Arthur stood very still. “What is the word from Gore?”
“All has been done just as you ordered, sire,” Yvain blurted out, scarlet with grief and distress.
“Arthur, what—?” Guenevere stared in horror and disbelief. When his rage against Morgan had passed, she had thought he was letting events take their course till he knew what to do. Surely he had not confirmed his command to Ursien?
“Yes?” Arthur’s teeth were clenched, the veins and sinews standing out on his neck.
“My father called all the newborn boys together, and had them cast away on a sinking ship.” Yvain licked his lips, and his eyes flew madly around. “But—”
“Speak, man!”
“—but the wind changed, and the ship was driven inshore. It was blown down the coast toward Mona, and wrecked on the rocks of the Welshlands, just above the lost valley they call—”
“Le Val Sans Retour!”
Arthur’s bellow split the air. Yvain flinched. “But who knows, sire,” he babbled desperately, “if the child lived or died? They found the shore littered with babies’ bones. What the sea had not devoured, the seabirds feasted on. And what could it mean, that the ship was wrecked near Queen Morgan’s estate?” He tried a valiant laugh. “A babe in swaddling clothes could not walk to its mother’s home!”
Arthur’s skin was glistening with a pale waxy sheen. “Unless the mother was there with all her power, to draw him to her.” He fixed Yvain with a killing gaze. “Tell me your father has her safe under lock and key.”
Yvain’s color ebbed from red to white. “Sire—she—my father’s wife—the Queen—” He dropped his head, and covered his face with his hands.
Arthur screamed, beside himself with a thousand conflicting pangs. “To horse!” he howled. “Summon my knights, sound the trysting horn, we leave at once for Le Val Sans Retour!”
Guenevere ran to Yvain and gripped his tunic front. “When did she escape?” she hissed like a witch, her face twisted in hate. “How did she get away?”
He shook his head, gibbering like a natural.
He did not know.
Guenevere turned away. What did it matter? Morgan was free. The darkness was at large.
CHAPTER 48
Nevermore.
In the dead hour before dawn, Sir Kay stood by the gatehouse and watched the long train of horses gallop out. Torches flared on either side of the causeway to light their way.
Nevermore would he be one of that blessed fellowship, feel the exaltation at the start of a campaign, know the love that only men can share.
“Farewell!” He limped forward, one arm upraised in farewell, and found himself weeping, though not from the pain in his leg. He had known he would never ride out adventuring again after the wound he took at the hands of the vengeful dwarf. But that did not make it any easier to bear.
And in place of action, camaraderie, and feats of arms, he could only despise the task that Arthur had given him now. Kay threw a cold glance up to the battlements, and the worm of bitterness stirred again in his heart. Left behind to mind the Queen now, no better than the castle cripple, or a poor lady’s maid! Well, at least his charge was not so taken up with her handsome new young knight that she’d refused to turn out to wave the King farewell. But dancing attendance on Queen Guenevere—was this a fit task for a knight of the King to do?
HIGH ABOVE ON the battlements, Guenevere caught Kay’s malignant glance and sighed, feeling the cold air chill her to the bone. It was not yet dawn, and the air was still thick with the vapors of the night. Arthur had driven his knights like a madman, and Sir Gawain and the Orkney brothers, along with Sir Lucan, Sir Kay, and Sir Bedivere, had worked like demons to rouse all the sleepers and summon as many men as would come to the sound of the horn.
For Arthur needed good men around him now. In the dead hour of night, as Guenevere roamed her chamber sleeplessly and Ina dozed uneasily by the fire, she had heard a scream outside. A moment later Arthur, his face glistening and distorted, burst through the door. He was brandishing Excalibur as he came, wildly slashing the air.
The great sword growled in his hand, roaring for blood. For a moment she thought that he had come to slash her to death. Then the agony in his face put that fear to flight. He came toward her like a man possessed, tears mingling with the sweat on his face. “Tell me it’s safe!” he howled.
Her stomach lurched. “What?”
“The scabbard. Your mother’s scabbard, the one you gave to me.” He waved the naked blade. “Say that you came and took it away when I betrayed you, to keep it safe!”
She shook her head. There was no need for words.
Arthur swung his body madly, like a goaded bull. “Then Morgan has taken it. That’s where it’s gone!”
Guenevere closed her eyes and tried to breathe.
My mother’s scabbard, with its power of protecting the wearer from loss of blood. The finest thing I had, entrusted to Arthur, and stolen by Morgan now.
“You had it in your chamber when you slept with her,” she said dully.
“And now it’s gone!”
“But why would she want it, Arthur? She doesn’t fight; she never goes to war.”
Arthur roamed the chamber, shaking his head in pain. “To hurt you. To take what was yours. Or to punish me. As if she could do much more to me than she has!”
“No.” Now it was Guenevere’s turn to pace the floor. “No, that’s too easy. She must have a reason for this. She has a plan. She means to use it against us somehow—someday.”
“How?” Arthur was gaping like a child.
“Oh, Arthur.” All she felt for him festered in her eyes. “However long it takes, we’ll find out. And then you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
Arthur looked at her like a man under sentence of death. “I’ll get it back!” he screamed, as he ran out.
But she did not believe him. For a long while then, she cursed him in her heart and wished him dead.
SHE SHUDDERED, and huddled into her cloak against the damp early-morning air. Far below, the red dragon on Arthur’s banner flared at the head of his troop, fighting the wind as it flew off through the chill half-light.
What would Arthur do if he found Morgan at Le Val Sans Retour? When he had given her the castle in the valley, he had also equipped it with his knights, and made them swear to die for her. Would he lay siege to it now, and make war on his own men?
And if Morgan’s child had survived the shipwreck and was with her as Arthur feared, what would he do then? Kill his own son?
She had told Ina that she would not be disturbed, that no one was to come to her here on the battlements, however long she lingered in the cold. But the footfall behind her now was not Ina’s. And there was only one man for whom Ina would disobey.
She could hear the sound of his breathing before he spoke. His light French accent fell like sweet rain on her ear. “The King is leaving Caerleon. You do not accompany him?”
She did not turn her head. “Where the King is going, he must go alone.”
“As you say, Majesty.” Lancelot moved easily to take his place at her side, gripping the stone wall of the battlements as he leaned forward to look down.
Now he was staring at the causeway, watching the horses racing out of the torchlight into the dark. His eyelashes lay on his cheekbones, black and shining as a magpie’s wing. A fine scar had left a pale silvery slash under the smooth tanned skin of his cheek. He wore a loose cloak of green silk over a tunic of darker green, and the hands so near to hers were hard and brown. A sweet impulse swept over her and almost robbed her of her mind. What would happen if she touched his hand now?
She clasped her hands together and took a trembling step away. But she could not stop her mouth. “Have you ever been in love?”
A pulse jumped wildly on the back of his hand. “I—? In love?”
Dear Gods, is he a virgin?
“Love—? I—”
He tried for a manly smile. “Every man seeks the woman o
f the dream.” She watched him closely as his color changed. “But the Goddess has not favored me that way yet.”
Yet.
“How old are you?”
It was the wrong question. His fists bunched, and he drew himself aside. “I am as old as you need your knight to be.”
Silently she cursed her driven tongue.
Why did I ask? I know how old he is.
If he was fifteen at the Battle of Kings, he’s well past twenty now.
And twenty-odd thinks thirty is old, old, old.
Especially a woman past thirty, and worn by grief.
Ten years between us? Well, it’s nothing at all to me!
She dared not look at him. His light accented voice broke in on her thoughts. “I beg you, Majesty, do not doubt my faith. When a knight serves a great lady, he will do more for her glory than he could for himself. This is the highest feeling that men have. It makes us noble, though we are made of clay.”
She could not bear it. “How do you know this?”
He frowned. “Every knight knows that his lady will stretch him till he becomes worthy of his task. Then, with her image in his heart, he will go forth and do great things. I chose you for my lady, as chivalry decrees. You are bold and valiant, and you are the most fair, so you should be the most beloved. You are the Queen—who should I serve but you?”
“Ah, sir.” She bowed her head to hide her face. “You speak the language of chivalry, such as any lady would be pleased to hear. I am honored to accept your service, and the good that you will do.”
Again she felt his nearness like an ache. The longing to touch him was almost too much to bear.
“Madame?” he said wonderingly.
She had to collect her thoughts. “The Gods know how much this poor kingdom still needs good men. You must go forth with my blessing. You must seek out deeds of knight-errantry, and do all you can.”
It sounded hollow, even to her ears. But she could not stop. “So much for chivalry—what about earthly love?”
“Earthly love?” Startled, he looked into her eyes for the first time. “You mean women’s love?” He looked away. “I do not think to be a married man.”
A pang of fury seized her. “Oh, all men marry, or what would women do?”
“Ah, lady.” His sigh came from the heart. “If I married, I would have to stay with my wife till death, for that is what marriage is. I would have to give up the life I have trained for, the only life I know, battles and tournaments and the sport of arms.” He braced himself, as if to repel an attack. “That is all I can do, and all I want to do. I could not give it up. Therefore to marry would be dishonorable.”
“You will never marry?” A surge of bitter jealousy spurred her tongue. “So then, you will take mistresses?”
He stared at her blankly. “You are my mistress, lady.”
Was he stupid, poor at English, or just pretending not to know? “Lovers, I mean! Women you take to bed!”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth she knew she had done wrong. How could she have forgotten how young he was?
“To take my pleasure of women, and then leave them by the way?” An ugly red was creeping up his neck. He hunched his shoulders, then straightened his back again. “No, I could not do that. I have taken a vow.”
A vow of chastity? Or a vow of chastity only until the woman you desire comes along?
Guenevere clenched her fists, loathing herself for this. But still the inner voice went on and on.
You will never marry, Lancelot?
Perhaps. But you will have lovers, whether you want them or not.
Women will always desire you, to take you to their beds.
How will it be for you then, Sir Lancelot, and your vow?
And me?
How will it be for me?
“Lancelot—?”
“My lady?”
“I—farewell.”
Abruptly she turned and left the battlements. This was madness, and getting worse. It had to stop. What was she to do?
AT DAWN THE next day all Caerleon was agog. Waiting restlessly in her chamber, Guenevere could hear the servants buzzing like flies as they flew to and fro.
“Orders to depart!”
“The Queen goes to Camelot. She leaves at once!”
“Why, man? Whatever for?”
“Queens don’t explain themselves to the likes of me. But hop to it, I tell you! She’s on fire to depart, and there’s no time to lose!”
Leaning her head against the cold mullion, Guenevere tried to order her thoughts.
How could she tell them why she had to go?
Because the new knight unnerves me, with his hard body and long brown hands.
Because I think of him by day, and meet him in my dreams at night.
She would not be the first woman to run away. Lancelot and she were far better apart. With Arthur gone, there was nothing to keep her here in Caerleon. And where should she run but Camelot? She only had to get him away too.
She sent for him in the dark hour before dawn, and had everything signed and ready for him when he came.
“Sir Lancelot!”
She started as she heard him at the door. Seeing him again struck her like a blow. His eyes were as bright as a blackbird’s, his appearance as fresh as the dew on a morning ride. “What is your will, my Queen?”
She handed him the papers, and turned away. “That you follow the King to Le Val Sans Retour, give him these messages, and remain with him to see how his campaign goes.”
His smile vanished. “How long will I be from you?”
She waved her hand. “I don’t know.”
“I must obey your will.” He frowned angrily.
Her heart leaped with sad delight. He does not want to go.
“And Bors and Lionel, do they come with me?”
“No, a queen must have her knights. I will keep them here.”
Lancelot drew a harsh breath. “A queen does not have to explain herself to her knight. And her knight may not demand the reason why.” He gave a curt bow. “Give me your blessing then, Majesty, for I leave at once. The sooner I go, the sooner I may return.” His eyes were alive with reproach. “It will be a week at least, maybe a month, before I may come back?” he muttered almost to himself.
“Ah, sir—” She shook her head. What would he think when he knew she was already planning to run away as soon as he was gone?
The tension between them stretched out like a quivering thread. They were looking past each other, neither daring to meet the other’s gaze. Lancelot caught his breath, brushed a hand across his eyes, and dropped to one knee. “So then! I go, if you bid me. Give me your blessing, lady, wish me good speed?”
He was kneeling before her, the light shining on his hair. Before she knew it, her fingers reached out to touch the side of his cheek.
He caught her hand in both of his, and pressed it to his lips. “Adieu, Majesty.”
She could not stop the words. “Adieu, fair sweet friend.”
CHAPTER 49
Step by step, the horses’ plodding hooves lulled Guenevere’s troubled thoughts. Soon the journey would be over, and she could hide herself away in the Queen’s chamber, out of reach of prying eyes. It would be good to escape the dark questioning gaze of Sir Bors, and the open bewilderment of his brother Lionel, as they rode with Sir Kay now at the head of the Queen’s knights. They knew only that she had sent Lancelot far away, and they made it clear that they did not understand.
All will be well when we get to Camelot, she told herself again and again. But what would she find in Camelot to save her from these keen pangs of misery, these sharp-edged dreams? What could change for her in Camelot, when things changed so slowly there? That night Guenevere sat at dinner among all the old familiar faces, and felt hopelessness descending like a fog.
“Courage, my lady,” murmured Taliesin, his keen eyes never leaving her face.
“What’s that?” demanded King Leogrance, his hand to his ear.
Sir Kay laughed. “Lord Taliesin wishes the Queen courage, sire.”
“What?” Leogrance leaned forward irritably. “Why?”
Guenevere suppressed a sigh. “I am tired, sir,” she said loudly, “after my journey. I am looking forward to my rest.”
Seated to the right of King Leogrance, Malgaunt gave her an encouraging smile. He was looking well, even handsome, Guenevere noted, his lean face bronzed with action, his tense wiry body at ease tonight in a fine red tunic girdled with gold. “Rest, Guenevere?” He laughed. “You’ve been away from us too long, if you’ve forgotten what’s coming now.”
“What is it?” Guenevere shook her head. Between the shock of Morgan’s escape, Lancelot’s coming, and her own flight back to Camelot, she had lost track of time. She tried to laugh. “I hardly know one day from the next.”
Malgaunt nodded, satisfied. “You do not keep Beltain in the Middle Kingdom?”
Guenevere sat stock still and absorbed the pain.
Beltain, when April becomes May.
When women become lovers and men become Gods.
When I found the love that cost me my son’s life.
And I the only woman in the Summer Country who cannot look for my love.
She took a breath. “No, the old ways are gone in the Middle Kingdom. We do not keep Beltain.”
Malgaunt’s eyes flashed with the familiar sardonic gleam. “Soon it will be May Day, when all the court goes out Maying, dressed all in green. You must remember—you always used to go.”
Maying—honoring the Great One on her special day.
Her sight shivered. Suddenly she saw the girl she used to be, dressed all in white riding out of Camelot through the mists of dawn. Her hair was plaited with ribbons of silver, and she was seated on a white pony decked out in gold. Behind her came the other maidens of the town, all gowned in green. They danced and sang as far as the edge of the forest where the white hawthorn, the tree of the Goddess, skirted the wood. And there they gathered great tumbling armfuls of the sharp-scented May blossom, counting each of the bright star-shaped blooms as they rode laughing back.
Could she do that now? Ride out again like the girl she once was? Malgaunt was watching her narrowly. Slowly she nodded her head.
Guenevere, Queen of the Summer Country Page 39
