The tension returned. Some of the weirding women made the sign of the evil eye. Several of the Orkneyans, warriors and women alike, muttered ancient prayers under their breath.
Arthur began to feel uneasy. "Where is she?" he asked.
"She ... That is, the princess ... she's resting," Melwas said, wiping the corners of his mouth nervously.
"Is she not well?" Arthur's eyes hardened.
"The envoy should be returning shortly, sire," Ector said. Then he called out into the silence that had descended over the assembly, "Launcelot! Say there! Give the condition of the Princess Guenevere!"
Guenevere had been placed under the rudest of shelters, a torn old cloak balanced atop some low-hanging branches in the wood beside the rutted dirt road where the princess had fallen unconscious.
When Launcelot first saw her, he cried out in alarm, certain that she was dead. But before he could shout the dreadful news to Ector, indeed, before he could even tear his gaze away from that beautiful face, her eyes opened. Then she called him by Arthur's name, pulled him toward her in a torrent of indecipherable words, and kissed his eyes.
She would never know how much that kiss would mean to young Launcelot, who understood even then that he would have to leave the King's employ immediately, leave Britain itself, if he were to maintain his honor as a knight. And even then, he knew that with every sight they took in, that his eyes would remember Guenevere's kiss upon them.
Launcelot stood up in the tent, knocking over the cloak that was suspended above them. Guenevere blinked into the sunlight. "Excusez-moi, Princesse," he said, trying to replace the cloak.
"Who... who are you?" Guenevere asked.
"I am Launcelot du Lac," he said, feeling very much like the sixteen-year-old boy he was. "I have been sent by King Arthur to see if you are well."
Guenevere smiled. The boy had a sweet accent. "Arthur? Is he here, then?"
"Yes, my lady. Please wait here. He will come to you, I am certain." He backed out of the shelter, tangling the cloak around his head once again.
As he appeared, stumbling against the posts that now fell helter-skelter to the ground, some of the soldiers laughed. The Orkney women were watching him with sly eyes, though they never left their places of obeisance in front of Arthur, who seemed to be the only one who was not staring at him. The silence around him was terrifying.
"Well?" Ector shouted.
Launcelot felt his heart hammering. "Pardon?" He bunched the annoying cloak into a ball and threw it into a bush.
"Damn it, man, is she alive or not?" Ector demanded.
Launcelot hesitated for a moment, his breath suspended. Then it poured out of his body in a sigh so light that it was almost a laugh. "Oh, the princess, oui. That is, yes. Yes!" He looked around, smiling, his tousled hair shining in the early sunlight. "She is well."
A low murmur rose from the throats of the Orkneyans. The witch-women, whose fingers had been moving rapidly in all manner of spells, nearly fainted with relief. Melwas himself choked on the saliva that had pooled inside his mouth as he anticipated his death. After he stopped coughing, he whispered, "A miracle," and others closed their eyes and nodded in agreement.
Arthur was puzzled by the demeanor of these strange people. "I beg your pardon?" he asked.
"I said it was—" Melwas sucked in a huge gulp of air as he felt the tip of Morgause's sewing needle pierce the skin of his back. He caught himself. No, of course, he thought. Mustn't tell the fellow we nearly killed his fiancée. But he was not quick enough to come up with anything better.
"My brother wishes to convey his deepest and most humble appreciation to you for sparing his people, Highness," Morgause said courteously. "Your compassion toward us is most surely a miracle. We will forever be your most loyal allies, and will hold ourselves forth as an example of your compassion and decency to all the other kingdoms."
Arthur smiled. Such politic words sounded odd coming from a child. This girl was surely the most intelligent individual the Orkneyans ever produced, Arthur thought. "Well, try not to make a habit of stealing your host's daughter the next time you go visiting," he said lightly. All was apparently forgiven.
Melwas, noticing the young King's approval of Morgause, was not to be outdone by an eleven-year-old girl. "Actually, no one ever intended to do the lady Guenevere any harm," he said casually, producing his most unctuous smile. "We merely, um, wished for her to visit Orkney. Yes. The beautiful forests of Orkney..."
As he realized that his words were not having their desired effect on the High King, Melwas's voice trailed away like pebbles falling out of the fixed crescent that was his mouth. The Orkneyan soldiers shifted uncomfortably on their feet. The women narrowed their wise eyes at their bumbling leader.
Arthur's face reddened, insulted by such a blatant lie. "Are you—" he began, visibly restraining his irritation. "Are you meaning to tell me—"
"I beg your pardon, sire," Morgause interrupted softly. "But I must explain for the prince, my brother, who is too overcome with gratitude to express himself clearly on this matter. Melwas took the princess because he loved her. He was heartbroken when his betrothal to Lady Guenevere was broken, and had consented to let her go only because he knew that was what she wanted. But in a moment of imprudence, he sought to take her to his homeland, even though he knew—or at least believed—that you would come to kill him. He did this so that he might spend what short time remained of his life illuminated by the light of her beauty. He but loved her too well." Morgause lowered her lovely head.
"Good heavens, Melwas, I didn't take you for such an ardent suitor," Arthur said. Melwas opened his mouth to protest, but nothing came out except another gasp as Morgause's needle sank into the fat around the back of his midsection once again. "I'm almost sorry I took her from you so peremptorily. I can see why you were distressed, under the circumstances."
"My kinsman has learned his lesson, as have we all, Your Majesty," Morgause said, using a title so grand it was almost laughable among the plain-spoken Orkneyans. "Prince Melwas wishes to offer you a gift: a chapel made of Orkneyan oak, in honor of the lady Guenevere. Please accept it as a token of our loyalty to you and to the federation of our independent kingdoms."
Melwas only stared at her, frowning and openmouthed. Such a gift would be costly. He could only imagine what his father would do to him for permitting such a thing. "Sir..." He gasped again as the needle struck.
"No!" Ector tried to whisper out of the corner of his mouth. "Say no, Arthur!" He knew what would happen: The Orkneyans would come back, this time to take advantage of Arthur's or his own hospitality, under the guise of building the chapel, in greater numbers than before. "We'll never get rid of them!"
"I thank you for your generous offer, and I shall accept and treasure your gift," Arthur said.
Melwas groaned beneath his frozen smile. Ector rolled his eyes.
Morgause smiled sweetly.
Chapter Thirty-Two
GUENEVERE'S SECRET
Fifteen years later, the matter of Guenevere's barrenness— an issue which would eventually plunge Britain into civil war and destroy the legacy of its greatest King—would be studied and probed, and eventually the truth of the poisoning on the road to Orkney would come out. Some of the truth. The conclusion of the council which investigated the incident was that Melwas had tried to kill Guenevere in retaliation for her rejection of him, and that the poison administered to her had left Arthur's queen unable to bear children.
Much of their evidence consisted of the testimony of Melwas's younger sister, Morgause, who stood before the council dressed in purest white, her still-beautiful face stained with tears as she told of how her brother had beaten her into silence when she learned of his terrible act.
By then, Melwas was dead, but Morgause's testimony was easy enough to believe, as the prince had developed a reputation as a poisoner during his life. This had made him the object of scorn among all the other petty kings, as poison was well known to be a woman's we
apon.
No one, of course, thought to disbelieve Morgause. She had been married to old Cheneus, more than forty years her senior, and cared for him until he died in battle along with his sons. Morgause had grown into a saintly and beautiful woman who afterward had married Lot of Rheged, who openly adored her and would have killed anyone on the council who disputed a single word she spoke.
It was not mentioned at this inquiry that Melwas himself had died with a tongue so thick and black that it could not fit into his mouth, always a sure sign of poisoning.
But that, too, was not the truth. Guenevere had not, in fact, been rendered barren by either the fall from her horse or by Morgause's poison. Her childlessness had much deeper and, for her, more shameful origins.
Launcelot had returned to Joyeux Garde, his family's estate in Gaul, determined to forget the young woman who was affianced to the British High King.
In this, he failed utterly. He could not forget Guenevere, nor a single moment of their brief encounter in the Orkneyans' makeshift tent. Each day his face flushed as he remembered the touch of her hands on his face, her lips on his eyes. And each day he hated himself for succumbing to the memory, for needing it, living for it.
He did not marry—a source of great distress to his aging parents, who had already given over much of the responsibility for Joyeux Garde to him. It was not that their eldest son had no possibilities. Launcelot was an extraordinarily handsome young man as well as the son of one of the richest noblemen on the Continent. There was certainly no lack of lovely women eager to provide Launcelot with heirs. But he would have none of them.
To compensate for his lack of interest in finding a suitable wife, Launcelot worked harder than any peasant at the business of administering his family's extensive lands, riding to every village and farmstead regularly, and looking after his tenants with the concern of a father. He trained so diligently at the fighting arts that he gained a reputation as the greatest swordsman in Gaul. And, to the delight of the Christian priests who had educated him, there was no layman in all Europe who went about his religious duties with the dedication of Launcelot du Lac.
Indeed, the young man devoted so much time to prayer that even his mother expressed alarm over his excessive attachment to the New Religion. At least the pagan gods allowed one time to marry, she complained to the priests, who shook their heads and gave her penance. Perhaps he has a vocation in the Church, they whispered hopefully among themselves. Imagine if Joyeux Garde were to become a monastery!
Launcelot assured his family that he would never take holy orders. He did not add that the reason for his certainty was because he was as far from a holy man as a human being could get, being constantly filled with thoughts of lust over no less than the Queen of Britain.
Prayer helped, being the only thing that kept thoughts of Guenevere even occasionally at bay, so he would try to pray during every waking hour. He had heard of saints who had learned the secret of praying continuously, so that their every act was pure, and their every thought was of God. The continuous prayer was an effort, but he welcomed it, working and praying until he was exhausted and fell into bed.
But even then his body betrayed him, for his dreams were filled with wild images of Guenevere, naked and moaning with desire like a cat, and he would awaken humiliated.
There was nothing for it, then, except for Launcelot to leave Joyeux Garde in the hands of his younger brother, and set off to see the world and perhaps get lost in it.
His parents were dumbfounded. The priests were desolate. His brother was overwhelmed. The tenant farmers were frightened.
But Launcelot was finally, inexplicably, happy. He truly had no idea why his heart had so suddenly lightened. Perhaps it was the prospect of riding through the sunlit hills of Iberia, or living among the country folk in the charming villages outside the ruin of what had once been Rome, on the Etruscan peninsula. And when the sky grew grayer rather than bluer, and the wind grew colder rather than warmer, he did not question why he was not heading toward any of the places he had planned to go. He had no idea where he would end up, he told himself.
When he saw Britain's chalk shore across the channel, he was quite surprised at the direction the fates had brought him.
As for Guenevere, she had hardly given a moment's thought to the sweet boy who had announced that Arthur had come to save her from the barbaric Orkneyans in the adventure that had transformed her, in the eyes of her peers, from a silly, spoiled princess to an interesting and strong woman whom the High King had led an army to rescue.
As soon as the couple returned, wedding preparations took up most of Guenevere's time, while Arthur met cordially with each of Britain's tribal chieftains, who by now had judged him worthy of their loyalty. They all agreed to attend the King's wedding, which was to be the most important event of the year.
It did not disappoint. The traditional ceremony of hand-fasting was performed by the Merlin himself, one of the last great druids on the island, and according to accounts, the most powerful. Immediately following, a priest of the New Religion spoke words over the couple as well, using the Roman tongue which none of the commoners understood. A well-meaning aristocrat explained that the priest was extracting promises from the King and his bride that they would remain sexually pure except for purposes of procreation.
Guenevere's nanny nearly objected aloud when she was told about the vow, but was restrained by her fellow servants. It would not do, she was told, for aristocrats to take their pleasure whenever it suited them, because it would not be dignified.
"Well, so long as she's not too dignified to open her legs for a babe to come out between them," she conceded as the music started up raucously and the dancers took their places.
Guenevere was delighted. There was never a question that Arthur was the man to share her life. They were so comfortable together, so certain of the other's thoughts and feelings, that it was as if when they had come upon one another in the ancient graveyard of Camelot where the magical sword grew out of the stone, their meeting had been merely a continuation of a much longer and earlier relationship.
"We must have known one another in the Summer Country," Guenevere whispered one night after they had made love beneath a blanket of sewn rabbit skins.
"And we will again," Arthur answered. "Because I will never stop loving you."
And he had not. They both loved one another until the moment of their deaths and beyond.
Unfortunately, love was not enough to keep them together.
It had begun, probably, during that minor but decisive act of statesmanship when Arthur pardoned the wrongdoers from Orkney rather than defeating them in battle. After that, the other petty chiefs gravitated toward Arthur as their High King. He had shown himself to be both courageous and merciful, and intelligent enough to put the good of the unity of Britain before his own pride. They came hesitantly at first, but then in greater numbers and with solid conviction. Less than six months later they had all come under Arthur's aegis, even the self-serving Lot of Rheged.
Through these delicate times, Arthur was advised by the Merlin, who had a genius for diplomacy, and in later years functioned much more as a statesman than as a magician or priest. He was, rather, a brilliant secretary of state who happened to have been trained in the esoteric holy order of the druids. And in matters of warfare, Arthur was trained thoroughly and patiently by Ector, who could lead an army to the bottom of the sea and out again, if that was what was ordered by his King.
Between his two mentors and the monumental responsibilities of his office, Arthur's private life suffered. He saw less and less of his wife as the years went on; and when her inability to bear children became apparent, they saw each other so rarely that they came to treat one another as cordial acquaintances rather than as intimates or even political allies.
For Arthur, the loss of a close relationship with his wife was a sacrifice.
For Guenevere, it was a betrayal.
It was well known that Launcelot had
once brought a dead man back to life with his Christian prayers. So intense was the man's faith, so potent his entreaties to the young, dead God at the center of the New Religion, so pure was Launcelot's own soul, that the knight slain upon the tournament field was given back the breath which had fled his body and his soul journeyed back from the Summer Country to return to the joust.
So was it said. It was, of course, entirely probable that the knight in question had simply been knocked unconscious by his fall, in full armor, from his horse and consequently revived independently of Launcelot's pious exhortations, but few were interested in this explanation. At the moment, everyone at the tournament who witnessed tin's extraordinary event was convinced that he had witnessed a miracle.
Guenevere was among them. She, too, had seen the deceased knight return to sweating, cursing life. But she was paying no attention to him. Her eyes, her mind—every vibrant fiber of her ripe and lonely body—was concentrating on the Gaulish knight who had recently come to the Round Table.
His name, delicious as she rolled her tongue over its sound, was Launcelot du Lac. And when, at the tournament, he rose from his kneeling position beside the fallen knight whom he had brought back to life with his prayers, when his eyes met Guenevere's and his nostrils flared as if he could smell her and the scent inflamed him, the queen forgot entirely all she had ever known of God.
She did not love him, not in the way that she loved Arthur. There was not the psychic bond between them, nor the knowledge that they had lived and loved before.
Perhaps that was why Guenevere was able to believe, however briefly, that her life would not be unduly affected by the hot, wet urgings that rose within her. And so long as she did not act upon those urgings, she told herself, why, no harm would come of anything.
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