“Thank you all,” she whispered, sure that they would hear her. “The angels must envy such music.” At this they all smiled from ear to ear without missing a note. Their voices remained with her until the procession reached the home where she and Arthur would spend the night.
They were left at the door, with speeches and laughter. Then everyone went away to leave them to themselves, and to finish their own celebrating.
Arthur led Guinevere up a narrow staircase to a beautiful room. The floors and walls were covered with warm hangings and carpets. There was a small fire in the brazier and a supper had been left for them. The bed was covered with fine linen and furs and her night dress lay on top.
Guinevere took her husband’s hand and smiled at him. They were both suddenly very shy. It occurred to Arthur that this was the first time since he had met her that he and Guinevere had really been alone. He was seized by sudden panic. What if he held her too tightly and she broke in his arms? She was like a clear porcelain to his touch. It would be so easy to harm her.
“Shall we eat?” she asked politely.
She seated herself at the small table and began dishing out the meat and gravy. “I don’t know what the custom is for men, but they wouldn’t let me have anything to eat or drink today and I’m starving. Do you want some?”
He forced himself to sit across from her and choke down some food. It had grown dark by the time they had finished. Guinevere was looking nervously at her nightdress. For a few minutes she drew designs in the gravy remaining in her bowl. Finally, she set down her spoon, stood, and walked around the table to Arthur. She gulped once or twice and fumbled with the catch on her belt as he watched stupidly.
“It’s not that I don’t know about this,” she explained, twisting a lock of her hair around her finger. “Mother finally told me yesterday and of course, Risa . . . It’s just that I’m rather unsure about it. Don’t you think we could just talk for a few days until we feel more comfortable?”
Understanding was dawning in Arthur’s eyes. “Oh, Guinevere! I’m sorry. I didn’t think of how you might feel. I wouldn’t hurt you, truly. You know how much I love you.”
“Oh yes,” she answered eagerly. “And I do want to be your wife. It’s only . . . not quite so. . . . I’m just . . .”
She trailed off.
“My beautiful, precious Guinevere. I promise that after tonight I won’t even touch your hand until you tell me I may . . . but, tonight. . . . The marriage must be consummated tonight or everyone will know it wasn’t, or worse yet, believe you are . . .”
“Must!” she cried, “But why? What difference does it make? I thought you understood!”
“I do!” He felt horrible, almost sick. “But we have to. They will come for the sheets in the morning.”
“They will what? But that’s barbaric!”
“No, it isn’t. It’s an old Roman custom. I thought you knew.”
Guinevere sat back down. “No, no one told me about that. Are you sure?”
He nodded. “I’m so sorry.”
“I know you are. Well,” she took a deep breath. “If there is nothing else to be done, I might as well start learning how to be your wife now.”
With a swift, determined movement, she unpinned her blue surcoat and laid it carefully across the clothes chest. She then took off her shoes and began unpinning her shift. She paused as Arthur watched, dumbfounded, and then she blew out the lamp. By the light of the brazier, she finished undressing.
When he realized what she was doing, Arthur quickly removed his formal garments, too. He was glad that she couldn’t see him clearly in the dark. He was terrified that she would find him repulsive.
When he had finished, he stood still in the middle of the room, not sure what to do. Then a voice called from the bed.
“Arthur, you will freeze out there. Don’t you want to lie here with me?” said a pathetic little voice. “I’m rather nervous, Arthur. Please be careful.”
“Oh, I will be,” he vowed. “I could never hurt you.”
He slid into the bed beside her and tried to touch her gently. But she was so frightened and his desire and inexperience were so great that he hurt her very much. She screamed once and then bit her lip, horrified that someone might have overheard.
In the end, though, it was he who cried in shame and sorrow and she who comforted him with caresses.
“It’s not your fault. I didn’t know what to do. Never mind. I will learn. We have time. I intend to be your wife for many years.”
But he could not be comforted and only clung to her, murmuring apologies until he fell asleep.
When she was sure that he was not going to waken, she slipped from his grasp and got up. She washed herself carefully and put on the nightdress, which had fallen to the floor. She didn’t want to return to bed immediately. Quietly, she wandered about the room, stopping at last at the tiny window. It had no glass, but wooden shutters. She opened them a crack.
The moon shone down on a small walled garden. The plants were all brown and bedraggled from the winter rains and the tiny fruit trees were bare. In the middle of it stood her unicorn.
“I didn’t feel you there!” she said in surprise.
“I know,” he replied, his voice thick with resignation. “The time has come.”
“What do you mean?” A chill swept over her as she remembered Rhianna’s bitter cry, “He won’t stay for me. Only a virgin can tame a unicorn!”
“But you are my unicorn!” she sobbed. “It can’t matter that I am no longer a maid.”
He gazed up at her with pleading eyes. “I am your unicorn. You are my Guinevere. That will always be. But the time has come for a new unicorn to be born.”
“Then take me with you!” she pleaded. She stretched her arms down to him.
“That is not the way. I have told you this before. I have only come to say farewell to you and to let you know that the memory of you will be forever in the mind of the unicorn kind. All who come after me will dream of finding someone like you. Please do not cry for me. We could not be together now as we were before and I would be so lonely without you. This is not the world I was meant to stay in. Let me go now to search for my place.”
She could not answer but she held out her hands to him. He reached his head up and she felt his hot breath against her fingers. Then she turned away and knew he was leaving. She felt a vibration within her body as of music played so high that it cannot be heard by human ears. It grew until she could no longer bear it and then she felt a shattering of something in her heart, like crystal smashing on a stone.
She must have wept for a long time, for the moon had moved when she looked up again. She felt drained of more than tears. Something in her life was gone and she blindly groped for something to replace it. Her eyes fell on Arthur.
Asleep, he was much younger-looking than his twenty-eight years. His hair fell over his forehead and he was snoring gently. Guinevere studied him for some time.
“There is something very dear about him,” she decided at last. “I think I could learn to love him very much.”
She shivered in the chill air and closed the shutter. There was nothing outside any longer to interest her. Slowly she crossed the room and climbed back into bed beside her husband.
About the Author
Sharan Newman is a medieval historian and author. She took her Master’s degree in Medieval Literature at Michigan State University did doctoral work at the University of California at Santa Barbara in Medieval Studies, specializing in twelfth-century France. She is a member of the Medieval Academy, the Authors Guild and Mystery Writers of America.
Her seventeen published works of fiction include three novels of historical fantasy about Guinevere, and the acclaimed Catherine Le Vendeur historical mysteries. Her novel, Death Comes as Epiphany won the Macavity Award for Best First Novel in 1994. She has won several other awards for her historical mysteries. She also wrote “The Real History” series exploring the facts and myths about the
Da Vinci Code, the Crusades and the End of the World. Her works have been translated into eleven languages.
Her latest books are Death Before Compline, a short story collection, and Defending the City of God, a biography of Queen Melisende who ruled Jerusalem in the mid 12th Century.
She lives in Ashland, Oregon.
For more information, visit www.sharannewman.com
Table of Contents
Books by Sharan Newman
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
About the author
Guinevere Page 28
