Guinevere's Tale

by Nicole Evelina

  The cart bearing Lancelot was in the middle of the pack. Before I even saw his face, I knew he was near to dying. His clothes and the sacks beneath him were pools of black, and even from a distance, the stench of infection made bile rise in my throat. Next to him in the cart were the spoils of his hard-won victory—the armor and head of the knight he had killed.

  I wrinkled my nose at the rotting head and told the nearest guard, “Spike that up with the others and take his mail to the armory to see what we can learn from its construction. You two”—I gestured to Gareth and Owain, his guards on the journey here—“get him into the castle. Morgan will show you where to go.”

  I watched them go, conflicted about whether to attend to him immediately or assess the others first.

  “Go, be with him,” Grainne said as if reading my thoughts, as if she knew exactly what we were to each other. She squeezed my arm. “You and Morgan are his best hope. I have Elaine to help with the others. Go.” She shoved me gently toward the doors.

  Morgan was already removing Lancelot’s clothing when I arrived. I grabbed a rag and soaked in it hot water, then I applied it to an area around his wound where his clothing adhered to his skin.

  “It’s a wonder he has not died of blood loss,” Morgan said.

  Lancelot looked to have been beaten within an inch of his life. His eyes were swollen, painted with purple and black bruises. His lower lip was split and puffy, a long gash running from the left side up an inflamed cheekbone. As my eyes traveled lower, his injuries only worsened. His skin was pale and clammy, a sure sign of inflection if the stench from the wound between his ribs wasn’t indication enough. One shoulder stuck out at an odd angle, and he appeared to have taken several crushing blows to the chest. But those would have to wait.

  The cloth around his wound finally gave way, and we were able to see the full extent of the damage. The skin around it had already begun to fester, the sickly yellow-green bile the source of the stench. The men had done their best to pack the wound with moss and spider silk, and it was likely the reason why he was still alive now, but it was also the source of the infection.

  “We’re going to have to cut this skin away,” Morgan said. “We need to cleanse the wound first though. Give him some poppy juice to ensure he feels nothing and does not wake.”

  While she doused his wound with vinegar, I forced Lancelot’s mouth open and poured in a carefully measured dose of ruby syrup. Too little and he could stir, crazed with hallucinations. Too much and he might die.

  “Be strong, my champion. For me. For the Goddess who raised you and the one who chose you as her own,” I whispered in his ear.

  We set about the gruesome task of cleaning and debriding the wound. I was thankful for my years of training in Avalon, and even what I had seen at Caledon Wood and Badon, for without it, I surely would not have made it through the surgery. Once we could see the wound clearly, we found the source of the bleeding.

  “It looks like he received the bite of an axe. We will have to close it off with heat,” Morgan said. “Take that poker out of the fire and bring it to me.”

  I looked at her uncertainly. I’d never heard of such a method except in conjunction with amputation, which was external, not internal.

  “Do you wish him to live or no?” She snapped her fingers at me. “The Greeks did this with much success. I learned it from the healer of Uther’s army, a Saracen woman. Have no fear.”

  She placed the glowing tip of the poker into Lancelot’s wound. His flesh sizzled, giving off a smell not unlike meat over a spit. Morgan rinsed the wound once again—this time with boiled, cooled sea water—and inspected it.

  “That should stop it.” She handed the poker back to me and motioned for a second one, which she placed on the external wound. With a puff of smoke and another sickening whiff of burning flesh, it closed. “If he was likely not to move this area, I would dress the wound as is, but given he will likely tear it open again, I think it best to reinforce it with stitches. Would you like to do the honors?”

  I knelt at Lancelot’s side and carefully sewed his wound. “Where did you learn all of this? It goes well beyond our training in Avalon.”

  “One does not spend years as a camp woman without learning a thing or two.” Her smile was wry. “Or did you believe I spent all of my time whoring? Of course you did. A battleground where the injured are from multiple lands is the best school a healer could ever ask for, if not the toughest.”

  After I finished sewing and bandaging Lancelot’s wound, we set his broken bones and cleansed his remaining wounds.

  Muttering as she worked, Morgan gave vent to her innermost feelings about her profession. “I’ve told Arthur a thousand times to bring a priestess with him on every mission for we could save lives if they were tended earlier, but he does not listen.”

  Finally, we lifted the calfskin shades to let in fresh air and cleaned up the space so it resembled more a sick room than a surgery tent. I placed sweet-smelling herbs in vases and on hot coals and cool cloths on Lancelot’s forehead and neck to bring his fever down.

  “Do you remember how to make a healing beer?” Morgan asked me.

  “Yes.”

  “When he is conscious and can tolerate water from the sacred springs, give him a thick beer of honey, mugwart, oats, and nettles. He will not like the taste, but he has lost a lot of blood, and it will do wonders to help him regain his strength. Then, and only then, allow him to try some bread. We don’t need him suffering stomach ills on top of everything else.”

  I nodded, relieved to see her go. I began the process of brewing the ale, and once it could be left unattended, I sank to the floor next to Lancelot’s unconscious form and prayed. My mind could scarcely form words, but I trusted that my patrons, Rhiannon and Lugh, as well as the Morrigan, patroness of those wounded in battle, and Brigid, the great healer, would know the cries of my heart without words.

  Sometime in the midst of my prayers, I must have fallen asleep for I walked in the land between worlds with Lancelot, battling a giant dressed in black, the man whose cruel eyes had stared at me from Lancelot’s side in the cart. I saw how hard Lancelot had fought and how he received every wound we’d tended, but what I did not know was why.

  The knight had just sliced into Lancelot’s side with a fierce-looking axe on a long pole when I awoke with a start to a soft rapping on the door. I grunted something that was supposed to resemble “enter,” and Elaine peeked around the door. I sat up, motioning for her to come in.

  She handed me a cup of wine, which I gratefully drained. “I thought you could use some relief. I have already slept a little. Morgan is abed, and Grainne is watching over those in the barracks. Get some sleep. I will stand vigil.” Elaine’s eyes misted over, and her face became wistful.

  Her expression reminded me of her youthful crush on Lancelot and her fancy that he would become her husband. Oh, how our lives had taken paths we could never have foreseen.

  I stood and kissed her cheek. “He is in the hands of his gods. We have done all we can.”

  Elaine smiled sadly and fingered the enameled ring on her left hand. “Indeed. I will pray for him.”

  I returned her joyless smile. “That is all we can do. If he wakes, please come find me. Oh!” I suddenly remembered the beginnings of the beer. I covered it tightly. “Be sure no one disturbs this.”

  Elaine nodded, sitting on a stool at Lancelot’s side.

  As I slipped out, Elaine took Lancelot’s hand and kissed it. Silent tears rolled down her cheeks. Was it possible? Could Elaine still harbor feelings for Lancelot? Surely he could not be her mysterious husband—or could he? I shook my head. No, he certainly would not have engaged in an affair with me were that the case. Yet the memory of Elaine’s grief lingered in my mind, as did the seed of doubt.

  One week passed, then two. Lancelot did not improve. I began to fear he would never wake. M
y days were spent in constant vigil at his side, trading off with Morgan or Elaine only to sleep or perform necessary duties. By the time the full moon came around, we were all at our wits’ end.

  Morgan wanted to give him wolfsbane to try to draw his spirit back, but I was hesitant.

  She wheeled on me when I expressed my concern. “So it was all right for Isolde to use the same drug on you when you were far less injured, but you take issue with me using it to save a dying man?”

  I couldn’t answer her because she was right in calling out my hypocrisy. But I couldn’t let go of the story Merlin had told me about her poisoning Rowena so long ago in Avalon.

  “How do you know you won’t kill him?” I asked.

  She glared at me. “You know I do not know. I am only doing as we were both trained. And as I have far more experience in these dire situations than you, I do not think you are in a place to judge.”

  I decided to lay my fears on the table. “What about Rowena? You made a mistake once, and she nearly died.”

  “You”—she pointed at me—“were not there. How dare you judge me based on what you did not see for yourself?” She shook her head. “Is that it? Are you afraid I will poison him on purpose? To what end? I have nothing to gain if Lancelot dies. He is Arthur’s dearest friend. I would do nothing to hurt him. Why do you always insist on finding me guilty before even asking my side? I may not like you, but I am not out to destroy everyone I meet.”

  She was right. “What did happen that day?” I asked in a small voice.

  Morgan gave a sarcastic laugh. “Twenty years on and now you wish to know.” She turned away from me as she prepared the elixir. “I will tell you this—it was not I who added the offending herb to my brew but another who wished to take my place as second. I will not name her, as I have never found proof, but if I ever do, I will kill her with my bare hands in public for all to see. That is the real reason why I left Avalon. I could not remain there knowing there was one willing to kill to take my place.”

  She gave Lancelot the wolfsbane, and we continued our cycle of vigil, tending wounds, and sleep.

  A few days later, as I was trudging back from a particularly difficult pleading day, during which I’d lost my patience with the petitioners more than once, Owain and I crossed paths.

  “You look like death visited you then changed her mind,” he joked.

  I glared at him but said nothing.

  “Are you hungry?” He was already steering me toward the kitchens.

  “Famished,” I answered as I sank down on a bench.

  He set a cut of meat in front of me on a thick trencher of bread along with a mug of heady ale.

  We chewed in silence before I finally asked him, “What happened to Lancelot?”

  Owain looked up. “I was wondering when someone was going to ask. Nasty situation that. We were heading into a valley near the border of Rheged and Powys when we encountered him.” Owain gestured out the window to where the knight’s head now decayed on a pike. “Did you know the villagers are calling him the Black Knight since his entire armor was dark? Anyway, he called himself the Grail Sentinel and declared that anyone who sought it must defeat him first. None of us know if he had any official position or was simply a local loon capitalizing on the quest, but we had to face him in case he was really the final guardian.” Owain took a long draught from his cup. “Whoever he was, he was well trained. He insisted on challenging each of us to single combat. You’ve seen what he did to Lancelot. The others in the infirmary are the ones who managed to escape. Some were not so lucky.”

  I stared into my cup. “I wish I had known how all would suffer.” I looked at him. “I had the chance to stop this, to talk Arthur out of this madness, and I did not.”

  Owain scrutinized me. “Who said this would be easy? A quest commanded by a god or goddess never is. Think about the old tales. These situations are sent to test our strength and our faith. If we pass, the rewards will be great.”

  “If” was the word ringing in my head as I finished my meal.

  I was just about to thank Owain for his company and insight when Elaine found us. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and tear stains marred her face. My heart stopped. Surely she was here to tell us Lancelot was dead. I placed shaking hands on her shoulders, looking deep into her eyes.

  “Lancelot is awake,” she whispered.

  “Oh, thank the gods.” I hugged Elaine.

  I started to release her, but she stopped me by holding up two small vials. She must have taken them from the store in Lancelot’s room.

  “May I borrow these?” she asked. “If I am correct, they are chamomile and comfrey. I would like to use them on my nervous stomach and sore knees.”

  I squinted at them, making sure she had properly identified them. “Yes, but be certain not to ingest the comfrey. It is poisonous.”

  Leaving Elaine, I rushed to the sick room. I was so relieved to see Lancelot conscious that I fell to my knees at his side.

  “How do you feel?” I asked, grasping his hands. It took all my willpower not to kiss him lest someone walk in at the wrong moment.

  “I’m in pain. A lot of it. And I’m having trouble recalling how I came to be in Camelot. I remember the knight and his armor, but that is all. I don’t remember drawing my sword or being attacked.” Lancelot looked down at his mending body. “But obviously I was.” Looking at me, he added. “Thank you for saving me, Guinevere.”

  I put a hand on his shoulder. “You remember who you are, where you are, and who I am, so you will be well. It will just take time.” I handed him a cup of healing beer.

  He started to shrug then winced. “If you believe so, it must be true.” His tone was slightly flirtatious, so I knew he would be just fine.

  “I will stay here with you as long as you like. But when you feel up to getting out of bed, let me know. Morgan has given me detailed instructions on how to continue your treatment.”

  He puffed out a small laugh, all his broken ribs would allow. “Follow it or face the consequences, yes?”

  “Something like that.” I chuckled. “Finish your beer.”

  Again the moon waxed and waned, and we had no word from Arthur nor any of the other questing knights. Lancelot was improving, eating a steady diet of liver and whatever greens we could find to help him regain his strength. Each day, we walked with him around the grounds, going a little farther each time.

  By spring, Mordred’s seventeenth year was drawing near, the time he would be considered a man according to his father’s tribe. But Arthur had not yet returned, so Lot stood in at Mordred’s manhood ritual. Morgan, as his mother, was not allowed to witness the ritual for it symbolized Mordred breaking free of his need of her and coming into his own. However, as priestesses, Grainne and I watched over him as he meditated deep in the woods the night before he was set loose to kill or be killed by whatever beast the Hag decreed.

  In silence, we approached him, Grainne dressed all in white with flowers entwined in her hair, acting as the Virgin Goddess who armed him for the hunt. She gave him a spear and a sling with a single stone. I was the Mother Goddess. My red dress reflected the blood with which I now painted him, blood kept from the stag Arthur had killed in Avalon, reconstituted for this very purpose. His absent mother represented the Crone and the wisdom he had gained at her skirts. Together, we handed him off to Lot and the other men, who would council him until nightfall, when his hunt would commence.

  The following day, we haunted the forest, trying to sneak a look at the young warrior and making noise to throw off his senses. It was great fun for adults but, I was sure, not amusing to Mordred, who could not return to this camp until he had proof of his kill.

  Lancelot and I walked and talked as we usually did but were so engrossed in our conversation we failed to notice when we became separated from the others.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance. I
t was the first thing that drew our attention away from each other.

  “A storm is coming,” I said stupidly as heavy drops of rain began to fall.

  We raced back toward the castle, but the rain was coming down so hard we both knew we would not make it before the storm broke in earnest. With a deafening crack, lightning struck a tree not one hundred paces in front of us. I screamed and practically jumped into Lancelot’s arms.

  Once my heart had slowed to its normal rhythm, I looked around to get my bearings. Even through the rainy haze, I knew where we were. I grabbed Lancelot’s arm and tugged.

  “Come on,” I yelled over the rolling thunder. “I know where we can take shelter.”

  I led him to a small hut deep in the woods. It was made of bent saplings, just as Diarmad’s had been, but this made his house look like a castle. I pushed on a clump of branches, and they gave way, allowing us entry into the tiny dwelling.

  The hut was a single room, barely wider than Lancelot was tall. The floor was bare earth, and a circle of rocks served as a fire pit. Overhead, a few ancient clumps of herbs hung from the roof, long past their prime.

  Lancelot immediately went to the only furniture in the room—a small chest. He pulled out a moth-eaten blanket and threw it at me playfully. I caught it and dried my hair while he kindled a small fire.

  “It’s a hunter’s cabin, meant to be a retreat while they wait for game or need a place to spend the night,” I said by way of apology for the mean surroundings, dumping my wet cloak in one corner. “Not nearly as nice as the one we found in the mountains.”

  Outside, lightning lit up the sky, and thunder shook the ground.

  “It is fine, I assure you,” Lancelot said. “I’ve bedded down in worse places.”

  I peered through the branches. “I hope Mordred won his hunt already. I cannot imagine fighting a wild animal in weather like this.”

  Lancelot stood behind me. “He is fine. The animals have better senses than we do. They would have disappeared into their dens, burrows, and caves long before the storm rolled in.”