen,” Arthur grumbled. “I thought at the least the sky must be falling.”
His reference to the familiar warning from childhood gave me a reprieve. “Not quite,” I responded, beginning to get my breath. “Nor is the earth opening up, or the water receding beyond the shore. It just feels as though it is.”
Arthur gave me a puzzled look before he turned back to matters of state, and I tiptoed away. Clearly I needed time alone to collect my thoughts before the situation with Lancelot got totally out of control.
***
But peace and privacy were not to be had, for as I crossed the patio next to the sleeping quarters, my attention was caught by the Queen of Cornwall.
Isolde sat working on a piece of embroidery every bit as colorful as the clothes she herself wore. Her dress was the same violet as her eyes, and the bands of green and blue and gold brocade that edged both neck and sleeves accented the whiteness of her skin. Even in shadow she was beautiful, and I could understand why other women were jealous of Mark’s Queen.
She looked up from her handiwork with the bewildered expression of a child. From the wetness of her cheeks it was obvious that she had been weeping for some time, although she made no sound.
“Goodness sakes,” I said, handing her my handkerchief, “you’re going to ruin your embroidery.”
She took the hanky and crumpled it into a ball in her fist, the tears continuing to stream down her face. Those eyes, dark and brooding, stared up at me imploringly.
Ye Gods, I thought, what am I going to do with her?
“Well, now,” I began awkwardly, “let’s go to my room and have tea, shall we? Then we can talk a bit in private; things don’t seem nearly so terrible if you can tell someone.”
She stared at me uncertainly before nodding her assent and we moved into my chambers, where she huddled on the window seat. I took the hanky from her, then crouched down and gently dried her cheeks. Her lips trembled, but still she didn’t speak.
“There, there,” I said, putting my arm around her shoulders and letting the frail form beneath the splendid robes lean against me. “’Tis a time in every life for tears, and then a time for putting things to right. You’ll see…we’ll find some way to work things out…it will be all right anon…”
Every word of comfort I could think of slid past her, deflected by the hugeness of her grief; in the face of such anguish they all sounded inept and stupid.
“Is it Tristan?” I inquired at last, thinking perhaps they had had a lovers’ quarrel. “Has he hurt you?”
“Yes,” she whispered, then hastily, “No. That is, not in the usual way. Oh Your Highness, I cannot tell you how awful it is to love like this. Sometimes I think I cannot face another day with him—yet I cannot live without him. People sneer, and snicker, and call me foul for having betrayed my King, and maybe they are right. Maybe I am the whore they say, dishonoring family and country as well as the bed of my lord. I don’t know anymore…I don’t know…”
She lapsed into tears again, sobbing with a heartbroken wretchedness.
It was her cousin, Branwen, who brought the tea things, quietly setting them up on the table by the window and withdrawing discreetly to the far side of the curtain. Silently I blessed her loyalty, knowing she would guard the entrance like a mastiff and allow no one to disturb her mistress.
When Isolde’s sobbing subsided I handed her a cup of tea, and for a few minutes we sipped the warm liquid in silence.
“You know Tristan and I are fated to be lovers for all time, don’t you?” she asked finally, her voice full of despair and resignation. “My mother is a very powerful sorceress, and she was worried that I might not enjoy my life with King Mark. So as a wedding present she made a potion that would insure neither of us would have any interest in anyone else, ever. Tristan and I drank it on the boat, by mistake, before I even reached Cornwall, and now we’re destined…fated…to love each other more than life itself.”
The beautiful girl looked down into her lap, the very picture of royal tragedy. Her story was so obviously self-serving, I felt no compassion until she added, softly, “I did not ask it to be this way, and would undo it, if I could.”
Her lament was sincere, and her pain undeniable, so I gave her what comfort I could. By the time she had finished her tea she was at least past the crying fit and went back to her own chambers with some composure.
***
There are those who say nothing happens in our lives by accident, and the visit with Isolde gave me pause for reflection; as Arthur’s Queen I could not afford to fall into the trap that held Isolde. So I spent the rest of the afternoon preparing to tell Lancelot that this morning’s encounter must never happen again.
At least, that was my intention before I went down to the feast.
Chapter XXVI
Morgan
But where did he go to?”
The very notion that Lancelot would leave without even saying good-bye stunned me, and I froze on the spot.
We were midway across the center of the Round Table, and there was a sudden eddy of confusion as pages and serving children had to swerve around us, their arms laden with trenchers and tureens for the table.
“I think he’s heading for the steading I gave him, the one up at Warkworth,” Arthur said, reaching for my elbow.
“But he didn’t mention leaving when we spoke this morning,” I protested.
“I guess he’d only just decided.” By now Arthur was tugging me out of the way. “He said he’s been thinking about it ever since he brought you back from the convent—wants to spend more time at that Garden of his.”
We’d reached our seats, and after motioning for Gawain to move his chair into Lance’s place, Arthur turned to see who else had arrived.
“But why?” I asked, still struggling to understand what was happening. “Why should he leave?”
“I didn’t ask—didn’t think it
any of my business.”
Arthur turned back to Gawain and I stared into empty space. Dagonet appeared out of nowhere and greeted us with a deep bow that turned into an elaborate petting of Caesar as he tried to coax a smile from me. It was exactly what a jester should do, providing the audience with a diversion and giving me time to compose my public face. I smiled appreciatively at his efforts.
Yet for all my outward calm, chaos raged inside. The kiss in the Park this morning had been an accident, a mistake—a longing for something too dangerous to pursue. The more I thought about it, the more I knew it was true. But now he was gone, before I had a chance to tell him it mustn’t happen again.
Drat you, Lancelot, I thought, grabbing up my wine goblet the moment it was filled.
The Hall was stuffy because the breeze from the river refused to rise. I found myself kicking Caesar in the ribs when he tried to rest his chin on my foot, and I downed my wine each time the glass was refilled. It was Dinadan’s turn to sit beside me, and I was relieved that the Cornishman didn’t notice my growing tipsiness. Perhaps at Isolde’s Court he’d grown used to peculiar behavior in Celtic Queens.
Bedivere took up his harp following the meal, and a great rush of drunken affection for the whole of the Court swept over me. Wonderful people, really, those who had been with us since the beginning…Bedivere and Cei, Pelli and Lamorak, Nimue and Griflet, and all the others who were at the core of our Fellowship. Solid friends…the kind you could rely on, could understand…forthright sorts, who spoke up about their feelings. Nothing hidden and mysterious there…you always knew where you stood with them…even Morgan, if you overlooked her arrogance and occasional bad temper.
I stared into my empty wine cup, waiting for the server to refill it, and tried to remember what Igraine had said about her daughter. Something about her conviction that the Old Ways must be followed or the world was doomed. No, that sounded more Christian than Pagan…but then, there was something of the same crusading zeal in both, if I could just sort them out.
“Her Majesty, the Lady of the Lake.”
The deep voice of Morgan’s dwarf echoed around the Hall, and I lifted my nodding head to peer blearily at the figure in the center of the Round Table, thinking I must have slipped into a dream.
It was indeed Morgan’s lieutenant, and as he stepped to one side the Queen of Northumbria swept into the heart of the circle.
“We bid you well come, Sister,” Arthur called out, rising to greet her. “I’m delighted you could join us after all.”
“Blessings on you,” the High Priestess intoned as she turned to include the rest of the Fellowship. “It is always a pleasure to be part of your company, particularly when I bring you word directly from the Goddess.”
The Hall had grown silent when an unexpected hiccup escaped me. Morgan ignored it, concentrating instead on her brother as she sent her voice floating out over the audience.
“As we all know, the Old Ways decree that a man whose wife is stolen must seek redress for that insult before his honor can be restored. It is a law made in the Beginning, and no husband can ignore it, unless the wife was complicit in the escapade.”
“Now wait a minute.” I started to object, but my tongue was thick and unmanageable, and the words slurred together in a groan. My knees wouldn’t work when I tried to rise and Dinadan steadied me as I swayed, drunkenly, halfway out of my chair.
Morgan ignored me completely, playing to the crowd and carrying them along on that magnificent voice that swooped and soared, dipped and purred from point to point.
“How much more necessary is such action if the man is High King, and the woman is the people’s Queen? Normally the rapist’s life would be forfeit—but what if the Queen begs he be spared, claiming it is out of family loyalty? Even if a loving husband accepts such an excuse, how is he as King going to overcome the stigma of lost manhood? These were the questions I brought to the Goddess, seeking Her guidance, begging Her wisdom, for I cannot allow this fine young monarch to endanger the whole future of Britain by ignoring the ancient laws.”
Morgan’s innuendos snapped the tether of what self-restraint I had left. “Balderdash!” I exploded, planting my hands on the table and pushing myself upright.
The Lady of the Lake turned to stare directly at me, her silence drawing more attention than any gesture could have. I stared back at her fox face, hypnotized by those green eyes that burned both hot and cold until I was spinning in wave after wave of dizziness and without a word crumpled back into my seat.
“You see, even your Queen appreciates the difficulties,” Morgan said as Vinnie and Ettard and Dinadan all leaned over me. I closed my eyes and swung slowly into reeling, head-spinning darkness.
***
Morning came hot and sticky and still, and after a horrified peek at the sunlight, I burrowed under the pillow again.
“You must wake up, Your Highness,” Ettard was saying. “The King wants to see you before he leaves.”
My head hurt and my mouth tasted vile, but I nodded at the girl, wondering where on earth Arthur was off to when we had a city full of guests.
By the time I had swung my feet over the edge of the bed, my husband was standing before me. I blinked up at him balefully and he laughed. “Maybe you’d better stick to cider from now on,” he teased, sitting down next to me on the bed. “Thought I’d like to say good-bye before I go, just in case.”
“Just in case what?” I asked, waving Ettard out the door and turning to stare at him. He was fully garbed in battle gear and wore the Goddess cape, though how he could stand its weight in this heat, I didn’t know. “What’s this all about?”
“I thought you’d passed out before Morgan explained about Maelgwn and the ritual.”
It seemed that my cousin had had an attack of conscience and, having repented his sins, sought forgiveness from Illtud’s protégé, Gildas. That young monk had arranged for Maelgwn to go live in a monastery, which put him well beyond the reach of Arthur’s vengeance.
But before he went to hide behind his suddenly espoused Christianity, the Lady of the Lake was able to elicit an apology from him to Arthur. In it Maelgwn agreed to relinquish part of the Welsh Marches to us and give over that great black dog, Dormarth, in reparation for having “hosted” me at his hunting lodge.
“It’s a splendid animal,” Arthur concluded. “Since Cabal’s death I need a new war-dog, and this one is fully trained. Quite a prize, actually.”
I shuddered at the idea of having the creature in my own house but put my loathing aside as I queried what apology Maelgwn would make to me.
“Morgan pointed out how eloquently you pled for your cousin’s life, and that by accepting this treaty I will be honoring your wishes as well. It restores my prestige without having to kill him.”
Arthur’s answer sent a flash of anger through me. This arrangement neither made amends for what I had suffered nor dispelled the implication that I had complied with Maelgwn. And far from having pleaded for his life, I would have preferred to see him publicly punished, providing it didn’t pose a danger to Arthur. All of that had been left out, naturally.
Like all her strategies, it was very clever and hard to rebut. I sighed wearily. At this point I wasn’t up to fighting her and Arthur was already talking about something else.
“Once the ritual is over, it will finally be behind us.”
“What ritual?” I asked suspiciously.
“Morgan has devised a ceremonial combat to celebrate my victory over both opponents—Maelgwn and the Saxons. She says it will symbolically fulfill Merlin’s prophecy about the Red Dragon conquering the White Dragon.”
My head was throbbing as I tried to think what we would need for such an event—maybe a feast, maybe not. But if it was a ritual, we’d have to accommodate all the Round Table guests; maybe hold it in the arena. “When is all this supposed to take place?” I queried.
“We’re leaving for Windsor Forest as soon as possible.” Arthur gave me a wry grin. “Morgan’s arranged for the druids of the Sacred Grove to officiate—says it’s important that the Pagans see the Old Gods have forgiven my sacrilege in digging up Bran’s head.”
“But Windsor Forest is the better part of a day’s ride from here,” I exclaimed, aghast at the notion of my head trying to tolerate even an hour on horseback.
“There’s only a few people to attend; all men, ail carefully picked. Bedivere and Gawain will stay here with you, and I’ll take Bors and Geraint, Griflet and Pelleas with me to the Grove.”
“I don’t like it, Arthur,” I said, getting to my feet too quickly. “It doesn’t sound like any ritual I’ve ever heard of, and why should it be done so far away instead of right here where the people can participate?”
“It’s new, I tell you, and it’s only symbolic.” Arthur’s voice was starting to show the testiness that always comes up whenever we talk about Morgan. “The armor, the masks—even the swords will be ceremonial rather than real.”
My skepticism must have been obvious, for he went on brusquely, “For goodness’ sake, Gwen, what harm can there be in it? And don’t start casting suspicion on Morgan again—she won’t be anywhere near. Women are forbidden at this rite.”
“Where will she be?” A ripple of apprehension slipped down my spine.
“Why, right here, helping you prepare the feast we’ll have when we get back.”
“Oh, jolly,” I grumbled, turning my back to the window and wondering if a cold compress would help my head.
“Well, you might wish me luck,” Arthur concluded, coming to stand hopefully in front of me.
I looked up at him, wondering how he could tell me there was no danger on one hand and ask for luck on the other. The contradiction seemed suddenly very dear, and I stood up and wrapped both arms around him.
“Do you have to leave just now?” I asked, slipping my knee between his legs and sliding the length of my thigh along his.
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