Guinevere

by Sharan Newman

  Flora obeyed. She put the baby on a pillow next to her mother’s head and left the room.

  Guenlian didn’t notice. She was filled with the wonder of her daughter. The crying had stopped, but it had done the baby good. Her face was a healthy pink and the wispy gold hair shone above her red scalp.

  “Aura indeed!” Guenlian laughed and examined the baby further.

  Her eyes were remarkable, the color so pure for a newborn. They were just the color of the first spring leaves, a soft yellow-green. Guenlian checked her hands, uncurling the fingers to see their length. She ran her hands down the bent legs and arms, turned the baby over, looking for birthmarks or blemishes. There was nothing. She was as perfect as any new human being could be.

  “What a fool Flora is,” Guenlian whispered. “You are no angel or goddess, but a beautiful Roman child. You will have my mother’s name, Guinevere, and we will raise you to be a strong, brave woman, just as she was.”

  Guenlian remembered all these things as she watched her daughter racing to join her brothers on their way to the stables. Guinevere was far from spiritual or even dignified as she hopped along beside John. He was obviously teasing her about something, for Guinevere blushed and tried to reach his head to knock his helmet off. He swept her up and she climbed to his shoulders, enjoying the view. Her laughter sparkled through the still, hot air.

  “Can you spare a greeting for an old cousin, Guenlian, or do your children take up all your time as they do all your heart?”

  Guenlian came back to the present with a start.

  “Merlin, dear cousin!” she exclaimed. “I am delighted to see you here. Our blessed Geraldus has been awaiting your arrival for days. But I see that he, too, is off with the boys. Never mind. He will soon return. Until then you must make do with my poor greeting. You honor our household now that you are the sage advisor of two kings. Your laurels become you, do they not?”

  She paused to look more closely at him. He was outwardly robust, but his eyes were veiled by worry and sorrow and his jaw was more firmly set than when they had been children together, or even at their last meeting. She linked her arm in his as they strolled to the house.

  “Whatever your cares are now, let them rest while you are with us. Forget Saxons, Irish, and Piets! Turn away from the feuding lords! We will banish them all!”

  She laughed and his face softened as he smiled in return.

  “Dearest Guenlian. I don’t worry about the Saxon raiders or the mulish country lords. I leave that to the fighting men and the diplomats. There are deeper cares within my heart. But, if they are more serious, they are also more distant. I will take your advice and rest awhile with you. I have a mind to hunt with my old friend Leodegrance and his pack of cubs. And an evening in your hall is always a welcome change from the conversation of men who know nothing but tales of battle and glory and can hardly read their own names.”

  “I didn’t know that such men dared speak to you, Merlin,” Guenlian laughed. “They all seem to be much too afraid that you will enchant them to have much to do with you.”

  He returned her smile.

  “It’s true. I see their hands flickering as I pass to ward off my evil glance. But some of the mightier lords feel that discourse with a wizard enhances their social standing as well as proves their courage. So I listen, night after night, to rambling talk of armor and horses, women and feuds. It will be a joy to listen again to the children’s tutor, what’s his name? The way he goes on about Virgil and Seneca! You would think they had been old friends of his! I doubt that one in a hundred of these so-called Roman soldiers knows of the fall of Troy or the founding of Rome. Arthur and I have discussed this many times. It grieves us to realize that these men have forgotten their past. They know the names of their ancestors to the thirtieth generation, but they know nothing about them. Those who truly are of Roman blood can’t even pronounce their names correctly. But now we are spending all our strength simply defending Britain. There is no time for history lessons.”

  “Is the war going so badly, then?” Guenlian asked. She glanced abruptly toward the stable, where rowdy laughter could be heard.

  “No, as a matter of fact, it’s going very well. You may calm yourself, cousin. I am aware that you don’t like to hear of my visions, but I can assure you that Britain will remain ours for our lifetimes, at least. Arthur is an able general and a fine man. He is doing what no one thought could be done. He is unifying the clans of the north and the settlers in the south and west. As you know, they normally spend their time fighting each other; now they march side by side, for love of him.”

  Guenlian seized her chance. “We have wondered about this Arthur. Geraldus has told us only a little, and the stories of him often seem to contain as much myth as the ones we hear of you. I have heard that you know his family?”

  She waited for a reply.

  Merlin sighed. “Yes, I did. His parents are dead. They were unable to care for him, even before. So, when he was born, I took him from the arms of the nurse and gave him to old Ector to raise as a foster son. He spent his whole life there except for the times I took him traveling. Now you know as much as he knows.”

  “You haven’t even told the boy his own parentage!”

  “When the time comes, he will be told, as will you all. But it is not necessary to face yet and I would wait.”

  A frightening thought flashed into Guenlian’s mind. Something in his voice, perhaps. Unlike Merlin, she never listened to her intuition. She suddenly realized that they were still standing in the courtyard.

  “Forgive me, dear one. I said you should rest and not be bothered, and I have kept you here standing and answering questions! Come. I will show you your room myself. I’ll send for hot water and towels, too. We have had to close the baths during the drought. We haven’t enough cold water to mix with the hot from the springs. However, we can give you a hip bath in your room. Not as pleasant, I know, but adequate for washing off the dust of your journey. When you are rested, come join us on the patio. We have a fine view of the sunset on the mountains, and Pincerna has been overseeing an exquisite dinner in your honor.”

  They arrived at his room. It was well furnished and beautifully decorated. Merlin’s smile widened as he saw the well-stuffed mattress and soft pillows. He gave Guenlian a quick hug of delight.

  “I may not make it to dinner,” he chuckled.

  “See that you do, or Pincerna’s heart will break,” she answered and closed the door behind her.

  They had parted happily, but once alone again, they each sighed. Guenlian shook herself and hurried to see about the water, and Merlin gratefully threw himself upon the bed.

  • • •

  Guinevere’s joy, however, was totally untempered. Her brothers were home! She had felt recently that being the only child at home gave her too much attention of the wrong sort. Now her strong, adult, laughing brothers were here at last. There would be hunting and riding and rowdy dinners that lasted far into the night. There would be singing and pranks again as it had been before they went away, all so young, to fight. And, she gloated, she could again be spoiled and petted and not treated as a young woman of rank who must mind her behavior.

  Fairly bubbling over in her happiness as she pranced along after them to the stables, she didn’t notice the bitter, admiring look Caet gave them as they entered.

  It was dark inside and almost cool. The smell of horses and hay struck them at once. All four breathed it in happily. The smell was uniquely that of their own stable, their own horses. They stopped a moment until their eyes grew to show them the shapes in the dark.

  Guinevere was still jumping up and down.

  “Have I grown?” she teased John. “You haven’t seen me since last fall. I’ve grown a lot, I know it. Soon I’ll be as tall as you.”

  “Then you’ll have no more rides on my back!” he grinned. “You already weigh more than my saddle and armor combined. No use Guin, you’re a child no more.”

  But he didn�
��t really believe it. He laughed as he hugged her tightly and lifted her as he had all her life.

  Suddenly he stopped. His expression changed almost to one of alarm. Gently, he put her down in the doorway so that the sunlight struck her and shone through her summer-thin gown.

  “Oh, Guinevere!” he sighed. “You have grown.”

  She blushed. She was vaguely aware that her body was not as straight and flat as it had been even a few months before. But the change had been too gradual for any eye but Flora’s to see. Now she saw her brothers looking at her as if she were a stranger. She felt a chill run through her. Her eyes began to fill.

  John saw this and smiled tenderly. “Dear one, I don’t love you less for turning almost into a woman when my back was turned. It only took me by surprise. I suppose I felt that you must be some sort of fairy child who would never change. Brothers! Mark, Matthew! Come! We must greet our sister again. The child we left last autumn has been transformed during our absence! May I present to you the Lady Guinevere!”

  They stared at her a moment.

  “God’s Blood, I never noticed!” Matthew exclaimed. “Do you want to make me feel old? I felt myself a man already when you were born. But in truth, you’ll soon be of an age for suitors. Well, you have three stout warriors to defend your honor. I place my sword at your command!”

  With a flourish of mock pomposity, he drew his short battle sword and laid it at her feet. The others followed.

  Guinevere refused to be intimidated. She adjusted an imaginary cloak and veil and extended her hand to them. They were teasing her again and this she could deal with as she had all her life. There was a challenge in their eyes even though they loved her so very much.

  “I accept your valorous offer and give you my tokens to carry with you into battle in my name.” She looked about for something to give them. She was wearing very little on this hot day—as had just been made apparent—and no jewelry or scarves. Her hair had tumbled down again and she quickly tugged at it to get three strands.

  “I have only these three golden threads to give, but they were gathered at great cost.” She rubbed the place on her scalp where she had pulled.

  “I hope,” she added in a more normal voice, “that you appreciate this gift, remembering all the strands you had for nothing in the day when pulling my braids was one of your favorite sports.”

  “We will cherish them to the death!” vowed Mark, with a melodramatic whap to his chest. “Oops! I’ve dropped mine in the straw. Well, give me another, sister dear, and I’ll cherish that one to the death.”

  Happily they finished seeing to the horses and returned to the house.

  Caet spent an hour that afternoon searching in the straw, until he found one long golden strand. Carefully he placed it in the leather bag around his neck where he kept his treasures.

  Whenever Guinevere thought of that summer in later years, she always saw it ringed in gold and silver. Colors were brighter, music more touching, and the happiness was so intense she could taste it.

  “It was the last summer before,” she would say.

  “Before what?” someone would always ask.

  “Before everything.” Her eyes would then cloud and the questioner would know to ask no more.

  But at that time she didn’t know that it was the last anything and wouldn’t have understood if someone had told her. So she simply enjoyed it with all her heart. She wanted nothing more in her life than to live like this, with her parents and brothers, spoiled and loved forever. They were content, too, for her to remain so, for to her family, Guinevere was the essence of all their dreams: a happy, innocent creature, beautiful and untouched by the grief and conflict outside her narrow world.

  There were many riding expeditions, into and through the woods. Everyone made so much noise on these that it was no wonder they saw nothing but themselves. Guinevere’s dreams became vague and the strange longing she had felt ebbed. They went on picnics and had great banquets that lasted until the summer dawn. Geraldus more than earned his keep at these. He knew more legends and songs than one could hear in a month of banquets. His honey voice carried them into whatever tale he told, making them laugh or weep without even realizing it. Sometimes Guenlian wondered if these stories were not too secular for a saint. However, her duty as a hostess was foremost in her mind, and there was no doubt that the guests were mightily entertained.

  The only shadow in Guinevere’s world that summer was Merlin. She couldn’t overcome the feeling that he disliked her, although his manner toward her was always irreproachable. It was a new feeling which made her very uncomfortable when he was around. She resented his eyes; when they looked at her, she felt she was under examination. Thankfully, he rarely joined the group of young people, preferring to stay with Guenlian or ride with Leodegrance as he oversaw the estate, or even sit by the hour with Tenuantius, arguing points of grammar so intently that the old teacher began to feel there was some hope for the country yet. Everyone was fond of him but Guinevere, but with so much to do and so many friends, she rarely let him upset her.

  To Guinevere’s brothers, Merlin had always been a figure of excitement and mystery. His mother and Guenlian’s had been cousins and therefore he was Family, part of a tight unit against whom nothing might be said. But even in their remote and sheltered corner of Britain they had heard strange stories of him: his unknown siring; the terrifying string of prophecies he had spun for Vortigern, which had all come true as far as anyone knew. Vortigern had been defeated, although the Saxons he had invited into Britain were still rampaging through the country. There were stories of Merlin’s dabbling in black magic to help King Uther with his lecheries, but no one knew much about that. Some even said that Merlin was responsible for the Giant’s Dance, the circle of stones in the middle of the great plain to the east. About this Guinevere’s brothers questioned him, and he replied that it wasn’t true. He knew not how the stones had come there, nor their purpose.

  That didn’t stop Matthew, Mark, and John from believing other stories. They wondered what had happened to him after the battle of Arderydd, when his whole family had been killed, including his uncle, King Gwenddolau. By listening at doors late at night, they had heard the story of how he was seen wandering among the bodies, raving into the winds, as mad as a loon. He disappeared after that and wasn’t seen again for over a year. Even Guenlian had been unable to find out from him where he had been or how his reason had been restored.

  Now he was possibly the most important man in all Britain. Only he had the full confidence of Arthur. Indeed, it appeared that he was the one guiding Arthur’s brilliant rise to power and magnificent successes in battle.

  Guenlian and Leodegrance forbade discussion of Merlin by their children. They insisted that he have one place to visit where he would be treated like a human being and a cousin and not a demon-sprung necromancer. Their policy toward him was much the same as toward Geraldus, and both were grateful. Both had learned that the price for this courtesy was slight. Geraldus was to entertain and Merlin was not to prophesy.

  Merlin especially was glad not to be badgered with demands to tell the future. As anyone who had heard his prophecies knew, they were as vague and rambling as the Apocalypse, full of flames and symbolic animals. If Merlin knew what they meant, he refused to make them clearer. Truly, he insisted, he wasn’t always sure what they meant. Sometimes they seemed like the spoutings of a stranger, torn from his mouth. He never would have spoken at all if he had had some control over himself. For he had other visions, too, clear ones, when the pattern of the future was spread before him like a view from a mountain top, only obscured here and there by wandering clouds. They involved people, individuals, some of whom he loved dearly. Arthur was one. And Guinevere was mixed up in it somewhere; but he could not see the end, only that she would cause everyone much pain, especially herself. He could never look at the girl without a chill sweeping over him. He had noticed the change in her at first glance and was troubled. If only he could get he
r away, to Armorica, or at least to a convent. Anywhere she might be sent to keep her from entering the world of men.

  He couldn’t help admiring her, though. He saw the way she carried herself with a graceful flow that added to the impression she gave of being not quite of this earth. She was still unconscious of her ripening body, which made her all the more beautiful as she tried neither to hide nor to flaunt it. Even her eyes had been fashioned to arouse wonder. In the sunlight they were as green as grass and by fire they were almost the color of a cloudy sea.

  “And she is as heedless as a yearling colt,” he muttered as he watched her playing running games with the boys. They had set up a course with sudden turns and bars to jump. Guinevere’s agility matched the greater speed of her brothers and the game was a close one. Her arms and legs were bare and her laugh shimmered across the warm meadow.

  “Why can’t she just stay as she is!” Merlin sighed. “As beautiful, elusive, and emptyheaded as a deer in the woods. Probably as heartless.”

  He wronged her there, but even a prophet cannot see everything, and Guinevere’s heart had not yet been needed for anything more than keeping her blood upon its course.

  That evening a courier arrived from Arthur with a message for Merlin, who heard it grimly and sent back a reply at once. The poor rider only had time for some meat and ale before he was sent off again on a new mount. He thought enviously of his horse comfortably stabled for the night, while he raced once again into the dark forest.

  Merlin was moody all through dinner. He spoke little, and Guinevere was sure that he glared at her just to keep her from eating. His silence affected all the others, and the meal was a somber one. Afterwards, Mark, Matthew, and John fled to the stables, where they could be sure of at least a game of chance and perhaps some spicy local gossip. Guinevere gladly went with Flora to help in laying out the herbs, fresh-picked, to be dried in the sun the next day. Flora had also been gloomy that summer, but at least she only sighed and moaned and did not stare at one as if one had committed an unpardonable sin.