Guinevere's Tale

by Nicole Evelina

  He wrapped his arms around me, as if he feared I would disappear like the smoke rising from the candle wick. I closed my eyes and laid my head on the crook of his neck. His hair, now turning gray, still smelled of the same imported citrus oil that punctuated my youngest memories.

  “You look just like her, you know,” he said in a small, soft voice. He paused thoughtfully before adding, “I miss her.”

  “So do I,” I answered, tears streaming freely now.

  In the silence, I could almost forget the years that had passed, that I was now fifteen and we were grieving the death of someone so dear. I could almost make myself believe I was still the little girl who had climbed into his arms after a terrible nightmare. And in some ways, I was, for this was the worst nightmare either of us could imagine.

  “Please don’t leave me,” my father whispered in an unfamiliar tone of grief. He had always been so confident, so strong, but now he was broken, pleading. “Don’t go back to Avalon. I. . . I need you here.”

  I pursed my lips, realizing he was right. Unfamiliar as it first seemed, this was my home. “I will stay. You will need someone to keep the servants in line.”

  He laughed, the first joyful sound I had heard since coming home.

  The following morning, I discovered Morgan had an ulterior motive for making the long journey to Northgallis. Not only was she seeing me safely returned to my family’s care in Viviane’s stead, but she was also under the Lady’s orders to accompany another of our household to her new life in Avalon. Octavia’s youngest, Nimue, a small plump girl who had inherited her mother’s thick mass of dark hair and her father’s haunting green eyes, was expressly requested to return to Avalon as its newest acolyte.

  As Octavia and I watched them depart, memories of how quickly I bonded with Viviane came rushing back. If Nimue adored Morgan and clung to her as a mother figure like I had to Viviane, Nimue had little chance of emerging from her period of study with her innocent soul intact. Poor girl. I prayed for her sake she would take to some of the more kind-hearted priestesses like Grainne or Rowena instead. But I dared not voice this to Octavia. She was fretting enough for both of us.

  “Nimue is too young. I should not have let them take her yet,” Octavia berated herself as she led me down a path over a gently sloping hill to the grove where my mother was buried. “A few more years and she would have been the same age as you were. She would have been old enough, prepared enough to survive this. First I sent Peredur off to be fostered. Now Nimue is gone too. Although I fear I had little choice. Not only did the Lady of the Lake request her presence, I could not very well let her grow up here. Your father would have sent her to a convent before the spring anyway.”

  I stopped cold at her statement. “What did you say?”

  She turned around at the sound of my voice, her pained expression making it obvious she knew she had transgressed. “Guinevere, I have told you your father is a changed man. It is time you knew the full extent.”

  She led me into the grove of yew trees and sat me down on the soft grass before venturing into further explanation. “Your mother meant so much to Leodgrance that her death nearly drove him insane. For days he would neither eat nor sleep, only sit in her room and weep, uttering only a single word—why?—when visitors came to tend to him. For three days, he refused to allow her to be buried, insisting that she was not really dead. Then the fourth morning, he unexpectedly joined us at the breakfast table and announced she should be buried according to the rites and customs of her people. And so, she was laid to rest here.”

  Octavia pointed toward the western end of the grove, where a large stone tablet protruded from the bare earth, which was stained red by ochre, a smattering of white quartz stones scattered at its base. The stones and pigment were talismans of the dead to my mother’s people, meant to ease the soul’s journey to the spirit world.

  Slowly, painfully, fearfully, I made my way over to the burial site. Although my mother’s burial was performed according to her native traditions, the tombstone that marked her grave was set up by my father in the traditional Roman fashion of his ancestors. It bore the carved image of a slender, long-haired warrior woman in native dress, surrounded by thistles, her eyes cast to the heavens. I ran my hand over the rough surface of the stone, tracing the grooves as if doing so could bring her back again. Beneath the image was an inscription, which began—as all other Roman memorials did—with the words “Dis Manibus,” addressing the gods of the shades. It continued, “Corinna of the Votadini, wife of the king of Gwynedd, daughter of King Cunedda.” The memorial ended with the traditional Roman attribution naming the deceased’s patron. “Her husband Leodgrance set this up in her memory.”

  I could no longer deny it. My mother really was dead. It was written in stone in front of me for the entire kingdom to see. The world around me faded in a blur of tears, and I dissolved in grief. Eventually Octavia’s arm encircled me, her warmth breathing life back into my frigid bones. I looked up, my eyes now parched from so much crying, never more grateful for this woman who, although officially a servant in my father’s employ, was also at once my confidant and dearest friend, more like family than many of my blood relations.

  Octavia turned toward the fortress, shielding her eyes from the amber rays of the setting sun. “We must return home soon, Guinevere, but I have not yet finished what I wanted to say. I brought you here not only because you needed to come, but so you might better understand your father. You can see in this stone the love he possessed for your mother. After her burial, he was lost like a sailor without a star to guide him. He returned to his habit of sitting in her chamber. He spoke often of the dream that had prompted him to let her body go, though he would reveal its details to no one. We all knew he was still holding on to Corinna in spirit and feared what damage this would do to him. As he would speak to no one else, and your party from Avalon had not yet departed the isle, the local Christian priest was sent for in the hope that perhaps Leodgrance would speak to him.”

  I bristled at the word Christian. I felt no enmity toward them as a group. In fact, they shared the Tor with us, also considering it sacred but for very different reasons. They believed Joseph of Arimathea, a follower of Jesus, settled there after Jesus’s crucifixion and brought with him magical relics of their savior. Today, they lived in crude huts of woven branches on the edges of the marsh, just beyond where the mists gave way to the outside world. But I had heard enough tales to know that not all Christians lived such humble, holy lives. Many considered the religion of Avalon in direct opposition to Christianity and, like the Romans before them, sought to destroy it. That fear was what made the hairs on my neck and arms stand at attention every time I heard the word.

  Octavia noticed my reaction and patted my hand. “We did what we thought was best.” She sighed. “As it turned out, our good intentions only made things worse. The young priest, Father Marius, who came to our door did get your father to return somewhat to normal, but he also convinced him that his dream was a sign your father should give up the religion of his ancestors and embrace this new god, this Christ. Your father was so taken with this priest and his promises of an eternal life that he willingly agreed, intent on dragging the rest of us along with him.”

  She pulled me to my feet, continuing her story as we ambled back to the hall, where we would soon be expected for the evening meal. “Of course, I would not go along with this outrageous notion, and I told him so. He was not pleased and threatened not only my position in his house but the future of my child as well, decreeing she would be reared in a Christian convent as soon as arrangements could be made. It was then I determined that my little rose would be transplanted to Avalon when you returned. Anything would be better for her than being raised in this household, such as it is now.”

  Octavia’s words tore at my heart as surely as if she had stabbed me. Not only had I lost my mother, but my father, despite his love for me, had become a
stranger as well, and I now faced a life in a home that did not recognize the religion I was vowed to serve. As we returned through the yawning castle gates, for the first time, I feared my future life at Northgallis.

  Chapter Nine

  Autumn 495

  Every evening, my father, Octavia, and I ate dinner at dusk in the great hall, quietly discussing our day and any news that filtered in from the village or countryside. After the trenchers were cleared, we passed the hours of early evening by sewing, writing letters, playing games, or telling stories—catching up on the lost years I was away in Avalon. I treaded carefully, still unsure of my position in this new world, but all went well. It was a quiet life, but one doing much good to heal our wounded hearts.

  However, this mid-autumn evening was anything but routine; for the first time since my mother’s death, we were having guests at dinner.

  The household was abuzz with activity, preparing for the arrival of Lord Evrain, ruler of the kingdom of Powys, which bordered my father’s lands. Though Evrain possessed only moderate power in the overall hierarchy of the country, maintaining a pleasant relationship with him was of utmost importance because of the location of his lands. Should he ever turn against my father, the proximity of his kingdom would give any enemy perfect staging grounds for an invasion of our less-fortified eastern border. This being so, I was admonished to be on my best behavior.

  Even though Lord Evrain was considerably late in arriving, I was still rushing to tuck my hair beneath the cream-colored veil my father had insisted I wear low over my forehead. Apparently the visiting lord was a very religious Christian, so the sight of my sacred crescent would not make for a very good first impression. I was dismayed by having to conceal something I had worked so hard to attain and was so proud of; in my mind, the mark was a part of me, but I had no choice.

  Voices carried in from the courtyard below, muffled greetings of peace. Evrain and his men were finally here.

  “Guinevere, make haste!” Octavia hissed.

  I turned to face her, and she scowled, pulling at the veil until it brushed my eyebrows.

  “Be certain you do not let it slip,” she warned. “Your father is in a foul temper as it is.”

  Octavia escorted me firmly by the arm as we descended the staircase into the great hall, falling into her proper place behind me only when we came within sight of Lord Evrain and his small cluster of attendants. I took a deep breath and wiped my clammy, trembling hands on the sides of my gown. Having been away in Avalon for so long, I had forgotten the rules of courtly life. Dear Goddess, please let me make my father proud.

  I stepped forward out of the shadows, careful to stay a distance behind my father. Once the men had been formally introduced to one another, my father gracefully slid his arm behind me and gently nudged me forward.

  “Lord Evrain, this is my only child, the Lady Guinevere.”

  I curtsied low before the silver-haired man, not daring to meet his eyes.

  “Indeed, she is a beauty,” he said to my father as he reached to take my hand and assist me to rise. “Lady Guinevere, I am most honored to meet you.”

  He had addressed me, so now I could raise my eyes. “In truth, sir, the honor is mine.”

  Lord Evrain released my hand and gestured to the young man on his right. “Allow me to present to you my son Fergus. He is my youngest and the only of my sons yet to take a wife.”

  Evrain glanced purposefully at my father as his son stiffly stepped forward. He was thin and tall, his arms and legs far more than his still-growing body could manage.

  He is barely more than a boy.

  Fergus roughly clasped my hand in his puppy-like paw. “I am grateful to be a guest in your home,” he croaked in the uneven voice of one not still a boy but not yet a man. He shot an uncertain look at his father, who nodded in encouragement. Fergus swallowed before continuing. “And I feel most privileged to present this token to you,” he stammered, fumbling to untie a pouch from his belt. “It pales in comparison to your beauty.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Fergus’s father smile delightedly.

  Oh no. This is more than a gift. Evrain is trying to make a match.

  I fought to hide my fear and disgust behind a smile of surprise as Fergus removed a delicate golden chain from a small velvet bag. I tried to catch Octavia’s eye but found my father’s warning stare instead. I quickly returned my gaze to the man-boy in front of me. As he struggled to fasten the golden rope around my wrist with his bulky fingers, the rubies suspended from the chain caught the torchlight, reflecting dully on the ashen surface of his face.

  When the bracelet hung securely from my wrist, I clasped Fergus’s hands in mine, as was expected of me. “My Lord, I am most flattered.” My smile tightened to cover my true emotions as I looked into his lifeless, nervous eyes. “Your gift is truly a treasure, one that I will cherish for years to come. I only hope I will be judged as valuable to you as the gift you have given me.”

  Lord Evrain clapped his hands together, pleased by the exchange. “Hurrah! Now that the introductions are done, shall we sup?” He took my father by the arm and started toward the long table in the center of the room.

  From somewhere behind Evrain’s rust-colored cape, a man cleared his throat. Lord Evrain turned. His annoyed scowl was artfully replaced with an apologetic smile as he gestured toward a young man previously hidden in the throng of attendants.

  “It appears I have forgotten someone after all,” Evrain said.

  The man glided forward when he was introduced, but I did not need to hear his name to know who he was. Before me stood Aggrivane of Lothian, my lover from the Beltane fires. When his dark eyes met mine, they registered the briefest moment of shock, which faded into joyful recognition coupled with a slight upturn of his lips before he could discipline his features and pretend to be introduced as a stranger.

  Evrain seemed a bit embarrassed by his guest, explaining away Aggrivane’s presence as an act of charity to a fellow king. “He is the son of an inconsequential barbarian who wears a crown only by right of inheritance. He is a guest in my court, studying how to govern. Pay him no mind; he is here to learn, not to socialize.” Evrain turned to me and added, “Until he wins or inherits land, he is more a servant than a noble. He is certainly not fit to be in the company of such a gracious lady.”

  Was I supposed to take that as a compliment? It seemed more of a veiled warning.

  By the time the main course was served, I was beginning to wonder if it was possible to die of boredom. My father and Lord Evrain disagreed over everything and especially seemed to enjoy arguing over the most trivial matters. I tried to force myself to pay attention to their discussion, but I kept finding every excuse possible to steal a glance in Aggrivane’s direction. Judging from the way he tightened his jaw and kept his body angled away from me, he was doing everything he could to pretend to be uninterested in me, but every so often his resolve weakened and he fleetingly returned my gaze.

  Perhaps it was our time apart or pure imagination on my part, but Aggrivane seemed to have grown more handsome since the last time I saw him. Everything about him made my body twinge: the way the light reflected off his glossy hair, the gleam in his dark eyes, the way his whole face lit up when he laughed. Nothing would have pleased me more than to spend the entire evening admiring him and indulging in secret memories of our night together. But I was brought back quickly to the present by a sharp pinch on my thigh. I scowled at Octavia, my lust-addled mind not yet comprehending the reason for her action.

  “Guinevere,” she hissed quietly, amid the din of servants changing courses and the clattering of dishes. “You’d best get control of yourself, or your father will have your hide.”

  “But, Octavia, he is—”

  “I remember his name from your stories. I know full well who he is. But Lord Evrain does not, and it is in your best interest to keep it th
at way. Aggrivane is to be of no consequence to you. Do you understand?”

  I nodded dumbly.

  Instead of enjoying a reunion with the man I loved, I had been sentenced to the company of Lord Evrain’s socially inept son. I had been attempting all night to engage the boy in some type of conversation, but he seemed just as afraid of me as he was of his father. Every time I asked him a question, he gave me the simplest possible answer and then returned to staring at his plate or at the floor. “The weather is quite fine, yes” or “I do agree that the meat is cooked perfectly.” I could get no opinion or interest out of him whatsoever.

  Desperate for some relief from the tedium, I tried one last topic. “How do you find living with your new guest? Do you dislike Lord Aggrivane as much as your father?”

  Fergus’s eyes widened, and he put down his knife. “Oh no, I like him very much. He is so kind to me.”

  Thrilled I had finally found a subject that interested him, I was eager to keep him talking. “How so?”

  “He is the only one willing to listen to me, to teach me what he knows. I hope to be as smart and skilled as he one day. He is the best storyteller. You should hear him recite the great triads. His words are magic.”

  As Fergus prattled on about Aggrivane, I couldn’t help but let my gaze wander in his direction. I was rewarded by a jab in the ribs from my serving maid that brought my attention back to our enamored guest, but only temporarily. I had a feeling by the end of the night, my entire side would be black and blue from Octavia’s admonitions.

  Throughout the insufferably lengthy meal, the two lords talked mostly of things long past or those that I cared not for, but late in the evening, the subject changed to politics and I began to take notice of the conversation.

  “The villagers are bursting with gossip about Uther’s successor,” my father noted, cutting another slice of meat as he spoke. “They say he is little more than a boy. What do you know of him, Lord Evrain? Can he be trusted to lead the country?”