Guinevere's Tale

by Nicole Evelina

  “Well met, Lord Malegant.” Arthur clapped him on the shoulder.

  “My king, allow me to introduce my wife, Fiona.”

  Fiona raised her head, revealing amazingly large hazel eyes. “I am honored to be in your presence, my lord.” She smiled shyly at me and added, “Yours as well, my lady.”

  Malegant took my hand and kissed it, his slight beard gazing my skin. “Your Majesty.” His eyes glinted with a look that was truly magnetic.

  With a sharp intake of breath, I realized I knew that look, and the memory came flooding back.

  It was during my third year in Avalon, before I had attained priestesshood. Normally I wouldn’t have been allowed on the other side of the mists, but one of the marsh women had gone into early labor and I was asked to accompany one of the priestesses as her assistant midwife.

  I had been standing on the shore of the lake, waiting for my companion to finish her business inside, when he emerged from one of the little huts at the base of the Tor. I’d expected to see one of the wild hermits who were part of the community of Joseph of Arimathea, but instead this well-groomed noble fixed his irresistible eyes upon me. I remembered thinking I would melt and be swept away by the waters of the lake.

  When I described him to my priestess companion, she knew immediately who he was and warned me in a motherly tone to stay far away from him. He was known to cause trouble for women, especially those vowed to the isle, she said. But I never understood why because she refused to say more.

  But before I could speak, Malegant led the doe-eyed girl away, his hand clasped just a little too tightly around her arm. Caught up in my own thoughts, I had missed the whole conversation plus any opportunity to find out more about the Lord of the Summer Country. Uriens called Arthur’s name, and my husband excused himself.

  I was heading back to my chair, still wrapped up in half-remembered rumors about Malegant’s questionable reputation, when a voice stopped me in my tracks.

  “Well, well,” it said.

  I could almost see the catlike smile in the lilting voice. It was a sound straight out of my nightmares. I knew the speaker even before I turned. “Hello, Morgan,” I said as cheerily as I could manage.

  We regarded one another coldly, each taking the other’s measure. She was little changed, the candlelight making her skin glow and highlighting the crescent mark of a priestess on her forehead. Wherever she had fled couldn’t have given her too hard a life.

  She settled into a mock curtsy. “Your Majesty.” She nearly choked on the words.

  I gave her a triumphant smile. “Last I heard, you slipped Avalon’s guard and went missing. What ill star directs you to darken this happy occasion?”

  Morgan shook her head and clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “Still bitter about being second best, I see.”

  “You know my role, yet you dare call me second best?”

  She was nonplussed by my outrage, which only irritated me more. “I’ve always been better at understanding the will of the Goddess than you.”

  I sucked in air to reply, but then I noticed how her hand hovered protectively over her abdomen, which, now that I looked closely, was swollen. She was pregnant.

  I tried to cover my astonishment. “And whom did the Goddess direct you to marry? Or do you just rut like a sow and see who the child most resembles?”

  Morgan’s smile was indulgent, as if she was dealing with an especially simple child, but her tone was frosty, biting. “My husband is Uriens of Rheged, brother-in-law to the king. Welcome to the family, Guinevere.”

  I plopped down in my chair with a huff, mind still reeling from Morgan’s revelation. An orphan who did not know her lineage had managed to infiltrate the highest levels of Briton nobility—and now she was my sister by marriage. That meant I would be spending much more time in her presence, no doubt the subject of her constant conniving. I’d thought I left that behind when we parted ways in Avalon, but the Goddess had willed us together again whether I liked it or no.

  Sensing my displeasure, my life-long attendant, Octavia, flitted to my side and replaced my cup with a fresh one. I smiled, grateful for her constant concern and friendship. I brought the cup to my lips, intending to drain it in one gulp, but the sharp smell stopped me. It was unlike any wine or ale I had ever encountered, nor was it cloying like mead. I sniffed it warily, its bitter bouquet stinging my nose.

  Octavia saw my confusion. “It is a drink from your mother’s native land. Some of the Votadini ambassadors brought it to toast your queenship. You are one of them after all. Your father and some of the knights are partaking of it liberally in the adjoining room—and enjoying themselves immensely, I might add.”

  I raised an eyebrow at her and took a slip. It was bitter but slid smoothly down my throat, its peppery tail burning like a comet. I shuddered, intending to push the cup away. But the warmth that followed made me reconsider. This strange drink heated me from the inside out, making me feel comfortable for the first time all day, as though I was wrapped in my mother’s old blanket. A few more sips and I barely remembered talking to Morgan or any of the pain of the last few months.

  Lost in this tingling fog, I scarcely noticed when the crowd began to thin. Eventually Arthur returned to my side, a little worse for the wear. He was laughing and smelled of the same strange brew. I wondered when they had pulled him into the other room.

  The tone of the music changed, becoming slow and sensual, and with it, the entire tenor of the room shifted. Now it felt more like a Beltane ritual than a wedding feast. Arthur’s closest friends and many of his knights were teasing us, telling lewd jokes with base gestures that openly indicated what was to come. Soon the entire room descended into debauchery.

  Kay was more than happy to fulfill his duty as Arthur’s first man. When the appointed hour came, Kay wriggled his eyebrows at me, picked me up, and threw me over his shoulder, symbolically kidnapping me. He carried me into the bridal chamber as I flailed and screamed with laughter for him to put me down. His bravado faded, however, as soon as he set me on my feet. He took his leave with a stiff bow, but not before swatting me on the backside. I thought I heard him stifle a drunken giggle as he passed over the threshold.

  Turning into the room, I froze. The bed, with its double-layer feather mattress, was finer than anything I had ever seen. The expensive sheets were strewn with rose petals and fertility herbs, and a bough of mistletoe hung over the pillows, prepared to receive the newlywed lovers.

  Octavia slipped in to prepare me. She lovingly removed my clothes and bathed me in perfumed water, whispering advice and a few pointers I was embarrassed she knew. She clothed me in a simple white shift and quietly ducked out of the room, leaving me alone to wait for my husband.

  I heard the horde of men even before the door opened to a chorus of whoops and whistles, and Arthur stumbled in, having been shoved by his enthusiastic friends.

  “No listening in the hall,” he called after them as the door closed and the lock clicked. He regarded me uncertainly, the firelight glinting off his freshly oiled chest.

  Nervous laughter escaped my lips. “You look ready for a wrestling match.”

  Arthur lifted an eyebrow. “If that is how you would like it.” He stepped closer and removed the chaplet of flowers from my hair. “And you are fit for a ritual, not a wedding bed.”

  “Is it not every man’s dream to lie with the Goddess?” I teased, the drink making my tongue bold.

  His face darkened, and he looked away, mumbling, “I prefer my partners mortal.”

  Silence stretched on for a few moments as we each tried to decide how to proceed. I finally decided to be honest with him, to tell him all the things building in my heart since the fateful night he had proposed. If the truth wasn’t spoken now, it might not ever be.

  “You really didn’t know?” I asked, barely above a whisper. “About Aggrivane?”

 
Arthur shook his head, watching me carefully. “If you had it to do over again, would you choose me?”

  How could he even ask me such a question? He was the king. What was I going to say—no? “Would I have a choice?”

  Arthur stepped toward me, hand outstretched. “Of course. You’ve always had a choice.”

  I stepped away from him. “Have I? You asked for my hand in front of the entire court of Dyfed, already having secured my father’s agreement.”

  Arthur dropped his hand, balling it into a fist at his side. “Guinevere, I understand your pain. You are not the only one who has lost something. I had a completely different life before I became king—plans, dreams which will never be fulfilled. This is a duty I never asked for.”

  “Neither did I.”

  “But you’re here now.” His smile was tender.

  Before I could respond, he leaned in and kissed me gently. Then he pulled back and searched my eyes as if looking for permission to continue.

  My tension eased, shoulders sagging as I realized he was right. I was here now, with my husband. No matter what had come before, I’d made my promise to him. I had a duty now, to him and to my people. In answer to his questioning eyes, I kissed him back, with equal tenderness and no small amount of awkwardness.

  He ran his hands over my hair, down my neck and shoulders, to my waist as our lips danced, gradually learning one another’s pace and preferences. When his hands reached my hips, he removed my shift and lifted me effortlessly. We made love with the uncertainty of strangers, the act slowly forming a bond between us even as we struggled to find pleasure in our forced coupling.

  When it was over, Arthur lay his head on my chest and his breathing slowed to the even pace of a dreamer. I kissed the top of his head.

  “I suppose being married to you will not be so bad,” I whispered before closing my eyes.

  Chapter Two

  A week later, we set off for Camelot, Arthur’s permanent home some miles west of Carlisle. We took the two-day journey at a leisurely pace but rose early on the third morning at Arthur’s insistence. We arrived just as the eastern clouds were slowly breaking, the first light of dawn glowing rose and gold in their underbelly.

  Arthur lowered my hood and kissed the top of my head, whispering into my hair, “Behold your kingdom, my queen.”

  My breath caught in my throat as we rounded a bend and the land ahead came into view. High above, on a lofty hill, a massive fortress made of gray stone held court. Its elegant square turrets reached like arms into the sky while graceful arches stretched across courtyards like limber sinews and glazed windows winked in the morning light.

  This was nothing like the fortress I had called home as a child or even Pellinor’s vast estate. Out of necessity, we had fortified our wooden palisades with stone, but it was not meant to enhance the appearance of our homes. This castle, on the other hand, with its ethereal beauty, looked as though it had grown right from the mountainside at the command of some otherworldly force. Some might say it looked like an imagining out of a bard’s tale or an enchanted palace built by the fey, but to me, it was the star castle of the goddess Arianrhod, who rules the heavens.

  My eyes followed the zigzagging line of ramparts separating the living quarters from the town, the town from the market, and the market from the military defenses. A burgeoning community spilled out from the castle’s inmost walls in a patchwork of thatched and timber roofs. Along the sides of the road and in the main courtyard outside the castle gates, merchants stacked the last of the orchards’ apples in precarious piles, butchers hung the remnants of their slaughtered charges in attractive displays while others arranged baskets, bread, and other wares in rows of stalls.

  As trades were made, wagons rumbled through the outer gates and down to the docks on the edge of a large harbor. There, trade ships prepared to cross the waters to do business with the Caledonii, who lived on the distant northern shore. Miles away, the bay gave way to the Firth of Clyde, and the Firth melted into the sea.

  The woodland through which we had passed embraced the entire area, stretching all the way from the shore to the farthest reaches behind the castle. As I took in the dense stands of wooly fir, emerald pine, and the shivering branches of oak and elm, I could scarcely believe this breathtaking place was real. Dizzily, I clung to Arthur, searching his face for some sign I was dreaming.

  He merely smiled softly. “Welcome to Camelot, Guinevere.”

  We followed a hidden path to the castle and entered through a private side gate so as not to attract the attention of the townsfolk. There would be time to meet them later.

  I couldn’t help but crane my neck in awe, taking in the vaulted ceilings, towering columns, and Roman arches that defied nature as they held up massive stone blocks heavy enough to crush a man should they fall. Arthur led me through the maze of corridors into the heart of the castle.

  “My father had long dreamed of a fortress to rival even the greatest built by Rome,” Arthur explained, “one none of our enemies would dare attack.”

  I heard his voice but couldn’t tear my eyes away to look at him. He didn’t appear to mind, guiding me as patiently and gently as one leading the blind.

  “He spent most of his life studying Roman and Greek architecture and even the engineering of the strange lands far to the east of Rome. This place was his life’s work, but even had he lived one hundred years, he could not have completed this alone.”

  “He had Merlin’s help,” I said softly, as sure of that as I was of my own name.

  I had seen Merlin’s powers of persuasion firsthand. The Archdruid had a way of convincing people to do his bidding, yet he left them with the certainty that it was their idea, that they had volunteered for whatever backbreaking task he had in mind.

  “How many years did it take to build?” I looked at Arthur for the first time.

  “Several decades from what Merlin has said. I was living with Lord Ector, so I know little of what occurred in the royal family before my father’s death.”

  We stopped in a circular portico that stretched out beyond the main walls of the castle. Watching over it at even intervals were four giant statues, each several times larger than any mortal man.

  “Your tribal gods?” I asked, thinking this room was a sort of shrine.

  Arthur shook his head. “My family.” He pulled a large golden ring from the smallest finger of his left hand and held it out for me to see. “This ring tells their story.”

  The band was thin, capped by a square with rounded corners. The square was divided into twelve triangles filled with smoky quartz. A large round sapphire dominated the center, braced at four corners by smaller blue stones. Encircling the whole was a wreath of ornately wrought gold resembling eight crescents of lace. At the center of each, capping the spokes of the triangles, was a large gold orb.

  “It’s beautiful,” I exclaimed, holding the ring up and turning it this way and that in the sunlight.

  Arthur nodded. “Indeed. It was hard won over many generations.”

  He took my hand and approached the first statue, a stoic man with sharp features and a hawklike stare. He wore a Roman toga, its dark gray marble nearly purple in the shadows, and a wreath of laurel was chiseled around his head.

  “This is the Emperor Constantine the Third, my grandfather, the last Roman ruler of this isle. He was proclaimed emperor by the Britons, but he had quite a bit of trouble with your mother’s people, I’m told,” he said.

  My mother had come from the Votadini, one of the four tribes who lived just north of Hadrian’s Wall. “We don’t enjoy being told what to do,” I said matter-of-factly.

  Arthur grinned. “So I’ve noticed.” He pointed at the center stone in the ring. “This sapphire was part of the booty Constantine collected upon conquering the city of Arles, which was part of Gaul, southwest of Brittany. But at that point, it was only a stone.”<
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  “How did it come to be like this?” I asked, touching the ring and letting my hand rest on his.

  “Ah, to answer that, I must introduce you to my uncle.”

  Passing a wide window that reached from floor to ceiling, we came to the next statue, a man with slightly gentler features and a pleasant expression. He held a book and a map.

  “This is Aurelius Ambrosius, second eldest son of Constantine. Aurelius was considered a great diplomat, and he was the first to try to unite the ancient tribes. To a certain extent, he succeeded. Were it not for him, my father would not have been able to claim the title of high king.”

  “But Vortigern held the throne between Constantine and Aurelius, did he not?” I asked, turning from the statue to my husband.

  Arthur was pleased. “They taught you well in Avalon.” Then his face clouded, and he clenched his jaw, making a muscle jump. His eyes hardened, turning as cold as the marble statues. “The tyrant Vortigern. . .” Arthur exhaled. “He usurped the throne in the chaos surrounding Constantine’s death. You see, Constantine’s sons were too young to rule, so they fled to Brittany to seek safe haven, and Vortigern swooped in to fill the void. He was king of Powys at the time. Idiocy must run in the blood, for from what you tell me of your encounters with him, Vortigern’s current progeny, Evrain, is no wiser than his great-grandfather. All Vortigern got in return was a knife in the gut, betrayed by the Saxons at his own peace council. Some say he died—”

  “Others say he sleeps still under the mountains of Snowdonia,” I whispered. In my mind’s eye, the icy peaks rose to the north of my childhood home, and I recalled the fanciful tale that said Vortigern’s breath melted the snows in spring each year. I also remembered it was he who had convinced my maternal grandfather to settle in Gwynedd, an act that eventually led to my mother marrying my father. Because of that, I was in some small measure happy Vortigern had had his moment of triumph.

  Arthur interrupted my reverie by continuing his tale. “Vortigern’s son, Vortimer, reigned for a few months before being poisoned, but I can promise you my family had no hand in that. We simply took back the title that was rightfully ours. Aurelius had the sapphire set in a brooch. The story goes that the triangles represent the ancient tribes, those who held the most power during Aurelius’s time.”