Guinevere's Tale

by Nicole Evelina

  I began to shake. My mind whirled through everything I had lost in the last few years—her, Aggrivane, and for all practical purposes, my father. I could abandon it all because there was nothing left for me in the world. But then I thought of Arthur, and for a brief moment, I could see him, collapsed by my bedside next to the pale, fragile body I barely recognized as my own. His head was bent as if in prayer, his hands clasped so tightly over the motionless bones of my arm that his knuckles were white. Long strands of hair, flecked gold at odd intervals in the somber candlelight, curtained his face from sight, but I could tell from the quaking of his large frame that he was sobbing, grieving for the wife he thought was dead.

  Perhaps I was. I looked back at my mother in confusion, more uncertain than ever what was happening.

  “Can you leave him?” she asked as two children appeared next to her.

  One was a confident, proud young boy, perhaps two years old, the other an angelic girl of the same age. Both had identical bright green eyes and long tawny locks.

  “Your children are safe and happy here. I will take care of them just as I did you.”

  A bittersweet blend of joy and sadness washed over me. So they had both died. I was certain I would have been crying if I’d had tears to shed in this world between worlds.

  “May I see them?” I asked tremulously, almost afraid of the answer.

  My mother nodded, and they scampered to me, so calm and comfortable I was certain they knew I was their mother. I sank down so my eyes were level with theirs, and to my great astonishment, I felt two small, sticky hands around each of my arms, and I was able to hold them against my heart, which I now felt beating faintly.

  Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew what was happening. Without realizing it, I had made my decision as soon as I had witnessed Arthur’s pain, and I was slowly returning to life. It also meant I was slowly losing my children all over again.

  I looked into their eyes, determined they would know just how much I loved them. Somehow being able to hold them and gaze into their eyes was all the communication I needed. The spirit spoke without words.

  After a long while, the boy squeezed me tight, and the girl placed a dainty kiss on my cheek. Then a host of other children appeared—the brothers and sisters I had never known. Some had the stormy gray-blue eyes and defined chin of my father, while in the faces of others, I saw my mother or even my paternal grandmother looking back at me. With a final look at me, my twins darted off to the edges of the meadow to play, shrieking the earsplitting yelps of joy only children can produce, tumbling over one another but never getting hurt.

  My mother took a few steps forward and encircled me in her arms, warmth radiating through all my limbs. “You must return now. But know I love you for all time. I promise to watch over you and welcome you to the Otherworld when your time comes. Have faith and trust in the God and Goddess to whom you have pledged your life.”

  I nodded, tears scalding my cheeks. “I will. I love you.”

  A dull humming noise, like the crescendo of a wordless chant, rose in my ears, and the edges of my vision blurred. I turned, facing a portal of shimmering golden light. All I had to do was step through, and I would be back in my body.

  I glanced over my shoulder in time to catch one final glimpse of her, now holding my children like an image of the Mother Goddess.

  “Good-bye, Mother.” The words I had been deprived the chance to say in life echoed behind me as I fell through golden rain into the darkness of unconsciousness.

  They told me Arthur kept vigil at my bedside from the moment Octavia’s call of distress had brought him to the birth that had gone badly. As the servants replaced the bloody bed linens, he lifted my lifeless body, begging me in strained whispers not to abandon him. Long after the servants had slipped back to their quarters, eyes red-rimmed and shoulders sagging with fear, grief, and guilt, long after Grainne had prepared my babes for their burial and placed a soft hand on Arthur’s shoulder, telling him my spirit was all but gone, Arthur remained. Stubborn as the bear for which he was named, he refused to accept my death.

  When I surfaced from the black depths separating the worlds, eyelids fluttering in the golden light of a new day, Arthur stirred, disbelieving. He lifted his head from where it rested on my belly and stared at my face, rubbing his eyes like one convinced he dreamed still. I smiled weakly, raising the first three fingers on my right hand in an attempt to reach him.

  “Guinevere,” he breathed, tears sliding down his cheeks. “The gods be praised. My prayers do not go unheeded.”

  He embraced me as gently as he dared and called for Grainne, who appeared prepared to conduct a funeral, if her somber expression and lowered eyes were any indication. She nearly dropped her candle at the sight of me sitting up and blinking, weakened but very much in the realm of mortals.

  Once she had given me a thorough examination and declared I would live, her attention returned to the most dreaded of all priestess’ duties—a child’s funeral. I had been unconscious a full two days, but they had delayed the royal burial out of concern I would need to be interred with my children.

  They were to have their funerary rites at sunset as was custom. Arthur had decreed his children should be entombed with his father in a nearly inaccessible valley at the base of the highest of the Western Fells. It was an ideal royal resting place for few would be brave enough to venture in and do the graves harm, and it was fast becoming Camelot’s royal cemetery.

  I wasn’t well enough to travel to the funeral, and truth be told, I didn’t want to. I had said good-bye to my children in the Otherworld. But that wasn’t enough to keep the sight at bay. Weakened by grief and my childbed travails, I was defenseless against it. Against my will, it transported me to that final, terrible ritual as clearly as though I were at Arthur’s side.

  Most of the city, as well as nobles from three neighboring kingdoms, turned out to bid farewell to the future of the realm, the prince and princess they’d never know. From Camelot’s gates to the entrance to the valley, noble and peasant stood shoulder to shoulder. In more populated areas, people lined the streets so thickly the Combrogi had to ride ahead of the bier, cutting a path for the wagon to pass, and guards lined every side, doing their best to keep villagers from touching the caskets, which the peasants believed held some magical power.

  Still, by the time its wheels stilled in the muddy, snow-dappled basin, the funerary cart was laden with gifts from the people: sprays of late season flowers, berries, and leaves; evergreen boughs symbolizing life after death; and bracelets and trinkets of gold, bronze, and silver. They were offerings made on the children’s behalf, which Arthur dropped into the sacred stream that sliced through the valley.

  When the time came, Merlin led the prayers over the bodies with Grainne acting as his assistant. With gentle, trembling hands, Arthur placed our babies in their graves, arranging their bodies in the traditional posture—pointing north on their left side, knees curled up and arms crossed over their chests in an attitude of sleep, heads facing east to look toward the promise of rebirth. He folded the funeral shrouds over them but could do no more. Sinking to his knees, he wept so hard his entire body shook. It was left to Kay and Bedivere, his trusted companions, to place our funerary gifts at their sides and fill in the graves.

  Arthur kept watch with our son and daughter as day faded into night.

  Finally, when the moon had risen and the frigid air made icicles in Arthur’s beard, Merlin put an arm around him. “It is time to depart, old friend. Let them rest in peace. You kingdom awaits your return.”

  Throughout the long visions, my eyes were dry. My heart clenched in agony, but silent sobs were the only outward sign of my grief. As I lay curled in bed, seeking to hide from the visions and the pain, my body betrayed me, breasts leaking milk for mouths that would never taste it. I felt the emptiness of loss with every movement, keenly aware that those who had
so recently inhabited my body now rested in the womb of the earth.

  Chapter Eight

  Summer 500

  I didn’t need to hear the words to know what everyone was saying. I sensed it in their pitying glances, saw it cloaked in the eyes of courtiers, scented it on the wind that carried the servants’ secrets beyond the alleyways, and in my darkest moments, I even tasted it on my husband’s tongue. In the alehouses and barracks, ripening fields and desolate moors, they all whispered the same refrain—“the queen is barren.”

  Two years had passed since my children were born dead, and still my womb refused to allow life to take root. Grainne had assured me from the moment I regained consciousness that there was no reason I could not have many more children, but even then I had been suspicious. As a midwife, I had on occasion lied to a grieving mother, especially when I sensed that telling her the truth would mean taking away all she had to live for.

  If that was the case for Grainne, I would not hold it against her. It was my highest duty to produce an heir. If she saw some merit in giving me false hope, then I would credit the cloud of deception in her gray-blue eyes to my own untamed imagination.

  For a while, I was able to convince myself she was right, especially when, a few months after I had recovered, my moon time came and went without a drop of blood for three straight months. In that small bloom of anticipation, my world was right once again. But hope was drowned in a rush of crimson that returned with every new moon to remind me of my failure to my husband and my country.

  “Arthur, we must decide what to do if this continues. We cannot leave the country without an heir,” I told him late one night as we lay in bed.

  He grunted his agreement. “I have thought upon that much since our children died. We could pick up the plan my father abandoned and name one of Lot’s sons to the throne. Gawain would make an excellent king.”

  “But what of those who believe the throne should pass through my line? My nearest relative is my cousin Bran.”

  “Does he wish to take the throne?”

  I thought hard. As a member of the Combrogi and ruler of Gwynned, Bran was known well to both of us. Though he was a capable fighter, he had not the stomach to take on a larger kingdom, much less the entire country. “No, I do not believe so.”

  “Then we must approach the house of Lothian and, failing that, pick another of the Combrogi. I would like to watch Mark’s nephew Constantine. Like Tristan, he is a strong strategist and a capable fighter. After Gawain, he may be our wisest choice. Let us allow time to reveal the answer.”

  As we grappled with the real possibly of a childless future, life at Camelot continued. This month we held pleading day outside in the courtyard rather than in the Great Hall to capture the blessed relief of occasional breezes tossed up from the harbor. However, the winds could scarcely reach us, blocked as they were by the sour bodies gathered around us. The crowd was attracted by the oaths and screeching of our last case, a loud quarrel between two lordlings who came to blows before Arthur and I could render judgment.

  Before we could call forth the next petitioner, a man emerged from the crowd, the ragged, coarse material of his tunic dragging behind him. Sobbing, he fell to his knees at our feet, mumbling something that sounded like “forgive me” over and over. He clutched and clawed at our legs as though we could save him from whatever plagued his mind.

  I clambered back in my chair, seeking to move out of his reach. I sent Kay and Lancelot a warning glare, ready to call them into service to remove the intruder.

  He was trembling, eyes rolling about uncontrollably as he begged, “Mercy, my lord, have mercy.”

  Arthur leaned toward him, placing a hand on his bony shoulder. “What crime have you committed? How may I show you mercy?”

  The man looked up, and his eyes cleared for one awful moment, holding in their depths the chilling resolve only madness could create. “Murder.”

  Kay and Lancelot inched closer, but Arthur paid them no heed. His deranged subject held all of his attention. “Whom have you killed? Why come before me?”

  The man shook his head as if loathe to confess the nature of his crime. He stared at us for a long moment. Then slowly he pointed at Arthur, speaking so softly we had to lean forward to hear him whisper, “You have the eyes of the dead.”

  My skin prickled, and I caught the flash of steel, but before I could react, a dark-haired woman leapt out of the throng and tackled our claimant, sending him sprawling with a cry of pain. The crowd let out a collective gasp and backed quickly away. Arthur and I were on our feet, weapons drawn, while half the Combrogi surrounded our attackers.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Arthur roared.

  “I have just saved your life,” the woman announced.

  We stepped cautiously toward where she lay, still holding our claimant. She lifted his left arm, which dangled uselessly in her grip, and revealed a thin blade pressed against his palm and wrist, concealed beneath a tattered sleeve. It was the same hand he had held out to Arthur.

  “This was inches from your throats, and neither of you saw it.” She looked at us, accusation plain in her stunning black eyes.

  For a moment, neither of us moved. Then involuntarily, my hand went to my throat.

  “How do we know you are not involved, merely part of the trick?” I asked.

  “Because if I were,” she said with a look of disdain, “you would be dead by now.”

  Arthur recovered himself, expression blossoming as though he had just been made party to the plot of some elaborate joke. “Indeed, Sobian can be lethal when she puts her mind to it.”

  I stared at him, openmouthed. “You know this woman?”

  Arthur laughed, a hearty sound that began in his chest and escaped as a joyous rumble. He extended a hand to the woman and helped her to her feet. “Kay, take this man away.” He kicked the madman with the toe of his boot.

  “Gladly.” Kay pulled our would-be killer roughly to his feet. “I have additional business with you.” His voice held the promise of dreaded things to come.

  I was still speechless, trying to comprehend what had just taken place. This woman had come out of nowhere to save us from a madman bent on killing us both but whom neither of us, trained in the arts of war, had suspected. Now it appeared Arthur knew her.

  I took Arthur’s hand, suddenly unsteady. “What is going on? Who is this woman?”

  Arthur’s smile brightened. “Guinevere, meet Sobian, Scourge of Sidhe.”

  Sobian brushed off her deep golden cloak and sank into a curtsey. “I am honored to be of service, my queen.”

  I took in the stunned crowd standing around us, as unsure of how to react as I was. “I—how do you know one another?”

  Arthur’s gaze followed mine. “That is a story best told in private.”

  Bedivere and Lancelot set about dispersing the crowd while Arthur invited Sobian inside. He sent servants ahead with orders for strong ale and water so Sobian could wash. I followed on their heels, still confused and feeling suddenly displaced by our guest.

  Arthur and I sat in a small meeting room just off the main hall, waiting as Sobian cleaned the dirt from her clothes and skin. Octavia brought in the ale then hovered protectively at my side, just like the second mother I’d always felt her to be. I put a hand reassuringly on the one she laid on my shoulder.

  “I am fine,” I told her between long draughts of ale. “Really.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Keep telling yourself that and eventually you may believe it, but I don’t. I can feel you trembling.”

  Was I? I stilled myself for a moment. Wild energy still coursed through my veins from the attack, but beneath that, yes, I was shaking. And why should I not be? Some lunatic had just tried to kill us both, and I never saw it coming. I took a deep breath and tried to arrange my thoughts. Best start with the most pressing issue. “Arthur, who is th
is woman? Why do you trust her so?”

  Arthur smiled, his face taking on a dreamy air as though he recalled a cherished memory. “Let’s just say that during my time in Uther’s army, I grappled with her on more than one occasion. Sobian is, to this day, one of the most fearsome creatures I have ever encountered.”

  “More fearsome than I?” I quirked an eyebrow at him, daring him to give the wrong answer.

  His smile widened, and he leaned forward to kiss me. “Of course not.”

  I gestured for him to continue. “Get back to your story. I want to know who this woman is before she returns.”

  “This woman, as you call her, has always gone by the name Sobian, though I’ve never believed her to be Irish. She used to be a river pirate. I first encountered her when I was stationed at Caerleon near the Bristol Channel. Uther sent a contingent of men because she was causing a lot of trouble on the Sabrina. If you were foolish enough to fall for her charms, you’d lose your purse faster than your pants.” Arthur chuckled. “They called her the Scourge of the Sidhe because she had the ability to slip on and off of ships with her crew as stealthily as the fey and the charm to convince the captain he’d given her his goods of his own free will.”

  “It’s hard to believe one woman could possess such charm,” I said dryly.

  “Oh, I assure you, she does. Wait a bit. I’m sure she’ll turn it on you. Women certainly aren’t immune.”

  “Immune to what?” Sobian entered the room as Octavia quietly slipped out.

  “I was just telling my wife about your reputation.”

  She gave me a dazzling smile. “I knew I was not ever far from your mind, my king.” She curtseyed to Arthur, lowering her long lashes at same time as her bosom.

  I did my best to hide the glower her shameless flirting brought to my face before she looked up.

  “Please sit with us and have a drink. It is the least we can do for you.” He held out a cup to her, and she obliged his request. Arthur leaned toward her across the table. “How did you know what that man was going to do? Do you think him genuinely mad?”