Guinevere

by Sharan Newman

  The altar was bare now, the room dark. People began edging away, remembering that they had left the cook stirring a spiced ale to take the chill off their souls. Geraldus stayed behind. He watched Leodegrance with concern, unsure of what to do next. And Caet stayed. He had glimpsed in the torchlight the corner of a red and gold cloth behind the altar in the dark alcove where no one had looked. He knew what it was.

  Gently, he knelt by his great-grandmother’s body. He bent to kiss her one last time when he saw two eyes glittering at him. He inhaled with a rasp of terror too great for noise. Ever after he believed that Flora was no longer in her body then. He refused even to consider what spoke to him through her mouth.

  “The sacrifice was desecrated,” the voice hissed. “She will not pay, but Britain will. And you. The child was mine. She was destined for me and no other fate. Now all who have her will reap only grief from her. She will come to wish she had gone with me this night.”

  The glittering eyes darkened and the body went limp. Flora was gone and the Goddess with her. There was no one left in Britain who knew the rituals or had the power. A sudden light hit Caet’s eyes. Geraldus had thrust the torch where he was kneeling. His breath came back so quickly that he choked on it and started coughing. Leodegrance looked down at the body. No emotion showed in his voice.

  “Guenlian was right, but we will have no need of vengeance now. Take her to her people and have her put on the fire. She would prefer it to a Christian burial and it is better that it be done now, before we begin to ponder this night.”

  Caet nodded. He went to fetch some of the field workers and others who followed the cult. They would know what to do for her. When he had done that he returned to the stables. There amid the smell of horses and hay, he shivered and cried until dawn.

  Guenlian put Guinevere in her bed and smoothed the covers around her. She was sleeping naturally now, but who could tell what she might remember or how this could affect her. Leodegrance waited for her out in the hallway.

  “Will she recover?” he asked.

  “Sooner than we will, I believe. But I have thought it out. The time has come for us to give her up for fostering. This is not a place for her. There are too many memories and too many horrors. Our cousin Cador has a large castle on the Saxon shore. It is filled with people of her own age and rank. And it is not so far away that we cannot see her sometimes. Oh, my dear, we must get her away from here. Who knows what may happen next?”

  “You are tired and frayed by what has happened. Let us think it over and decide tomorrow.”

  “Yes, tomorrow, but there is no other choice.”

  They left a guard at the door and returned to their own room. Slowly, the others of the house drifted back to their rooms and, if they didn’t sleep, at least all was quiet.

  Geraldus had stayed behind to see that Flora was taken care of and to examine the chapel. He had ordered the bronze knife burned with its priestess. Over and over, he paced the short distance from the door to the altar. Under all the marks of many feet there were those of an animal, one with a cloven hoof. He had seen those marks before, but still had no answer for them. Something made him carefully scrape them away with the heel of his boot. Only then did he return to his room. The air around him was strangely empty of voices. “They must all be splashing in the baths again.”

  Geraldus felt lonely and sick, forsaken by everyone.

  “Lord, why did you do this to me? I am an island, surrounded by voices, cut off from almost everyone on earth. The only people who ever made me feel one of them have been tortured and struck down. There is nothing left. I have nothing to hold on to. I can’t live like this!”

  He fell on his bed, too tired even to remove his boots, and sank at once into sleep.

  He awoke in the hour before dawn. Only one voice was singing, an alto, soothing and low. He smiled without thinking. He felt the pressure of a hand on his cheek and a whispered, “Don’t open your eyes. You still can’t see me. I was supposed to wait for this, to lure you to our country, but I must have lived with you for too long for I find I can’t bear to see you suffering like this. There is little comfort I can offer, but what I have is yours.”

  Geraldus’ heart throbbed in his throat. He opened his eyes but there was no one there. She laughed.

  “I told you you could not see me, but I am here.”

  There was a rustle of blankets and a warmth beside him.

  “Do you always sleep in your boots?”

  “Are you . . . will you . . . run away again?”

  “Not this time. I believe you have made me almost human!”

  “What are you? What do you look like?”

  “I am just as Guinevere described me, black hair, a straight nose, and pointed chin,” she guided his finger down her face. “Long fingers,” her hand clasped his. “There is only one thing different.”

  “What is that?”

  “I’m not wearing my green dress.”

  His hand moved across her shoulder and down.

  “No, you’re not.”

  Conversation was becoming more difficult for him; a fierce drumming in his ears drowned everything else out. Fortunately, his alto seemed to feel that she had said enough.

  Sometime later it occurred to him that if hearing voices had made him a saint, this would surely reduce his stature to that of lunatic. But he prayed more fervently than he ever had before.

  “Lord, if I am mad, please, please, never let me again be sane.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The sublime Lady Guinevere sneezed again. Her eyes were red, her nose was swollen, and her throat was so sore that she could only croak. It was her third cold this winter and she was completely miserable. Unkind people at the castle implied that it was all her own fault. If she insisted upon bathing and washing her hair every week, she couldn’t expect to remain healthy all winter.

  Guinevere was at the castle of Cador, a gloomy stone fortress built on the coastline known as the Saxon Watch. Its main purpose was to warn those inland of any new invasion forces. It was not intended for the comfort of its inhabitants. Guinevere had been there three years and was finally resigned to it. She had protested bitterly at leaving her beautiful home and entering a totally different world. But who can fight against fate and the visions of a unicorn? So Guinevere had submitted to the request that she go to her father’s cousin for fostering.

  Guenlian knew how difficult it would be for her pampered child to adapt to this life, so she had insisted from the first on some special considerations. She told Sidra, Cador’s wife, that Guinevere needed a private room, instead of sleeping in the great hall with everyone else in the household. She also needed a personal maid. Therefore Risa, one of the maids at the villa, had gone with Guinevere to the castle; she prepared her bath, combed her hair, and brought her food when she was ill. In all other ways, Guinevere had been forced to adjust. She coughed repeatedly and cursed each one of the moss-covered walls about her with a newly acquired fluency.

  “Guinevere?” a voice called from outside the door. “May I come in?”

  “Gawain?” Guinevere tried to sit up and push the pillows and blankets into better order. “Yes, please do, I’m so lonely.”

  He pushed aside the curtain; there were no doors in the tower rooms. “How are you feeling today?”

  “About the same. But I’m becoming used to it, so it doesn’t bother me as much. Tell me the news.”

  Gawain smiled at her. He knew she had refused to go to the hall or to see anyone while the cold made her so ugly, but she never minded him. It should have hurt his ego, but he rather liked it. He and Guinevere were so much the same.

  “They say that Arthur is coming to visit before spring. He is looking for men for some special new group he is planning. This time, I’m determined to make him notice me.”

  “How could/he avoid it?” she laughed. Even in the late afternoon sun, Gawain’s hair glowed with a crimson light all its own. He was the only person she had ever met whose hai
r could rival her own. It curled forth from his head in a series of living coils and gleamed in the daylight like a nimbus about him. Apart from that, Gawain was a head taller than most people and so vibrantly handsome that respectable matrons had been known to walk into closed doors while staring at him.

  Gawain was not amused by her teasing. “This is serious, Guinevere,” he insisted. “I’ve trained for the last five years in hope that Arthur would notice me and ask me to join him. Every time he has come here, though, I’ve been away. He never comes to Cornwall, where my family lives. I just can’t understand my luck!”

  Guinevere nodded. “I have never met him, either, for all I have heard of him. Each time he has been here, I have been at home, or visiting somewhere. Every time he visits my parents, I seem to be here. It does seem bad fortune that neither of us can come face to face with the one man the entire island depends upon.”

  “I won’t let it happen again. Nothing will get me away from this castle until I’ve shown what I can do and have had my opportunity to join him.”

  They were interrupted by Risa, Guinevere’s maid. She spoke to Guinevere, but her eyes were always on Gawain.

  “Are you feeling well enough to come to dinner, my lady? I will help you dress if you wish to go down.”

  “No, thank you. I’m not hungry. If you will bring me some soup and spiced wine when you finish your meal, that will be enough.”

  “Yes, my lady,” she curtsied and stumbled out, still staring at Gawain.

  He sighed. “If only they would be willing to do more than just look.”

  “We were talking about Arthur.”

  “Yes, well. I was only saying that I won’t be passed over this time. I could be a great help to Arthur if he would only overlook my affliction.”

  “I know that. But it is hard for those who don’t know you well to understand. I’ve never known of anyone with such a curious problem before. We have all seen how, at noon, in the bright sunlight, you can defeat any warrior, on horseback or afoot. You can uproot trees and destroy stone walls. But Gawain, what if an enemy attacked by night? By twilight you are so weak that you need to lean on someone just to reach your bed, and once you’re asleep, we can’t even wake you! A whole battle could be fought around your tent and you would never know it!”

  “Even so, there must be some way I could serve. I can’t stand the way people look at me as if I were some kind of coward. Here I am, as strong as an ox in the daytime, and I spend all my days here at the castle or hiding at home. There are times when I wish I had never been born!”

  His despair was so genuine that Guinevere forebore teasing him any more.

  “Gawain, isn’t there some way you could be cured? You have never mentioned how this happened to you. Is it a curse or something that runs in your family?”

  He stared at her a moment and then started to laugh.

  “Guinevere, I’ve been here all this time and you still don’t know about my family?”

  “No, no one told me and it seemed impolite to ask. Do they all have this problem?”

  “Not this problem, but . . . well, I don’t mind your knowing. Certainly there is no secret about it. My mother is not the type to be subtle or discreet in her actions.”

  “Your mother?”

  “My mother, Guinevere, is Morgan, called Le Fay. She is wife to King Lot of Cornwall and daughter to Igraine, late wife of King Uther. Her sister is Morgause, a sorceress, some say. You may have heard of them all.”

  He flushed a little as he confessed it, as if both ashamed and proud of his notorious family.

  Guinevere was uncomfortable, too. “Oh, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. Really, I should have known. I have heard of your mother. She must be a very interesting person to know.”

  Gawain laughed again, this time without humor. “So say half the men in Britain.”

  “I didn’t mean that, Gawain. You should know. Never mind,” she brushed away his apologies. “Didn’t you ever ask your mother about your problem? Have you always been this way?”

  “Yes, for as long as I can remember, I think since I was born. I did ask her once, when I was angry at what I was missing. My brothers would go exploring at night and I could never go with them. She thought it was very funny and said it must be my father’s fault. She told me that she hadn’t considered the possibility at the time but it was very nice that one of her children was certain never to interrupt her at night, just when she was busiest.”

  “What could that mean?” Guinevere ignored the last part of his statement and concentrated on the first. “I have never heard of anyone in Lot’s family having to sleep the moment the sun went down.”

  “My dear, just how bad is your cold? No one ever said Lot was my father. He’s a fine man and I like him, but I doubt that he sired me or any of my brothers, either. I don’t know who the man was. Knowing Mother, I sometimes fear that it was no man at all but some sort of incubus she conjured up from hell with one of her potions.”

  “That doesn’t seem likely. I’ve always heard that such demons love the dark and dread the light of day.” She crossed herself piously. “May we be protected from them. That is the opposite of your problem so, if anything, he must have been one who loved the day.”

  “That’s true. I hadn’t considered it that way. You are a comfort Guin. I hope you feel better soon.” He gave her a brotherly pat on the head and yawned.

  “Still another month until spring. I must go and get some dinner before I’m too tired to eat. I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night.”

  “Good afternoon, Gawain.”

  He nearly collided at the curtain with Risa bringing a tray for her mistress. He excused himself as she edged around him silently, staring all the while with adoration.

  Once he was out of sight, she collected herself and brought the tray over.

  “The soup is cold now, my lady, from the long climb, but I’ll heat it again on the brazier and warm the wine also. There are some dried apples soaked in milk if you would like something now.”

  “Yes, that would be fine,” Guinevere held out her hand for the bowl. “Risa, why do you stare at Gawain so? You watch and watch him but you never speak.”

  Risa started and spilled some of the soup.

  “Oh dear! Look at the mess! I didn’t realize I was being so obvious.”

  “I have noticed you and so has he. He would like it if you spoke to him.”

  “Then he must say something first. I’m not so bold as all that.”

  She carefully poured what was left of the soup into a small iron pot and let it heat over the coals. Her cheeks were red and she held her face close to the heat to explain it. She spoke again casually, without turning her head.

  “Did he tell you he wanted me to say something?”

  “Not exactly. But I think he would like it.”

  Risa waited silently while Guinevere finished her meal. Then she pulled a small roll of parchment from a fold in her robe. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I almost forgot, there was a letter from your mother.”

  Guinevere unrolled the parchment carefully. It was only a short note full of daily happenings. But it brought a greater warmth than the mulled wine.

  “Is there any news, my lady?”

  “Nothing special,” Guinevere smiled. “My niece is demanding that her grandfather teach her to ride. She is an active little person and apparently keeps the whole household busy. She is so pretty and so much like Matthew. I can hardly wait to see her again. The roof in the solarium is leaking this winter and Father is worried that he can find no more tile makers to repair it properly.”

  “Do they say if there is word of Caet?”

  “No, I suppose that if he were heard from they would say something. It does seem odd, the way he ran off without asking anyone. Father was particularly disappointed.”

  She read on awhile, lost in memories. Risa took the soup bowl and left. The room grayed in the growing twilight. Finally she put the letter down and looked about her.
Despite the efforts of Guenlian and her hostess, the contrast between this room and the one she had grown up in was enormous. The floor and walls were cold stone. Attempts had been made to cover as much of them as possible, especially since the proximity to the ocean made the walls always damp and mossy. They had been draped with thick hangings of linen and wool, but the smell of mildew permeated everything. The floors were strewn with straw, which soon grew brown and broken from dropped food and muddy boots. In the great Hall it was far worse, as the animals were allowed to wander about, relieving themselves where ever they liked. The elegant long robes the women wore were crusted at the hems with every kind of filth. The stench was overpowering to Guinevere, but most people, enveloped in their own aroma, soon ceased to notice. Early on in her stay, Guinevere had discovered that water could only be procured by sending servants out to the well to draw it and then carry it in steaming buckets from the great fire in the hall to her room. It was tainted by the sea and no one drank it unless forced to. It was much more tolerable as ale. Guinevere longed to bathe every day, as she had at home, but her conscience would not allow all that trouble so often. Once a week annoyed the household quite enough.

  Still, oddly, she had adjusted to life there. In many ways it was more exciting than her backwater home. Cador’s castle was part of a long string of watchtowers that had been manned for centuries to spot ships of traders and possible invaders. Messengers were always coming in with information on how the wars were going or to tell what ships had been sighted. The conversation and entertainment in the evenings were also different from the low tones and ancient lays heard in the villa. Life here was noisy and more intense; sometimes even a little wild. People were used to a chancy existence and lived as though they might not see another spring. It frightened Guinevere and exhilarated her. The only thing she could not accustom herself to was the lack of privacy. Outside of her own room she was rarely alone. Even there she had to share sleeping space with Risa. There were over a hundred people living, working, or passing through the castle on any given day. They came from all over the island and a few even from Armorica, Gaul, and farther east. They bumped and jostled, yelled and competed for space and attention until Guinevere’s only thought was to run from them all; anywhere, only to get away.