“I thank you, Your Majesty,” my father said with a bow. “You are now my son as well. My gift to you is a symbol of my tribe, the people who are your most loyal servants.” My father held out his hand, and a servant placed reins into it, which he passed to Arthur.
At the other end of the bridle was a coal-black steed, a reminder of the days when brides were sold for cattle or land rather than gold. The stallion was muscular and strong but calm, indicating he was well trained and would be a valuable addition to Arthur’s growing cavalry.
Arthur handed the reins to one of his attendants and clapped my father on the shoulder. “All of Britain is indebted to you for the most precious gift of your daughter, who in a moment, will become our queen. I thank you for giving her into my care.”
My eyes welled with stinging tears. To anyone in the assembled crowd, I would appear overwhelmed now that the deed was done, but in truth, my heart burned with a mix of emotions. Some small part of me knew this was the same transaction that would have taken place had I married Aggrivane as I’d intended, but my heart said this was all wrong. I should be standing next to the man I loved, one with whom I couldn’t wait to share my life, not the stranger who had stolen my dreams.
But those were the ruminations of a lovesick, petulant girl, not a level-headed ruler. As Merlin approached me with a pot of fragrant rose oil in one hand and the crown of Britain in the other, I forced myself to think like the high queen I was about to become. I was married to the high king of Britain, a position most other women would kill for, and I’d had to do nothing to obtain it, thanks to my father’s willingness to use me as payment for his life-debt to the king.
I glanced at Arthur. His kind gaze held not a hint of temper or malice; he would not abuse me. Plus, since he was allowing me to be crowned queen instead of simply naming me his royal wife, we would rule as equals. Those facts had to be enough to trump whatever hurt and pain I still felt. Besides, though I would never admit it, part of me wanted to be high queen. I had been raised to rule and govern, and now I had a chance beyond my wildest imaginings.
I fell to one knee before Merlin and touched my right thumb to my forehead, lips, and heart—the sign of Avalon—in acknowledgement of his office as Archdruid.
Merlin’s answering smile reflected our long friendship, forged during my years in Avalon under the tutelage of the Lady of the Lake. He leaned in close so his voice was soft in my ear. “No one is more deserving of this role than you. But take care your heart does not lead you astray.”
I pulled back, regarding Merlin quizzically. I had no idea what he meant. For a moment, his eyes held the glassy, faraway look of prophecy, then he blinked and it was gone.
Before I could be sure I had really seen it, Merlin turned away as though nothing had passed between us. To the waiting crowd, he proclaimed, “Guinevere of Northgallis, priestess of Avalon, and now wife to High King Arthur Pendragon, in accordance with his will, this day I anoint you high queen of Britain.”
Bowing, I willed myself not to shake, though my legs felt as if they would give way beneath me.
“May you be blessed with purity of mind and judgment by the Maiden”—he anointed my hair—“with love of your people from the Mother”—he drew small, sticky shapes on my cheeks—“and with the wisdom of the Crone”—he covered my hands in the warm, perfumed oil—“and may she of a thousand names bless you and keep you always.” He placed the glittering gold circlet upon my head and knelt. “May I be the first to pledge my loyalty to you, High Queen Guinevere.”
The crowd genuflected as one with a soft rustling of furs and other fine materials.
Arthur came to stand by my side then and took my gloved hand. Loud enough to be heard by all, he said, “These are your people, my lady. From this day forth, they are in your care. You are my equal in war as in peace. Will you fight by my side to defend their honor with your person and your very life?”
The full weight of responsibility was a stone in my stomach as I looked out over the bowed heads of Britain’s nobility, kings and queens of our thirteen kingdoms and countless tribes, along with Arthur’s most trusted warriors and advisors. A flurry of movement caught my eye, and I glanced over just in time to catch my father yanking Father Marius, his confessor and advisor, to his knees. The pious troll had never borne me any affection. In fact, he had tried to ruin my life a few years before, so it gave me no small pleasure to see him forced to prostrate himself before me.
I turned my gaze back to Arthur. “I will. From this moment on, I honor and care for them as I would my own children, for they are children of the gods. I am privileged to lead them.”
A cheer went up, growing louder as the group rose to their feet. In a moment, they would come forth one by one to pledge their allegiance, but there was one thing left to do. Our union must be sealed with a kiss.
I turned to Arthur. My stomach clenched as I looked up into his deep blue eyes. I saw naught of malice there, only affection and hope, hope for the future of Britain, for us. As our lips met for the first time, I told myself the past was done. What mattered now was our future and the future of our kingdom.
As the sun set on the old Roman fort, nobility from across the country and emissaries from all of the surrounding lands toasted our health and welfare. Arthur and I were seated above the rest on a dais in the center of a long table, our families trailing off like ribbons on either side.
The hours sped by in a haze of ale, music, laughter, and good cheer. Dish after dish of delicacies were placed before us and removed, finely dressed pheasant giving way to fish in pungent sauce, roasted boar with potatoes and herbs followed by sweetmeats, candied nuts, and baked apples. All the while, wine and ale flowed freely—so freely some even said the fountain in the courtyard, dedicated to the god of victory, spurted wine in our honor.
Amid the clatter of plates as courses were changed, Isolde, heir to the throne of Ireland and my dearest friend, came to my side and embraced me tightly, squatting down so we were at eye level.
“I told you my queen would bring you good fortune,” she teased, referring to her piece from the game of Holy Stones we’d been playing on and off for over a year before she had disappeared to Ireland.
I reached into the pouch beneath my gown and retrieved the gleaming red orb. “Is this occasion enough to return it to you, or do you wish to win it back?” I held it out to her in my open palm.
She considered for a moment, green eyes dancing with mirth. “I believe you have better things to do tonight.” As though the implication in her voice were not enough, she threw a longing look at Arthur. “It is my turn to be jealous, I suppose.”
My elbow caught her ribs just as she snatched up the stone. “Speaking of jealousy, how is Galen?” Galen was the one-time betrothed of our friend, Elaine, whose heart Isolde broke when she ran away to Ireland with him.
She rolled her eyes and sighed. “It is far too long a story to relate tonight, but I will tell you this. I knew what I was doing when I agreed to let him come with me across the sea. He has proven to be valuable leverage for my family.”
I wondered what fate she planned for him, slightly fearful of her thirst for justice.
She read my expression and continued, “I have plans that will benefit both his country and mine.”
I shook my head, in awe of her determination and strategy. “You are a formidable ruler already, and the crown has not even passed to you yet.”
She flashed her impish smile. “I learned young it is never too early to read your allies and enemies and uncover what each one most needs. If you can provide it or deny it, you hold the power.” Her gaze flickered across the room to the lanky, fair-haired warrior I remembered from the tournament as part of the house of Cornwall. “Speaking of which, I have friends to make.”
I wasn’t sure if she meant politically or personally. Knowing Isolde, it was probably both.
We gazed at each other for a long moment, knowing we likely wouldn’t see one another again before sh
e returned home.
“I will write as often as possible. You will be a great queen.” She squeezed my hand and glanced at Arthur. “Do yourself a favor. Forget about what is past and enjoy the role fate has given you.” She arched an eyebrow. “I certainly would.”
Her laugher trailed behind her, and I couldn’t help but echo it.
The long meal finished, our guests reveled in earnest. Musicians filled the hall with lively song, while jugglers, bards, and entertainers of every ilk roamed among the guests, delighting and mystifying them with colorful tricks and witty verse. The tables were pushed against the walls, creating an ample dance floor, which quickly filled with tipsy couples.
Arthur led me into a lively round where we stayed side-by-side for most of the dance. Something had been bothering me, and I took advantage of the situation to unburden myself.
“Arthur, if you intended to ask me to be your wife, why did you award the stag’s head to Elaine?”
His expression showed he thought the answer was obvious. “Pellinor was my host and is a valuable subject. I could not insult him by passing over his daughter without some form of honor.”
“I thought you were going to ask her to be your wife.”
He laughed. “So did almost everyone else. Perhaps I was a little too charming, but she is a sweet girl and thrived on my attention. What was I supposed to do, warn her I had chosen someone else?”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “A hint would have been polite. The poor girl was crushed.”
Arthur grunted, and I glanced around his shoulder at Pellinor, who certainly didn’t appear upset that his daughter had been passed over.
“Her father looks to be quite recovered from the disappointment,” I said.
Arthur winked at me. “Gold cures most ills, trust me.”
The song ended and we milled among the crowd, accepting even more well-wishes. Within a few minutes, I felt like the false smile I had maintained all day would stiffen and set, as permanent as the crescent mark of the Goddess on my brow.
I was heading back to my chair when a voice stopped me in my tracks. “Well, well,” it said.
I could almost see the cat-like smile in the lilting voice. It was a sound straight out of my nightmares. I knew the speaker even before I turned. “Hello, Morgan,” I said as cheerily as I could manage.
We regarded each other coldly, each taking the other’s measure. She was little changed, the candlelight making her skin glow. Wherever she had fled couldn’t have given her too hard a life.
She settled into a mock curtsy. “Your Majesty.” She nearly choked on the words.
I gave her a triumphant smile. “Last I heard, you slipped Avalon’s guard and went missing. What ill star directs you to darken this happy occasion?”
Morgan shook her head and clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “Still bitter about being second best, I see.”
“You know my role, yet you dare call me second best?”
She was nonplussed by my outrage, which just irritated me more. “I’ve always been better at understanding the will of the Goddess than you.”
I sucked in air to reply, but then I noticed how her hand hovered protectively over her abdomen, which, now that I looked closely, was swollen. She was pregnant.
I tried to cover my astonishment. “And who did the Goddess direct you to marry? Or do you just rut like a sow and see who the child most resembles?”
Morgan’s smile was indulgent, like she was dealing with an especially simple child, but her tone was frosty, biting. “My husband is Uriens of Rheged, brother-in-law to the king. Welcome to the family, Guinevere.”
BEFORE YOU GO …
Thank you for reading this book. If you enjoyed it, please leave a review on Amazon and/or Goodreads. Word of mouth is crucial for authors to succeed, so even if your review is only a line or two, it would be a huge help.
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Future releases include:
Camelot’s Queen (Guinevere’s Tale Book 2) – March 23, 2016
Been Searching for You (a romantic comedy) – May 10, 2016
Madame Presidentess (historical fiction about Victoria Woodhull, the first American woman to run for President) – July 25, 2016
Mistress of Legend (Guinevere’s Tale Book 3) – Late 2016/Early 2017
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AUTHOR’S NOTES
Guinevere came into my head in the fall of 1999, when I was a junior in college. I had read Marion Zimmer Bradley’s The Mists of Avalon the winter before and, though I loved the book, I really disliked her portrayal of Guinevere. So I sought out other books about her. This led me to Parke Godwin’s Beloved Exile, which made me wonder what happened to Guinevere before and after her life with Arthur.
I can still remember the moment Guinevere first took up residence in my head. I was sitting in a quiet stone walkway on an otherwise unremarkable morning of the fall semester when she told me she had a story to tell, one different from anything anyone else has said. It was in that moment we struck up a bargain and I decided to write my own version. Or at least that’s what I tell myself. This never really was my story; it’s always been Guinevere’s. She’s been calling the shots from the very first word.
Arthurian legend is a tough subject to write about because we don’t know what is true and what is not. The Dark Ages are so named for a reason. We really don’t have a lot of historical data to look at when trying to reconstruct them. What we do have, works from Ven. Bede and a Welsh monk called Nennius, are at best, a wild pottage of myth, history and legend. Separating fact from fiction is difficult, but that’s also what makes it enjoyable for the historical fiction author.
Scholars and historians have been debating for years whether or not Arthur ever existed. If he did, he most certainly had at least one wife (Celtic law allowed for polygamy), and hence, some form of Guinevere would have existed as well. (Most other characters have been added over time as the stories evolved.) But in the end, does it really matter? Not to me. The legend that has arisen from the idea of Arthur has inspired countless generations, and I daresay will continue to do so. While I choose to believe that a real flesh and blood person inspired these stories, I do not ask you to believe the same, only to go with me on this fantastic voyage to the past, and I hope in so doing, learn a little about yourself. If you do, I have done my job well.
I can only separate fact versus fiction for you in the confines of this book. It began with a strong female character and so that is where I will begin my apologetics. As you read this, please remember I am not a historian (nor do I play one on TV). I am a storyteller who uses history to shape the views and customs of the world in which my stories are set.
THE PICTS AND THE TRIBES OF THE NORTH
The Picts are a large group of tribes who lived in the highlands of Scotland. Corinna and Guinevere descend from the British tribes directly to the south of them, those who lived between Antonine Wall and Hadrian’s Wall – the Votadini, Selgovae, Novantae, and Damnonii (there were other, smaller tribes in the area, but I’m simplifying by confining the discussion to these main four). In the post-Roman period the kingdom began to be called the Gododdin and its inhabitants the Men of the North.
Little is known of the culture of these tribes, so I have taken liberties in conflating what we know about the Picts with the ways of their southern neighbors. Corinna, Guinevere and Isolde are inspired by a matriarchal ideal that may or may not be fact. I’ll let the historians hash that one out. What is true is that the Picts passed tribal leadership on through a system of matrilineal succession, meaning that the noble bloo
dline was counted through the female line. So if a man and woman marry but have no heirs, when the man dies, the woman’s nephew (his sister’s son) would inherit. We see this in Daughter of Destiny in Lot’s eldest son Gawain being Arthur’s heir, after Lot. This is because Arthur and Ana are brother and sister. This is not the same as matrilineal primogeniture, in which titles are passed from mother to daughter to the exclusion of sons, which I have chosen to have Corinna and Isolde’s mother practice. There is some possibility that the Picts and the Irish (and perhaps the Celts at an earlier time in history) practiced this, but to-date evidence has not born this out.
It is true, however, that the Picts allowed their women to fight in battle. How and to what extent is lost in the pages of history. But I have allowed this fact to color the personalities of my Votadini women and give them a strength, independence and vitality that I personally believe their historical counterparts would have possessed.
Although the story of Leodgrance and Corinna is a product of my imagination, the kingdom of Gwynedd really was considered a safe haven for the Votadini tribe during this time period. Scholars debate who was responsible for such an unusual move, so I have chosen to have that role fall to Vortigern for purposes of my story.
Corinna’s burial customs are based in Pictish lore and the wording of her headstone is consistent with Roman tradition.
BRITAIN
The war-torn world in which Guinevere was raised is also based in fact. During the late fifth century, Britain was struggling to find its feet after the withdrawal of the Roman Empire. That old tribal infighting would resurface is not much of a stretch of the imagination. The influx of Saxon invaders and the raids of the western coast by the Irish are also painfully real, as was the event under Governor Paulinus that came to be known as the Rape of Mona. There is even some evidence that Vortigern could have been a historical figure.
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