by Gwen Rowley
They sat in silence while the hall filled. At last, when it seemed that Guinevere and Lancelot were the only ones missing from their places, the king lifted his hand. A clear trumpet sounded, and a young page immediately knelt to present Elaine with a silver basin of water with rose petals scattered across its surface. She dipped her fingers, dried them, and turned to the king.
“Congratulations on your victory, sire,” she said.
“Thank you,” he said absently, his eyes turned toward the doorway. She followed his gaze, praying it was Lancelot, but some other knight walked in and took a seat. The king glanced over at her, and with an obvious effort, said, “I trust your journey was pleasant?”
“Yes, very.”
Silence fell again. Elaine picked up a bit of meat and dipped it in a small bowl of sauce. After one bite that burned her tongue, she set it down again.
“Corbenic,” the king said suddenly. “I remember now. The Saxons took it, didn’t they?”
“And you restored it to us four years ago,” Elaine agreed.
“Gawain did most of it,” Arthur said. “He fought that fellow—what was his name?”
“Binric.”
“Yes, that’s right. The land was in poor condition,” the king said. “How have you fared?”
“It was . . . difficult at first,” Elaine admitted, “but this year our harvest was a good one.”
“And your villeins?” Arthur asked casually. “Any trouble from that quarter?”
Elaine’s cheeks warmed. “We did have some,” she said. “I believe my uncle Ulfric wrote to you with a complaint—”
“Poaching, wasn’t it? He mentioned something of the sort when we were in Gaul. A good man, Ulfric,” the king said thoughtfully. “I can always count on him to send me soldiers, not just a pack of peasants armed all anyhow and ready to bolt at the first charge.”
“A good man . . . and a careful one,” Elaine murmured. “But as I said, we are doing better now. I assure you my uncle will have no further cause for complaint.”
“My dear, it isn’t only Ulfric who concerns me. If your father is having difficulty, he should have come to me. I told him so when he returned to his demesne. I could see then that he had troublesome times ahead, and he wasn’t quite . . . himself. Perhaps I should send a man to speak with him and offer our assistance.”
“Please don’t, sire,” Elaine said. “Father would only be upset, and he wouldn’t understand.” When Arthur nodded sympathetically, she hurried on, “We have a new reeve now, he’s very able, and Sir Lancelot—” Her voice caught a little on his name. “—has been most . . . generous.”
“Has he? Well, then, we’ll say no more. But if you ever do need help,” the king said, looking straight into her eyes, “I hope you will not be too proud to ask.”
“No, sire,” Elaine promised, “I won’t. And thank you.”
“Ah,” Arthur said, “here is that boy at last with some real food. I can’t abide all this sauce and spice,” he added confidentially. “Would you care for a bit of plain meat?”
“Yes, I would,” Elaine said, and soon she was sharing the king’s trencher as well as his goblet, their heads bent together as they discussed Corbenic, which the king remembered well. He gave her several excellent suggestions about draining the southwest field.
“What became of those sheep Lance sent?” he asked unexpectedly. “I told him it was a mistake—Corbenic is too low-lying for sheep to thrive, particularly those long-legged ones, but he insisted.”
“I was the one who wanted to try them. But alas, I fear you had the right of it, sire.”
“Foot rot?”
“Among other diseases, some of which the shepherd swore were hitherto unknown.”
When Arthur laughed, she found herself laughing, too, though at the time the incident had been anything but amusing.
“I’m off to try my new gyrfalcon,” he said when the trencher was empty. “Would you care to join me?”
Elaine looked around, noting with some surprise that the meal was over. Lancelot had not appeared—nor had the queen. What that might mean, she did not know, nor did she want to think too deeply on the matter.
“Will you be riding out?”
“No, I’ll just fly her on the creance today.” He held out his arm to her and called down the table, “To the mews!”
A small crowd of knights and ladies left the hall. Elaine walked at their head, her hand tucked into the king’s elbow.
Chapter 36
“YOU’VE come to scold me, haven’t you?” Guinevere said, after she had dismissed her women and she and Lancelot were alone. “And I deserve it. I was horrid to your Elaine.”
Scold her? Lancelot wanted nothing of the sort. What he wanted was to shake her hard, as though that might force some sense into her empty head.
“Why?” he demanded furiously.
“I was . . . upset. That’s no excuse, of course—I’ll beg her pardon, I swear I will, only . . .” Her voice trembled and she swallowed hard. “Only don’t be angry with me.”
Only yesterday, Guinevere had seemed quite well—better, in fact, than Lancelot had seen her for some time. He had breakfasted with her and Arthur, and she had kept them both laughing with her complaints about King Bagdemagus’s boorish son, who, among his many sins, had committed the unpardonable offense of belching in the presence of his queen without apology.
Today her glow had faded. She looked weary and distraught as she plucked restlessly at the folds of her gown. But that, Lancelot reminded himself firmly, was none of his affair. Guinevere was a woman grown, a queen, and she must learn to help herself.
“If you apologize, we shall forget the whole incident,” he said.
“Very well, Lance,” she said so meekly that his anger began to fade into the familiar dead weight of pity. “Let me just fix my hair, and I will go down with you. Have you heard the latest on Tristan and his lady love?” she said with a smile as false as it was brilliant as she pinned a flower among her raven braids. “King Mark is suspicious, but that is nothing new! Why he doesn’t simply banish Tristan from Cornwall is beyond me. You should talk to Tristan, Lance, before he goes back there, convince him to give her up before something dreadful happens.”
“Even if I could bring myself to such impertinence, I doubt he’d listen,” Lancelot answered coolly.
“No, I don’t suppose he would,” Guinevere agreed. “He truly loves her. Did I tell you that I met her?” she went on quickly, plucking at a lock of hair, “the fair Isolde? She was here two weeks ago with Mark, and as lovely as we’ve heard, though just between the two of us, she’s wretched company. All she does is sigh and droop and turn those great sad eyes to Tristan—and he’s no better; he just looks back at her with his whole heart in his face, and it really is a shame, because anyone can see they only live for one another.”
“It is an unfortunate situation,” Lancelot said neutrally, holding open the door so she might pass through. They went together toward the hall, Guinevere taking two steps to his one, her eyes anxious as she searched his face.
“Yes, it is unfortunate. And the worst of it is that they seem to revel in their misery. Oh, I know what they say about the two of them swallowing a love potion and all, but, honestly, Lance, even if Tristan can’t help himself, she could make some effort. Mark isn’t so bad. Of course he isn’t as good-looking as Tristan, but he can be quite sweet. Why, just before he left, he said to me—”
“I don’t want to hear about King Mark,” Lancelot said, cutting off the flow of words. “Or his queen, or poor benighted Tristan.”
Guinevere laughed as though he’d made a jest, the skin tightening about her eyes. “No, of course you don’t. I’m sorry. But there’s so little else to talk about. It’s just the same thing every day, you know, laundresses and seamstresses and Sir Kay with his menus and the mischief that my ladies get up to every time I turn my head. Such a lot of geese they are, and what with all the marriages I must arrange to rescue their g
ood names, I scarce have a moment to draw breath! The Blessed Lady be praised that so far I have got them all well settled, though, honestly, I never imagined maidens so gently reared could be so rowdy. And the knights! Why, just the other day, I came into the bower and found Sir Dinadan behind the tapestry with . . . with . . .”
They had reached the doorway to the hall. Guinevere stood, one hand pressed to her throat, her eyes fixed on the high table. Arthur had already welcomed Elaine, Lancelot saw with quick relief. They looked quite companionable, chatting away, sharing a goblet and trencher. As Lancelot watched, Arthur laughed. It was a real laugh, not a mere politeness, and a moment later Elaine burst into a laugh as merry as his own.
“I—I feel unwell,” Guinevere said in a high, strained voice. “I must . . . make my excuses, Lance . . .”
Lancelot turned to see her stumbling back up the passageway, one hand to her face, the other outstretched to guide herself along the wall.
Let her go, he thought. Whatever her trouble, she must bear it alone or confide it to her lord. He forced himself to take another step into the hall, then with a muttered curse, he turned and followed Guinevere, catching up to her in the corridor outside her chamber door.
“Guinevere,” Lancelot called, “stop.”
“Go back,” she said, fumbling at the latch. “It is all right, I was just a bit . . . but I am better . . .”
He followed her inside and shut the door, glancing about quickly to make sure they were alone.
“Look at me,” he ordered. “No, don’t turn away. Now, tell me what the matter is.”
“Can I really? Will you promise not to say a word?”
“When have I ever betrayed your confidence?”
“Yes, of course. Well, then . . .” Guinevere drew a long breath, then burst out in a rush, “Yesterday—well, before that, I thought I was—I hoped—” She shook her head. “No, it was more than just a hope. I had conceived. I meant to tell Arthur last night, before the feast, but then—then—” her slight frame shook with sobs. “He would have been so happy!”
“Oh, Guinevere,” he said helplessly. “Are you sure you were not mistaken?”
“Not this time. I was sure—women know these things—but I could not hold onto it. Why?” She began to pace the chamber. “I’ve asked myself a thousand times, why? What am I doing wrong that I cannot keep a child?”
“But—sit down, you aren’t well, you must rest. Here, now, take this wine.” He sat down on a hassock beside her chair. “These things happen. But it doesn’t mean you can’t—that you won’t do better next time,” he finished lamely.
“That is what I told myself the first time,” she said, dragging a hanging sleeve across her eyes. “And the next. But now . . . I thought the third—they say it is a charm, but—” She raised the cup and sipped, then with a sudden gesture threw it against the wall and leapt to her feet. “God damn him!” she cried. “He cursed me, and now I am barren!”
“He? Who cursed you?”
“My fa—King Leodegrance,” she spat. “When he told me who—what I really am.”
Lancelot could only stare at her in shock. Never once, in all the years that had passed since they set out for Camelot upon Guinevere’s wedding journey, had they referred to Guinevere’s parentage. That she would do so now revealed a disturbance that frightened him.
“I always knew he hated me,” she went on, her train whipping behind her as she whirled. “Always. But I never knew how much. And then he told me. He told me everything, all about my mother and King Ban, things I did not want to hear. I couldn’t bear it; it was all so horrible, so—sordid.”
“I know,” Lancelot said. When Leodegrance had told him the same tale, he hadn’t thought it of much importance. Now, after years at court, he understood far better. If the truth were ever known, Guinevere and Arthur would never recover from the scandal.
“Before we left for Camelot,” she went on slowly, “Leodegrance said he had reconsidered. He swore he would tell Arthur, break our betrothal, shut me away in a nunnery forever. I begged him—” She wrapped her arms around her middle, shaking. “At last he said he would keep silent—for the honor of his house. But he said he would be damned for foisting a base-born whore upon his king, and if God was just, I would never bear my lord a child.”
“That is nonsense,” Lancelot said. “If God granted every prayer made in anger—”
“But he was right,” she said, tears welling in her eyes. “He is damned—and so am I, for not telling my lord the truth about my birth.”
“Then why don’t you just tell him?” Lancelot burst out. “I’ve begged you to before, and now—”
“I can’t! He would annul our marriage, send me away, lock me up forever—”
“Of course he wouldn’t,” Lancelot said. “You are being very foolish.”
“No, I am not. Just think, Lance. What good is a queen who cannot give her lord an heir? Now Arthur feels honor bound to keep me, but if he knew I had deceived him, he would have the perfect excuse to cast me off and seek another bride.”
“What folly! He would never put you aside!”
“If you believe that, you are the fool!” Guinevere cried. “He would do what is best for Britain.”
Lancelot was silenced. Arthur could well do such a thing if he believed it would serve the interests of the realm. Indeed, Arthur might feel he had no choice.
“Even if he did annul the marriage,” Lancelot said, “I’m sure he would allow you to go home.”
“Home? To Cameliard? Where Leodegrance still reigns? I couldn’t bear it! No, I’d rather die. And I would. I’d jump from the tower before I let him send me back there—or pack me off to a nunnery. I won’t leave him, I can’t, I couldn’t bear it—”
“Stop it,” Lancelot ordered sharply. “You will not jump from any tower. Never say such a thing again. Now sit down and drink this,” he ordered, pouring a cup of wine and thrusting it into her hands.
Apparently this was the right approach. She raised the cup in shaking hands, splashing wine onto her gown, but Lancelot saw her throat work as she swallowed.
“Drink it all,” he said sternly, and she obeyed. “Now, are you more reasonable?”
“Yes,” she said meekly.
“You are still a young woman, Guinevere, with years before you in which to give your lord an heir. And look at the other things you have accomplished! Everywhere I go, the people talk of the good works you’ve done, your kindness and your charity. They are proud of you; you bring joy into their lives. Even your foolish pageants make them laugh, though they may never see them. All of Britain loves you.”
She turned her head to gaze out the open window. “Not quite all,” she whispered.
Following her gaze, Lancelot saw a group of knights and ladies gathered in the courtyard. Among them, his fair head rising above the rest, was the king. “Does he not treat you kindly?”
“Yes.” She nodded vehemently, tears spilling over her inky lashes and trailing down her cheeks. “Yes, he is wonderful—he gives me all respect—”
“Respect,” Lancelot repeated, beginning to glimpse the outline of her unhappiness.
“Yes, always. And courtesy, as well. He is—is all that is good—”
“Has he taken a mistress? Is that it?”
“No—or, at least, I do not think so. But you know how it is, no one would tell me. And I’m glad of that. I don’t think I could bear it. If—when—he does, I can only hope he will be discreet. But I—I believe he will be. He would never do anything to shame me before the court.”
“No,” Lancelot said slowly, “he would not.”
“So I have nothing to complain of, do I? I should be on my knees right now, thanking the Blessed Lady for my good fortune. ’Tis only . . . if I could just give him a son,” she added in a whisper, “I swear by all that’s holy I would never ask for more.”
“You will,” Lancelot said. “Given time—”
“Of course.” She smiled tightly.
“I am just being silly. After all, I am a queen, and all of Britain loves me.”
All save one. He heard the echo of her thought as though she’d shouted it aloud.
“Why should he not love you?” Lancelot said, hardly realizing he’d spoken aloud until Guinevere answered.
“Oh, love!” She smoothed straggling tendrils back from her face. “What is love, really, but a foolish fancy dreamt up by minstrels? Come, tell me, Lance, do you love your Elaine?”
He could not give her the answer she so plainly wanted, but he would not lie. When the silence had gone on just a bit too long, Guinevere gave an unconvincing laugh. “Ah. Well. She is one of the lucky ones, then, isn’t she?”
“Not so lucky, I think,” Lancelot answered wryly. “I fear I’m not much of a bargain.”
“Don’t be silly, you’re quite the catch. Everyone says so.”
“Mmm. But they don’t know me, do they?”
Guinevere laughed again, this time more naturally. “True. You’d best marry her quickly.”
“God grant that I will.”
“I never thought to hear you speak so piously! You have been spending too much time with Sir Bors!” She sighed, her fingers plucking restlessly at the brooch at her breast. “I know I should like Bors better . . . He is just the sort who will be granted a miracle, but I am not so good that I can count upon such favor. So far as I know, there is but one way to get a child, and to greet my lord with swollen eyes and splotched skin would run counter to my purpose. So run along, Lance, there’s a dear, and let me mend the damage I have done.”
What she said made perfect sense—yet he could scarce believe that she had said it. Surely this was not Guinevere, so proud and wild! Had she really been reduced to this, a woman who must plot and scheme to bring her husband to her bed?
“Why do you stare at me so strangely?” she demanded. “What are you thinking?”
“Nothing,” he said at once, but it was no good. She could always read his thoughts. “Guinevere, don’t cry, I didn’t mean to make you cry. I’ll go now, and you shall make yourself beautiful—”
