Guinevere's Tale

by Nicole Evelina

  Aine had to still be in the tower. Stopping for a moment, I closed my eyes and called on Brigid, the goddess of fire.

  “Great goddess, protect me from my enemies, those who seek to use the elements against me. Consume them in your great forge,” I prayed. I envisioned the flames Imogen had ignited in the storeroom growing stronger and stronger, the fires in the hearths hissing as they grew taller, raging out of their confines. I willed the entire tower to be engulfed.

  The rumbling stopped as quickly as it had started. I got to my feet again and raced to the safety of land, Lancelot guarding my rear.

  I almost kissed the ground, but a deep creaking behind us stopped me. The ground shook again, but this was more of a rolling thunder than the pervasive rumble from earlier. Across the lake, the entire tower was engulfed in flames and was quickly disintegrating. I could only hope Aine was still inside. As we watched, the upper floor fell inward, forcing the main walls out into the lake. They crashed with such force that a tidal wave carried Malegant’s boat toward the shore.

  Lancelot pulled my arm so tightly I thought my elbow would dislocate. We dashed into the woods just in time to avoid the crashing surf as the wave slammed into the shore, splintering Malegant’s boat while propelling him and his men effortlessly onto dry land.

  “It seems the gods wish us to be together. Why, they practically tossed me into your arms,” Malegant said to me before drawing his sword and facing Lancelot. “So this is how it ends, is it? Brothers-in-arms in a fight to the death. I could, of course, take you prisoner and let my sister play with you, but watching you die will be so much more satisfying.”

  At his signal, the two guards, each with a loaded bow, advanced on me, Imogen, and the fisherman. I looked around wildly for some way to defend myself. The taller of the two, a middle-aged man with reddish hair sticking out beneath his helmet, took aim at me. I dove for the trees just as the arrow passed over my head. Scraped and bloody, I was safe for the moment, but hiding was no long-term strategy.

  I grabbed the nearest branch I could find to use as a weapon and shot deeper into the woods. Once I stopped, I heard the clang of metal on metal as Malegant and Lancelot fought on the shore. The guards were venturing into the trees, so I had to keep moving. I made a slow arc that would lead me back to the shoreline. Imogen and the fisherman attacked one of the archers, so I made a mad dash in the opposite direction.

  I had hardly moved before an arrow bit into my arm. I screamed in agony. It was the same side as the other arrow had hit, only this time it lodged in the muscle of my upper arm, rendering it useless for defense. The archer was already nocking another arrow, so I had no time to break this one off. I ran, trying to ignore the burning pain in my left shoulder, dodging between trees and praying his next bolt would find one of them instead of me.

  As I passed a wide oak, I was wrenched sideways. A hand grasped my right arm. For one terrifying moment, I was afraid I had run straight into the archer, but when I looked up, I saw a face I recognized.

  “Sobian.” I hugged her, scarcely able to believe she was there.

  “Lancelot and I found you together. He made me swear to stay here while he got you out, but he didn’t say anything about not helping you escape.” She handed me a sword. “Here, you’ll need this. Oh, turn around.”

  I bit my lower lip, trying to make as little noise as possible as she broke the shaft of the arrow.

  Not far away, Malegant and Lancelot battled on, grunting and puffing as they both tired. They were ankle-deep in muddy sand churned into mush by their boots. I was certain that as long as Lancelot didn’t make a major mistake, he would prevail. He had more training and a more refined technique than Malegant, who fought as he did everything else—all passion and force with little strategy to back it up.

  “Do you trust me?” I asked Sobian.

  “Of course, though I doubt you would say the same.”

  I smiled at her despite myself. “Then don’t try to stop me.” I swallowed hard, asked the goddess Morrigan for protection, and stepped out into the open. “Malegant! I am here. Stop this battle. It is I you want.”

  Malegant turned, surprised by the sound of my voice. That was the advantage Lancelot needed. He shoved his sword into Malegant’s gut, easily piercing through his armor. Malegant staggered backward and fell, his head landing just shy of the water’s edge. Blood pooled in the muck, a trickle escaping his lips as he struggled to hang on to life.

  I knelt next to him. His eyes had lost their menace, replaced by fear that revealed the boy he must once have been.

  “It is over, Malegant. All of this planning, all of the pain, all of the terror. It is over, and you never truly got what you wanted. I am not your wife, nor ever will I be in any true sense of the word. For every bruise you gave me, for every bone you broke and every time you defiled me, I call upon Ceridwen to take equal vengeance. And not just for myself. In Fiona’s name and all of your wives’, for every woman you have ever harmed, I curse you. May your soul never find rest.”

  I could have gone on, but the light went out from behind Malegant’s eyes. The hand grasping his wound fell limply to his side. He was dead.

  But we were not out of danger yet. I stood, expecting to see joy on Lancelot’s face, but instead he held stock-still, frozen by something I hadn’t seen. I followed his gaze to see the redheaded guard holding Imogen by the neck. She was weeping for her dead children, heedless of the blade at her throat.

  “Let her go,” Lancelot called.

  “Drop your weapons, and maybe I will.”

  Lancelot and I both flung our swords to the ground.

  “We have done as you asked. Now please, return her to us,” Lancelot said.

  The guard sneered. “You just killed my lord. He thought that she”—he indicated me with the tip of his dagger—“was worth pursuing. So now I want her for myself—to reap whatever value she brings. That is what I offer. This woman’s life for hers.”

  “I do not know the woman you hold hostage. Her life means nothing to me,” Lancelot bluffed. Unseen by the guard, Lancelot was working a dagger loose from the back of his belt.

  “So we are at an impasse then.”

  “It appears so.”

  I passed behind Lancelot, our heads together in what I hoped the guard took as consultation about his demand.

  Lancelot whispered, “I’m going to lunge at him. As soon as I’m clear, aim for his head.” He passed the dagger to me.

  I flipped the blade around so it was in my palm. “I’m not good at this.”

  But it didn’t matter. Before either of us could move, Sobian and the fisherman tackled the guard and sent him sprawling face-first in the mud, his own dagger sticking out of his back.

  Chapter Twelve

  For a few moments, none of us moved. In the dying daylight, we stood like statues on a shore ruined by destruction. Leaves and branches littered the shore as though a powerful storm had blown through. The shoreline was in tatters thanks to the tidal wave and Lancelot and Malegant’s battle. Three bodies littered the ground. Across the water, the ruins of the tower were smoldering, sending plumes of smoke into the dusky sky. If anyone found this place in the next year or two, they might wonder what had taken place, but they would never guess the devastation was all from the rescue of the queen.

  The fisherman stirred. “Please allow me to offer you shelter for the night.”

  I eyed the man who was so much an older version of Lancelot with suspicion. “How do we know this isn’t a trap?”

  “Because it isn’t,” Lancelot stated.

  I turned to him. “How do you know?”

  “Sobian and I spent many weeks with this man before putting my plan into action. Diarmad is no traitor to the crown.”

  The fisherman bowed. “My queen.”

  “You—you know who I am?”

  “Indeed. I have pled my
case before you many times. I have always found you and the high king to be both fair and wise. When this good knight sought my help in discovering your location, the least I could do was aid him in whatever way I could.”

  But I wasn’t ready to trust him yet. “You are well-spoken for a common fisherman.”

  “I am anything but common, my lady. But it is a tale best told with a cup in hand in front of a warming fire. Please, will you accept my hospitality?”

  Lancelot regarded me pleadingly. “Guinevere, we need to remove the arrow from your shoulder. Be reasonable.”

  He was right. My shoulder pulsed with pain, and all of us needed rest.

  A short walk later, we approached a small round house fashioned of branches and mud, much like most of our ancestors would have used. From the shadows, a small brown goat bleated.

  “That’s Ceana. She provides milk and cheese. She’s a sweet girl.” Diarmad petted the goat as one would a prized hound.

  When we stepped inside, my eyes took a moment to adjust, but soon I found we were in a one-room hut with a hard-packed dirt floor. A large fire pit dominated the center of the room. Hanging over it from a long chain was a cauldron of something that smelled divine. On one side was a small oven, likely used for baking bread, while opposite was a small mattress and pillow. A few pegs in the wall held a cloak and three tunics. The only other items in the room were several fishing staffs and nets. He lived as simply as a Druid—or perhaps a Christian hermit.

  I couldn’t help but wonder how a man of such simple means had found his way to Camelot’s court. And more importantly, how he’d become involved in rescuing me. I threw him a sidelong glance. Lancelot may have trusted him, but I didn’t.

  We need to see to your wound, Imogen signed, as if I could forget the throbbing of an arrow in my shoulder.

  “Diarmad, this is Imogen. She cannot speak, but I can understand her hand language and can translate for her.”

  Diarmad gave Imogen a small bow and touched his thumb to his forehead, lips, and heart. “I know a priestess when I see one. I do not have much, but everything I have is yours.”

  He laid out four blankets side by side and withdrew so I could undress.

  I lay down on one and steeled myself for the painful procedure to come, draining the flagon of mead Diarmad placed by my side. “Lancelot, how did you come to know and trust this man?”

  He stood over me. “I suppose that is a good tale to distract you. Brace yourself. This will hurt.” He began to draw out the arrow.

  I cried out, grasping for something to squeeze. Sobian handed me a wadded-up cloth. I would have rather bitten on leather, but given the circumstances, this would have to do.

  “The worst is yet to come, I’m afraid.” Something in Lancelot’s voice told me he’d done this many times on the battlefield. He knelt beside me.

  Nothing could have prepared me for the searing pain that shot from my shoulder straight to my head as the arrow emerged. I screamed but heard my own voice as if from far away, white dots dancing like snowflakes before my eyes. All I wanted was to pass out. Maybe when I woke, the whole business would be over. But no, I was a warrior, a battle queen, some small voice insisted above the shrill ringing in my head. If I couldn’t be present for this, I did not deserve to lead others into the same peril.

  I was just coming back to full consciousness when my shoulder exploded again, this time accompanied by a splash of something wet. Someone was blowing on the wound in an attempt to allay my pain.

  “It’s wine,” Lancelot explained. “It will clean your wound before Imogen stitches you up.”

  I was panting like a woman in labor. I turned my head to the side. “That story you were going to use to distract me?”

  “Oh yes. It begins many years ago, when I was a young warrior just come from Brittany. I was a lone fighter for hire in those days, anxious to test my blade and build my reputation. I had fought my fair share of battles in order to secure passage to Britain but nothing like those I would face on this isle.”

  I cried out as Imogen’s needle bit into my flesh. Sobian sat next to me and held my hand, while Diarmad busied himself at the cookfire.

  “I made my way up north to the land of Angus in the southern Highlands. There I found much work among the warring chieftains. It was there I first met Diarmad.”

  “You may not expect it, but many a nobleman in Bernicia—where I’m from—has interests up yon way,” Diarmad interjected.

  “He was recruiting warriors for his army back here. I became one of them.”

  “Only after you defeated half of the tribes—enough to earn the name Angus. Still hold lands up there, do ye?” Diarmad gestured with his bottle of brew.

  I sucked air as Imogen drew the sutures tight. “May I have some of that, please?” I pointed at the bottle.

  “Where are my manners?” Diarmad fussed around for another mug.

  I gestured to him impatiently, and he came over. I took the bottle without asking and took one long swallow, then another, and one more for good measure. Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I said, “Continue.”

  Lancelot was so surprised by my unwomanly behavior that it took him a moment to find his train of thought. “After I joined Diarmad in Bernicia, people began noticing the resemblance between us. Quite by accident, we came to realize we were related through my mother’s line. I grew up in the sacred grove of the Forest of Broceliande—our version of Avalon—and was raised by the Lady of the Lake, so my parents were but shadows in my memory.”

  Diarmad picked up the tale. “A woman came to court, claiming to know great things about my past and future. She said I would fall from the heights, never to rise, but that my most trusted man, one of my own blood, would rise higher than I could ever dream. I was intrigued for I knew of no relations still living. This seer wanted a hefty sum for the rest of her knowledge, so I sent her away, but she took a liking to Lancelot and promised him if he did a favor for her, she would reveal to him his true parentage.”

  Diarmad’s voice was coming from far away now. I missed what the nature of the woman’s favor was as the pain and drink overtook me simultaneously and I passed out. Apparently neither man noticed, for Lancelot was still talking when I opened my eyes again.

  “I followed her most willingly, and she led me to a modest holding where an old woman lay dying. Aoileann was her name, though most called her Eileen or Helen. ‘My son,’ she said as she embraced me. No one had ever called me that. She told me she was pleased to see me in the employ of my uncle—her brother—and knew I would forever be safe with him. I spent only one evening with her but was able to be present when she passed through the veil.” Lancelot cleared his throat then did not continue.

  I twisted around and immediately regretted it as my pain flared anew. But I got a glance at the dark green poultice covering my wounded shoulder. “Imogen, what is that? It smells like a midden heap next to a latrine in the heat.”

  She circled around so I could see her gestures. Priestess, you know the answer. It will speed your recovery and keep infection away. She helped me to my feet.

  Leaning on her arm, I took a few unsteady steps toward a rug near the fire around which all the others sat.

  “Eat,” Diarmad insisted, shoving a bowl of fish stew in my direction along with a mug of ale. “This is when the tale takes a dark turn. One day, a young man came to court asking for my strongest warrior. I thought he was going to challenge him to a duel, but he instead relayed a message from King Lot. Lot was planning to challenge Arthur for the throne and desired the strongest and most powerful warriors to join him. This boy here”—he clapped Lancelot’s shoulder—“had the sense to refuse. However, I did not. That is how I lost everything.”

  I looked up from my bowl. That was it. That was why I knew the man’s face. I had seen it in my vision while I lay dying in Dyfed. As he explained the repercussions
of his actions, my suspicions deepened. If he had committed treachery once, what was to stop him from doing it again, especially now that he had me in his grasp, weakened and nearly alone?

  “Arthur condemned me along with Lot and Uriens. I fled Bernicia in shame and settled here because I had built up some measure of respect with Lord Malegant, who always promised he could get me back into court. I suppose he would have had his plans succeeded.”

  My hackles rose. “So you knew what he was going to do?”

  Diarmad was quick to defend his honor. “No, I speak only in hindsight. All I knew was he held this castle in the lake as one of his many fortresses. He mainly used it as a retreat, a place to hide mistresses. I supplied what he needed when he needed it. You see, when I lost my title and my wealth, I still retained many of my connections. I can get anyone just about anything they need.”

  He cleared his throat noisily. “Last summer, on one of his journeys through the area, he advised me he would be wintering here with a few guests. I assumed he was spending the time with his wife and friends, so I didn’t question what he needed. I didn’t give the arrangement another thought until these two found me.” He gestured at Lancelot and Sobian. “When Lancelot told me his suspicions, my blood went cold. To abduct the queen was most serious indeed, and I was aiding him, albeit unknowingly.”

  “How did you find each other?” I translated for Imogen, who was held rapt by the story.

  Lancelot and Diarmad exchanged glances. “I think that a tale for another time. Our queen is injured and no doubt exhausted, so we should let her sleep.”

  I hadn’t realized it until Lancelot said it, but I was bone weary. At his words, my entire body sagged. I put my half-eaten bowl aside and let Imogen guide me to the pallet. Two moments later, I was in a deep, dreamless sleep.

  I woke with a start, uncertain where I was and fearful of reprisal from Malegant. Then, slowly, the events of the previous day returned to me. They were not a dream. The biting pain in my shoulder was proof.