Dear Gods, has he heard a single word I’ve said? “Arthur, they are the sons of Morgause! They are your kin! Why should they ever be loyal to me?” She could have torn her hair. “Don’t you see I need new men, men you do not know—who do not know you—whose only loyalty will be to me!”
He paused. “I think I know of one.”
“Another of your choosing? I will find my own knights!”
“Not one like this.” He sighed. “The things they say of him they used to say of me.”
“Who is he?”
“They say no man can match him in battle, and his chivalry never fails,” Arthur mused on. “His virtue and grace are praised everywhere. He’s the finest knight in the land, young as he is, his father says—but then he would, as you know.”
“Know?” Guenevere cried, her nerves strung out like wires. “How would I know?”
Arthur surveyed her in wonderment. “Because you know his father; you know them both.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“King Ban of Little Britain. And his son, who has always longed to join the band of the Round Table here with us. I was going to bring him to court anyway, and there’s no reason why he should not serve you, instead of me.”
“Bring him here from France?” Why was she trembling? “You mean the boy—the youth—?”
Arthur smiled wryly. “Boy no longer, I think. I mean Lancelot, King Ban’s son. How would you like him for the first of your knights?”
She could not help herself. “Why should I take the son of your old friend? The boy who has been in love with you since the Battle of Kings? Do I need another knight who will put you above me?” She was madly angry now. “Understand this, will you? The man I need will come to me by himself. The knights I want I will find for myself.” She raised her voice to shout. “How can I make it clear? Don’t send for this boy, I don’t want him, I don’t want him here!”
“Go your own way, then! I know you will!”
ARTHUR STRODE AWAY seething—he loathed it when they came to angry words. Yet at other times he was gentle and humble as they struggled to rebuild.
“How could I lose you? You showed me myself; you made me what I am,” he said with enormous sadness. “All I am, I learned to be through you.”
“And I you!” she cried. She could hardly speak for pain.
She was married to Arthur, and she would be till she died. Yet which of them could endure this marriage to the death?
Day after day she repeated to herself the promise she had made to Arthur when they lay together and tried to be man and wife. I will try to love you as your wife, she had said. And in her heart she was begging him: Be a husband to me, love me again.
And so they came at last to a kind of peace.
CHAPTER 46
He came in a silver sunset at the end of a sweet spring day. The evening star was shining in a pearl-gray sky when the message was brought in. Guenevere raised her head from her papers as the servant bowed. “Sir Lamorak is here, newly arrived from the Orkneys, and craving an audience with you and the King.”
“Sir Lamorak,” Guenevere cried in delight, “come all the way here without a word? Say we shall see him at once!”
How happy King Pellinore would be! Arthur’s old friend had never ceased to miss his son. As Guenevere hurried into the Audience Chamber, the first sight to meet her eyes was King Pellinore leaning on his son’s shoulder, weeping openly on Lamorak’s neck.
Arthur’s pale face looked bright, and for the first time in months he was smiling as he welcomed the tall young knight.
“How long is it since we sent you to the Orkneys to attend my sister Queen Morgause? I confess I have forgotten, I forget so much these days. But it has been far too long.” He glanced sadly at King Pellinore. “It is not good for a man to lose his son. We must have you back at court. You must come home again.”
Lamorak was still clad in his riding gear, encrusted with the mud and the dust of the road. But his time away had lent him authority, and he shook his blond head proudly as he spoke. “Sire, my home now is at court with Queen Morgause,” he said. A tender light came into his eyes, and he gave an inward smile. “Believe me, I have taken service with the best lady in the world.” He made a hurried bow toward the throne. “Except for Queen Guenevere, of course. I could not leave the Queen of the Orkneys now.”
The best lady in the world …
Wild envy swept Guenevere from head to foot. Lamorak loved Morgause more than his father, more than his King, his country, more than his own life. He loved her as a knight should love a lady, putting her above all else. Oh, where was the knight who would feel the same for her?
With an effort, Lamorak brought himself back to the present. He cleared his throat and took an uneasy step forward. “And it is my lady’s command, sire, that brings me here today. A month ago she sent me to Gore, to her sister Queen Morgan, King Ursien’s wife.”
Arthur caught his breath. “Yes?”
“And then she ordered me to come on to you.”
“Well?” Arthur was very pale.
Lamorak plunged on. “Queen Morgause my mistress sends you royal greetings, and her best hopes for your health and happiness. She is well, and all is at peace in her kingdom and beyond.” He paused. “Her sister Queen Morgan, the Queen of Gore—her sister and yours, that is, my lord—great news—”
He faltered to a standstill, changing color as he spoke.
“Fear not, son,” said King Pellinore anxiously. “Say what you have to say. The King will hear you.”
Lamorak took a breath. “Queen Morgan has been delivered of a son.”
Guenevere wanted to laugh.
A son for Morgan?
She has a son, and Amir sleeps in the sea.
Why did I never think she could have a son?
“A son.” Arthur could hardly speak.
“A fine boy, sire.”
Arthur looked up stiffly. “When was he born?”
“At Imbolc, my lord.”
Imbolc.
Guenevere laughed aloud.
Truly Morgan is the Queen of Death. Her own day is the feast the Christians call Hallowe’en, our old Samhain, when the undead walk from their graves. But how right that she dropped her spawn on the feast of the Black Maiden, the Queen of Death and Hate!
She counted back to Morgan’s wedding last year, and laughed again. “A seven-month child! Well, he will have a hard struggle, especially being born in winter as he was. Will he thrive?”
“He—he will thrive.”
Arthur struggled to compose himself. “We must send our good wishes to King Ursien. What has he named his son?”
Lamorak swallowed hard. “He did not name him, sire. Queen Morgan named him. She has called him Mordred.”
“How?” Arthur’s head went up. “The King not name his son?” A look of dread leaped up in his eyes. “Why so?”
“You may ask that question of the King himself. King Ursien is coming; he is not far behind.”
Morgan named him.
So …
Guenevere was not listening. Lamorak’s voice reached her through a mist of pain. “I was sent on to break the news to you—”
“The news? What are you saying, man? What news?” Then Arthur threw himself back on the throne, and screamed.
IN THE KING’S Privy Chamber, the air was thick with rage and something worse. The fire, hastily lit, was smoking sullenly on the hearth and the servants had had no chance to freshen the room before Arthur dragged Ursien and Lamorak inside, away from the Audience Chamber with its wide-eyed listeners and all the gossiping court. But the odor choking them now was not from the room.
Guenevere leaned against the wall and hugged her empty body in aching arms. She has Arthur’s son, and mine lies in the cold sea …
Again the wild call sounded inside her head. Come away …
Arthur was gripping Lamorak by the shoulder as if he would crush his bones. “Little hair, you say, and nondescript colo
ring?”
Lamorak drew a long breath. “Like all babies, sire.”
“No distinguishing marks to say whose child he is?”
“None.”
“Tell me this, Ursien.” Arthur was shaking in every limb. “How can you swear the child is not yours?”
King Ursien set his chin and looked Arthur in the eye. “When I married your sister, my lord, I knew she did not come a virgin to my bed. Any man in my place would make sure that a child of such a woman was his and his alone—and that the world knew this and saw it too.” Surveying Arthur closely, he did not add, As your father King Uther failed to do when you were born. But the unspoken reminder hung in the air.
Ursien shifted his solid bulk and picked up his tale. “Queen Morgan has been confined to her quarters since she came to Gore. She has been attended by her women night and day. All fifty of them will swear that I was never alone with her.”
Arthur clasped his head as if his brain were on fire. “But why did you not tell me that she was with child?”
Ursien shrugged. “There might have been no child. Thousands of babies are shed from the womb before their time. Many others are born dead, or deformed, or simple, half-human creatures that only live to die.”
Especially a child of incest, as this was. Another unspoken rebuke rang round the room.
“And so must this one too!” Arthur screamed. “He must die! Hear me, Ursien! This is the spawn of Satan! He cannot live!”
The only sound was Lamorak’s agonized gasp.
“Sire!”
Arthur paused blindly, beating his head as he surged around the room. “No, that won’t do. Morgan will be too clever for you; she’s too clever for us all. She’ll send her child to safety and get another to die in his place.” He thought for a moment, his face distorted with wild anxiety. “Ha! Yes—I know what to do, if we act swiftly now!”
Ursien knew what was coming. His face did not change. “Sire?”
“They must all die.” Arthur nodded with satisfaction, his face lit by a secret fire. “All the newborn boys.” He swung around violently, a man possessed. “Hear me, Ursien. Send for every male child in Gore born this month. They must all be brought to you on pain of death. Then have every one of them put in a ship, and sent out to sea.”
Ursien did not move.
“And scuttle it,” Arthur said simply. “I want them dead. Him and all of them.”
“Sire?”
“Kill all the newborns?” It was Lamorak, pale to the roots of his hair. “Sire, I beseech you, do not do this thing!”
Arthur turned on him. “Do you dare to question the King?”
“The babe has done no wrong!” Lamorak fell to one knee. “I beg you, sire! He is your own blood kin!”
“Lamorak.” Arthur let a murderous pause hang in the air. “I warn you—”
“Sire.” Ursien coughed respectfully. “What Sir Lamorak says is true. The child is your nephew, the son of your sister’s womb. Some think, a nephew is closer than a son.”
Arthur did not look at him. “I have no son!” he howled.
“Then do not take hers too!”
Guenevere buried her face in her hands. How did these words find their way out of her mouth? She could have torn Morgan’s heart out if her rival had been there. But she could not take her child. No woman should suffer as she had for Amir.
She shook Arthur by the shoulders and beat his chest. Now she was screaming, too. “Kill her if you must, but let this baby live. He is your child too!”
“Madam, permit me!” Gently Ursien held her and drew her away. “There is something, sire, in what the Queen says. This is your son, there is no doubt of that. As the child of you and your sister, he can claim both the Father-right and Mother-right of all your lands. Take him and rear him, make him what you want. Pendragon then will never lose its sway.”
“Only a Pendragon trueborn comes after me, not the bastard of a whore! Kill them all! I want all the boys killed, not one left alive!”
Arthur burst from the room, his parting scream still ringing in their ears. Above it Guenevere heard from far away the faint singing cry, Come away, come … It drew her like an enchantment.
“So!” Ursien breathed out a long sigh of defeat. Lamorak hung his head.
Guenevere mastered herself, and swallowed her distress. “Forgive me, lords, for this unseemly show. And forgive the King. He is not himself.”
Ursien’s voice was hard. “I hope so, madam. I do not like what I am commanded to do.”
“Nor will the King,” she said tremulously, “when he comes to himself again. We shall think of another way; have no doubt about that.” A slow idea took shape in her brain. “Arthur was fostered himself in Gore. Is there any reason why he could not leave the child in fosterage with you?”
“None, madam,” Ursien agreed, his face lightening. “Or if he wants to send the child away, where better than to his old friend King Ban? The kingdom of Benoic lies far away over the Narrow Sea. And I daresay young Lancelot’s mother would be glad of a boy to raise again.”
“I daresay.” Guenevere moved stiffly toward him and took him by the arm. “Come, King Ursien, let me escort you to your apartments, and see that you have all you want. You must remain here till the King turns from this plan.”
“He will, my lady, won’t he?” Lamorak’s eyes were suspiciously bright and he looked very young.
Guenevere patted his arm. “Yes, sir, he will. Come, let us go.”
THE LOW CORRIDOR outside the chamber was poorly lit. One sputtering torch burned in a wall sconce, painting the ceiling with streaks of flame like blood. The walls sweated with a cold fever, and the flagstones breathed foul vapors underfoot. Four huge figures lurked at the nearest corner, half shadows, half men. Fear caught in her throat. The first loomed up against the light. “Lamorak!” he cried.
Lamorak stopped in his tracks. “Sir Gawain!” He made a courtly bow. “And your brothers too! Hail to you, princes all!”
Agravain stepped up behind Gawain, his dark face brooding in the flickering light. “How is the Queen our mother?”
Lamorak’s color rose sharply at the mention of Morgause. His earlier words glanced sideways through Guenevere’s mind. My lady is the best in all the world. Why did these simple words of knightly chivalry seem so ominous now?
Lamorak bowed to Agravain. “Her Majesty is well,” he replied courteously. “She has sent letters and dispatches to you all. Forgive me that I have not yet delivered them. My orders were to go straight to the King.”
“She’s well, then, Lamorak, our mother the Queen?” Gareth, the giant baby of the bunch, came bounding up. “And happy is she, at ease in herself?”
A sweet smile lit Lamorak’s lips. “Never happier, Prince, I promise you.”
“We know we can trust you to look after her.” The quiet Gaheris gently punched Lamorak’s arm. “Well, bring us her letters as soon as you can.”
“You shall have them as soon as may be, my lords.”
“We must await your pleasure then, Sir Lamorak? Well, so be it.” Why did Agravain’s every word sound like a sneer?
The torch flared suddenly in the clammy air, bathing Lamorak’s face in bloodred light. All Guenevere could see was Agravain leaning toward Lamorak with fire in his eyes. “When it shall please you—as you please the Queen—”
“Come, Agravain!” Gawain clapped him briskly on the back. “I am sure that Lamorak fulfills the Queen’s every command to the best of his power.”
“He always has!” a beaming Gareth chimed in.
“Look after her, man,” said Gaheris quietly.
The Orkney brothers were now following Gawain away. “We will have letters ready for you to take back to the Queen when you come,” Gawain called over his shoulder as he went.
“But if you write before then yourself,” Gareth cried as he strode after them, “give her our love!”
COME AWAY …
Come …
The passage seemed ver
y empty when the four great princes left. Guenevere brought King Ursien to the guest wing of the castle and saw him installed in one of the royal suites. Then at last she was free to answer the call of her soul.
From her own apartments she took a cloak the color of twilight and fastened it with a crystal clasp shaped like two hands lovingly entwined. She covered her head with a fine veil of silvery tissue, and secured it with a cap of gold and pearls. Then she drifted out of the castle with Ina, down the winding cobbled road from the palace, over the causeway, and out of the town.
Dusk was falling, and all the townsfolk were safely gathered inside their houses, dreaming around their fires. Not a soul saw them as they slipped away. She did not know where her feet were leading her, or why. But she knew that she had to go out to the woodland now.
It was cool and dim under the great oak trees, lit with a silver light. Ahead of them lay a clearing, a perfect circle, an enchanted glade. The call of the nightjar pealed through the quivering air. At first the great shapes shimmering in and out of the undergrowth seemed to come from a dream. Only the soft thud of hooves on the forest floor told them that mounted men were coming toward them through the trees.
“My lady!” whispered Ina in alarm. It was not wise for women to be caught alone in the forest, even so near the town. But Guenevere had no fear.
A light mist lay over the sea of bracken as the horses came breasting through. The night birds fell silent as the strangers approached, and the rich scent of the wood fell like incense all around.
Three knights rode through the trees, one in front on a great white charger, and two behind. They drew up in the clearing just ahead. The leader sprang lightly to the ground. He was tall and slender, with broad shoulders tapering to lean supple hips. He stood at peace in the glade, bathed in its glimmering light. Guenevere closed her eyes in fear of what she saw. But her spirit looked on and drank the newcomer in.
He wore a green leather tunic set with gilded studs. His short traveling kilt was of the same fine tooled kidskin, embellished with the same small studs of gold. A dagger hung from his leather belt, and a great gold-hilted battle sword swung down beside his thigh. His gold helmet was winged in silver and set with green guardian jewels like unsleeping eyes. His horse stood gently nuzzling his hand, the weary droop of its neck showing how far they had come that day.
Guenevere, Queen of the Summer Country Page 37
