She saw the dragon pennant, Arthur Pendragon's symbol, flying from the tower, and thought she would be guarded as if by one that breathed fire. Clever of Arthur and his father before him to use the dragon symbol, which had been Julius Caesar's and, more recently, the Emperor Constantine's. If she must marry a man, at least he seemed to be one who knew how to be a ruler.
She saw the king, wearing a golden circlet on his head as well as the gold torque around his neck, walk up to greet her to the roar of loud cheers. Feeling that many eyes were appraising her looks, Guinevere wished that she could be queen back in Powys, where everyone already knew her.
Arthur's voice was deep, but she could scarcely hear it over the uproar. "You are well come, Lady Guinevere. I am glad to see you here at last."
"Thank you. Greetings, my Lord Arthur." However much he believed that he was her lord, he would never have claim to her soul. She smiled at him calmly, without flirtation, as if he were still a visitor at her father's well. He was as handsome as he had been, and she was just as unmoved by his looks. She was pleased that he had not grown a mustache or a beard.
He took her arm. "You're even more beautiful than you were three years ago."
"You are much the same," she replied, scrutinizing him and thinking that soon he would touch her everywhere. Supposedly, he would know her, but she vowed he never really would. There on a snowy mountaintop, she wrapped every part of herself in coldness. Her fine green gown and her elegant embroidered green cloak were layers of ice. She told herself that she must make her skin also a layer of ice, to keep herself from feeling.
People seemed to like to stare at the two of them together. There were endless smiles, bows, and cheers. The crowd, smelling of sweat, pressed at them, and many hands reached out to touch them as if they had the power to cure infirmities. Guinevere was afraid to think about what ailments the people who touched her cloak and even her hand might have.
Then Guinevere saw the joy on so many faces and marveled that she was the cause of their rejoicing. She wished that the people knew her and cheered for that reason, not just because she was Arthur's bride. And because they believed she would bear him children. Smiling and waving, she silently vowed to do anything she could for these people, so they would love her as they loved Arthur.
That evening they had supper in the largest hall Guinevere had ever seen. The trestle tables were set up in a circle, with spokes like a wheel, rather than laid out in parallel lines like those at any other caer.
"This is what I call my round table, where all can be seated equally," Arthur told her.
Guinevere smiled at the impossible idea of seating all of the caer's many nobles at one round table. No great hall could ever be large enough for such a table. The diners would scarcely be able to see each other, much less talk to one another. And, if there was one giant table, how could the serving people clear it away so the king could use his great hall for matters other than dining? But she appreciated his wisdom in trying to make his men feel that they were equal to each other.
Myriad torches set the huge room ablaze with light, although smoke from the great firepits permeated the air before finding its way out through the hole in the ceiling. She stayed at a distance from the firepits. Fire was all very well, but she did not like to get too close to it. Shields hung on the walls, and the clatter of the place made the gathering seem loud as a battle. Her father's men had not been quiet when they dined and drank their ale, but they had never made such a clamor. There were not nearly as many ladies as warriors in the hall.
With Arthur, she met the lesser kings, like large Uriens of Rheged. Some of them she had seen at her father's hall. Greeting them was second nature to her.
There were a great number of dogs, of which the king seemed inordinately fond, prancing about in the rushes on the floor. She imagined how much trouble it must be for the serving people to clean up after the dogs. The grayish dogs with a dignified air were the tallest she had ever seen, and their heads were huge.
"What are these dogs?" she asked.
"Irish wolfhounds. Aren't they splendid?" Arthur beamed at them as if they were his children.
She muttered some acknowledgment.
A whole roasted boar sat on the table, alongside many lesser meats. At least the dogs did not leap up to grab at the meat, though they eyed the table.
Arthur introduced her to a great number of warriors. She was polite, but aloof, as befitted a queen. She had heard of the most famous warriors, of course, but were they so different from her father's own warband?
Bedwyr, whom Arthur said was his first follower, had a harsh-looking mouth. Peredur, who looked to be some years older than Arthur, was thin and plain. Arthur's tall cousin, red-bearded Gawaine, son to Queen Morgause of Lothian and Orkney and the late King Lot, wore a golden torque that was almost as fine as the king's.
They all seemed to have an air of self-satisfaction, a sense of themselves as great men that her father's men-at-arms had not had. She found it unattractive.
"And here is my good foster brother Caius, my seneschal, who manages the treasury and the running of the caer as well," said Arthur, indicating a slim, well-groomed, handsome man who smiled slightly.
"Welcome, Lady Guinevere," he said, inclining his head more than necessary, showing the fine waves in his chestnut hair. "I am Arthur's Martha, who takes care of the details so the Marys can attend to his words and think on higher things, such as the killing of enemies." His lips twitched as if he suppressed laughter. "I suspect that you are a lady who will be glad to have me as your Martha also."
She returned his smile. She had heard many women compare themselves to Saint Martha, but never had she heard a man do so. "True, I am little fond of the details of administering a household, although this seems more like a barracks, about which I know still less."
"Pardon our barracks. No doubt its martial roughness will seem strange to you," he said smoothly. He slurred the word "martial" so that it almost might have been "marital."
For an instant, she wondered whether he might guess things about her that no one else knew, but she dismissed the thought.
Arthur turned to a gray-bearded man. "Ah, here's my adviser Merlin, who guided me when I was a boy and more than anyone else helped me gain the throne."
The aging man, shorter than most other men at court, eyed her coldly, nodding his head almost imperceptibly. "Greetings, Lady Guinevere. I opposed this marriage. I hope it will go better than I have foreseen," he said, and walked away.
Used to hostile remarks from Father Jerome, Guinevere was able to remain as calm as she had been meeting anyone else.
Laughing, Arthur squeezed her arm.
"Unperturbable, aren't you? Don't let Merlin's words bother you. I'm sure he'll never be unkind to you. He's unhappy when I don't take his advice. He didn't want me to marry you, but he had no other ideas, so in the end, he simply sighed and said, 'I know what you'll do, Arthur.' Merlin never married himself, so he doesn't understand these matters as he does battles and kingcraft."
Guinevere rather wished that Arthur had paid more attention to Lord Merlin's advice.
Then Arthur led her to a wooden chair with dragons carved on the arms and legs, and she seated herself in it. Next to it stood the large wooden chair where he sat. It was covered with dragons, and a large dragon wearing a crown seemed to grow out of the back.
After the king seated himself, everyone else sat. All of them, even the lesser kings, sat on benches. She was pleased that she had a chair.
Later, Guinevere surveyed the room that had been prepared for her. A large bed was draped in more fine coverlets than anyone would ever need, with wool covers and furs for warmth and embroidered stuff for elegance. There were two chairs with cushions. A huge tapestry of girls picking apples hung on the wall. She was pleasantly surprised by that, for she had never seen tapestries depicting anything but biblical scenes, battles, or hunts. The room was something she could change a little and make her own. She would banish t
he oil lamp because she disliked the smell and would use only beeswax candles for light and rushlights if she wanted to read in the evening. A brazier drove off the worst of the night chill.
There were iron bars in the window, and, though Guinevere knew they were there to protect her, they intensified her feeling that she was a prisoner.
She was determined not to give in to weeping, although she wanted to. She must not be weak, not even for a moment.
There was a knock on her door. Arthur.
He sauntered in as if he belonged there. The light from the lamp made his flame-colored hair shine. "I'll stay just a short time, of course. It wouldn't be seemly otherwise until after the wedding." Arthur gave her a smile that said that she was his, and he was just waiting out of courtesy.
"I'm afraid that I look worn from my travels," Guinevere stood in a very straight posture, as if she were troops being reviewed.
"Nonsense, you look beautiful. Do you like it here?" Of course, there was only one answer she could give.
"It is grand." She knew that it was probably nothing like as grand as the Emperor's palace in Constantinopolis, or the one in Rome, if that had not been destroyed entirely by barbarians, but never mind. "It is impressive that you built this."
"You will grace it nobly." Arthur took her hand. "Such poise and calm. Your father told me that you can read and write, and you surely speak good Latin."
"Many thanks. I can read and write, it is true." Guinevere did not like the pressure of Arthur's hand on hers, but she steeled herself against showing any reaction other than a polite smile. She would have to learn to endure much more intimate touches.
He nodded. "I remembered the clever questions you asked me. Other kings' daughters flirted with me or used charms and spells to try to win me. That is not the sort of woman to be queen. I need a wife who can think and help me in my work."
Guinevere inclined her head to him. She was pleased that he wanted an intelligent woman, but surely she would have used spells to fend him off, if she had thought such things had any power. "I shall try to help. I have heard of your great deeds in war and am much impressed, and even more impressed that I hear you want to keep peace." That much was true.
He smiled broadly. "Only a fool wastes lives when he can have peace. It's far wiser to rule with as little bloodshed as possible. I'll keep peace as long as the Saxons let us, although I think they won't for long. And I'll discourage the lesser kings from warring and stealing each others' cattle. But surely war and ruling are not the subjects that are most on your mind, Lady Guinevere." He squeezed her captive hand.
She remained outwardly tranquil. "They are important to you, my lord, and therefore they must be to me," she said, as if that were the only reason. Her eyes looked straight into his, but she did not flirt. Of course he knew well what was on her mind, but she was determined to show that she was not nervous about it. She ignored the implied criticism of her father's cattle stealing.
Arthur planted a kiss on her cheek. She politely kissed his cheek in response.
"A modest maiden, aren't you? I daresay you have never been kissed before." He seemed to take her coolness as a sign of purity, and that relieved her.
"No man but my father has ever kissed me," she replied, telling the truth if not all of it.
He squeezed her hand. "I'll not disturb your modesty, then. Good-night, my dear." He left, and she cherished the thought that she could spend the night alone.
He was handsome, and seemed to be a good man, she kept telling herself, so why did she mind his kisses? She must learn to accept them and to pretend that she liked them. She tried to banish the thought of Valeria's soft lips.
Guinevere woke, her body covered with sweat. She had had the dream again, the birthing dream.
One day it would not be a dream. She would give birth and she would die. Probably the baby would be born dead, too, like so many of her mother's, and all her suffering would have gained nothing.
When Guinevere retired to her room on the night before the wedding, Fencha, a gray-haired serving woman who had been among those who dressed her, entered the room.
"I served the Lady Morgan of Cornwall, and now I'll serve you, Lady Guinevere," said the woman in a soothing voice. She dared to look the queen straight in the eye.
Guinevere stared back at the woman, whose eyes were as gray as her hair. The old woman put her hand over her mouth, as if she were holding something back. Guinevere shivered, and not just from the night air blowing in through the window.
"What happened to her? Why is she gone?" Finally there was someone Guinevere could ask.
"The king sent her away." The old woman frowned, making deeper creases in her forehead. "You must never tell him I told you."
"Of course not," Guinevere reassured her. "I met her once and liked her well. How could the king bear to send her away? Why does that Bors call her a witch? I must know."
"Yes, you must know." The old woman took the liberty of patting her hand. "Did you never hear that she was more than a sister to the king? He loved her well, for a time."
Guinevere gasped. Feeling as if she had been struck, she sank down in a chair and put her hand over her face.
"I have never heard of such a thing," she said when she could speak. She pictured Arthur and Morgan embracing — no, she must not think of that.
What kind of man was she about to marry? One whose desires knew no boundaries? And did he still desire or love his sister? Would he compare Guinevere with her?
Guinevere had no brother, but she could not imagine any of the brothers and sisters she had known doing such a thing.
She was flooded with envy. He had touched Morgan as she could not. Guinevere no longer thought it was strange to desire such a beautiful, clever woman. It seemed more natural for her to want Morgan than for Arthur to be with his own sister.
So this was why the Lady Morgan was still unmarried though she was well past twenty summers? What a fool Guinevere had been to dream of her, when the lady loved her own brother.
If Morgan's old serving woman wanted to make certain that Arthur's bride did not love him, she was succeeding admirably, Guinevere thought.
"They did not meet until they were both grown," Fencha continued, telling her secrets in a low voice. "She was the older. He came to her caer, Tintagel — it’s a grand place by the sea — and he was smitten, as so many other men had been. He wasn't the first, and he won't be the last. I'm sure that galls him." She smiled, but it was a smile to make one shudder. "He was so jealous of her that he glared at every other man who looked at her."
"But why then send her away? How could he?" How could he bear to lose her? Guinevere wondered. If she had the love of such a woman, she would never let her go.
The old woman's mouth was drawn and bitter. "There were too many rumors about their love. Many people were scandalized. The king was not man enough to defy them. And my lady had too many thoughts of her own. When people labeled her a witch, he did not discourage them, but finally said he agreed.
"When Arthur sent her away, my Lady Morgan cursed him, swearing that he would never find love again."
"It may be that she was right," Guinevere replied, her fingernails digging into her hands.
The old woman searched her face far more than was proper. "She sent you a letter, Lady Guinevere. Do you want to see it?"
"Oh, yes." Guinevere extended her hand, and the serving woman drew a letter from her bosom and handed it over.
Guinevere wondered whether Morgan had already cursed her for marrying Arthur. She was half afraid to read it.
Trembling, Guinevere opened the missive. The writing was large and elegant, and of course, in Latin.
My dear sister,
Do not be afraid. Would that I could be there with you. No doubt he will be kinder to you than he was to me. I am your friend, though there is little that I can do for you from remote Tintagel in Cornwall. Now that I am called a witch, there is no place else that I can go. Remember me always. I shall wri
te you at times, in secret, and I beg you to write me also.
Your poor sister,
Morgan
Guinevere shook with anger. Her stomach tightened. If she hadn't wanted Arthur before, she wanted him less than ever now. If he could treat a woman he supposedly loved that way, he must have no heart. "So I must go to the brute who sent his own sister away? I must bear his children?"
She looked at the old woman, who had just revealed how little she liked the king. "Must I? I saw my mother die in childbed, and I have no wish to follow her. My nurse said she believed I was likely to die if I bore a child, and I have often dreamed it."
Fencha shook her head. "What nurse would tell a girl such a thing unless it were true? What a terrible fear for you to have."
Guinevere dared to speak further. "They say that old women sometimes have ways..."
Fencha's face was unreadable. She passed her hand over her mouth again, then said, "Of course, my lady. There are brews, if you want one."
"I shall drink it." Guinevere rose, pulling herself to a height that felt taller than she had ever stood before.
"Shall I bring it to you every morning after the king is with you, Lady Guinevere?"
Guinevere nodded.
"It would hurt nothing to drink some beforehand as well. I can fix you some now, if you like, my lady." Fencha did not smile, yet she did not seem hostile to Guinevere.
"Please do so."
While the old woman was away bringing the brew, Guinevere pondered what its contents would be. She wondered whether the old woman could truly like the new queen, or whether she might hate her for replacing Morgan. Was it possible that Morgan hated her for marrying Arthur, and Fencha would give her poison?
Fencha returned, bearing an ordinary stone jar. She poured the contents into a silver cup on Guinevere's table.
Despite her doubts, Guinevere reached for the cup and drank from it. The brew was not tasty, but not noisome either. No burning pain or nausea followed. Guinevere felt that the potion would give her life, not death.
Lancelot- Her Story Page 10
