Guinevere's Tale

by Nicole Evelina

  “Proof of Nimue’s guilt. I have heard a secret conversation tonight that leads me to suspect her.” But there was nothing to be found. “The kitchens.”

  Ailis likely thought me mad as she followed me, but when I opened a small bag of rye hidden deep in the pantry, we were assaulted by the stench of fish.

  “Oh,” Ailis exclaimed. “This is ergot. Rotten rye. Deadly. Such a thing should be destroyed.” She looked at me as her thoughts fell in line with mine. “You don’t think. . .”

  I nodded.

  One of the young acolytes, a girl of perhaps ten summers, appeared to begin the day’s baking. If she was surprised by our presence, she said nothing, merely knelt and made the sign of Avalon in deference to Ailis, who was acting Lady during Viviane’s illness.

  “Does Nimue prepare the Lady’s bread with this?” She held up the offending bag.

  “Yes, Lady,” the girl replied. “She says it is special but not to touch it. She threatened to curse me and anyone who ate of it if I did.”

  Ailis looked at me. “We must find Nimue.”

  But we were too late. By the time Nimue was dragged, kicking and screaming, from the forest, even graver news than the likelihood of Nimue’s guilt reached us.

  “Merlin is dead,” one of the young priestesses told us, her hand fluttering around her mouth. “They say his body is still warm. Nimue is covered in his blood.”

  Viviane slowly recovered as the ergot left her system, but she was likely to have lasting damage to her nerves. Two weeks later, she was well enough to be carried to the Tor. Rowena, Ailis, and I trudged up the labyrinth behind her, just as I had done so many times in my years as a priestess in Avalon, but tonight our purpose was far grimmer than any ritual. Tonight we would see justice done for Merlin’s murderess.

  Nimue knelt before the altar stone, barefoot, hands bound, and head lowered as if to shield herself from the intense heat of the fire burning on the other side of the stone.

  Slowly, Druids and priestesses formed a circle of alternating white and blue robes around her. I stood to Nimue’s left, unable to read her face thanks to a thick strand of raven hair that had fallen loose of its knot during her struggle with those who had brought her here.

  Viviane and the new Archdruid, who took the title Myrdin—an imposing man of middle years with a full beard as white as clouds—stood before her.

  “Nimue, priestess of Avalon, you stand accused of murder, a most unholy crime on this isle and across this land,” Myrdin declared in his deep baritone. “It is said you killed the Archdruid of Britain by bloody means in the hopes of gaining his power. Also, you are accused of conspiring to kill the Lady of the Lake and take her office. What say you to these charges?”

  Nimue raised her head, her hard eyes glinting like fresh-cut emeralds. “I did as you say, and I would do so again.”

  “You admit your wrongdoing then,” Myrdin said. “When Merlin’s body was found, he was pierced through the wrists with wooden stakes, had suffered a blow to the head, and his throat was slashed. You said as you were apprehended that you were defending yourself. Tell us, what manner of crime requires such lengths?”

  “I arranged to meet him as we have been doing for many years. It is no secret we were lovers.” She cast a gloating glance toward Viviane. Then she pointed at me. “If you wish to know what we talked about, ask her. After all, she was there.”

  “You knew I could hear you? How?”

  Nimue tapped her tattooed brow. “But what you don’t know is what happened after you left.” Her eyes filled with tears, and her voice quavered. “Merlin turned on me, and I feared he would do me harm, so I picked up a stone and swung it at him to deter him. I caught him on the head.”

  “But he was not found on the Tor, and that does not account for the way his arms were pinioned or his cut throat,” I reminded her.

  She turned her malice on me. “Ah, the queen speaks. Tell me, am I being tried in Avalon’s or Camelot’s court?”

  “Both.” The steel in my voice surprised even me. “You will answer us.”

  Nimue laughed, a strange, unhinged sound. “And if I don’t? You will kill me anyway. Why not let Merlin’s death remain a mystery? It is more exciting this way.”

  One of the Druids approached Nimue. She raised her arms, and thunder and lightning filled the sky. The Druid jumped back, much to Nimue’s delight.

  She cackled madly. “Do you see? I have his power within me! All that he was, I am now!”

  Viviane stopped the show in the heavens with a wave. “You know nothing more than that which I taught you, which any woman here can do. You are not as powerful as you think.”

  “No? I breathed in his last breath, and have consumed his blood. I can do all he could and more!” Nimue was crazed now, eyes wide, practically foaming at the mouth as she struggled against her bonds.

  “So that is why you killed him,” Myrdin said. “In that case, I think we can safely assume you pinioned his arms to keep him still while you slit his throat, a quick but intimate death.”

  “As you say.” Nimue rocked back and forth, consumed by what she saw as her own genius.

  “And as to your attempt to poison me?” Viviane asked.

  “I tried to wait, but you wouldn’t die. Why wouldn’t you just die?” Tears sprang to Nimue’s eyes and rolled down her cheeks. “Then we could have been together, and I wouldn’t have had to do this.”

  Myrdin cleared his throat. “You have confessed to crimes against the Archdruid and Lady of the Lake. Now you must face the consequences.”

  Viviane spoke. “Your actions are an affront to the Goddess and God and a betrayal of your vows. As such, you shall suffer the threefold death, never to rejoin our community. Do you understand?”

  Nimue did not reply but held Viviane’s gaze. Two priestesses helped Nimue to her feet and stripped her of her blue robes until she stood shivering in only her shift.

  Viviane slowly approached the fire and withdrew an iron poker tipped with a small flat square. She carried it to over to Nimue, hands shaking.

  “I would not do this for anything in the world,” she said with a ragged breath. “But you have dishonored this holy mark and no longer deserve to bear it. Do you understand?”

  Two Druids stepped forward, each bracing one of Nimue’s arms. She held herself defiantly tall and proud, glaring at Viviane. “Do what you must,” she answered, voice devoid of all emotion.

  “So be it then,” Viviane said quietly, raising the brand.

  I looked away, unable to watch. The white-hot metal met Nimue’s forehead with an audible hiss. When I looked back, tiny tendrils of smoke danced skyward as the crescent was burned off her brow. To her credit, Nimue did not cry out, though her eyes streamed with tears and her face contorted in silent agony. When the Druids released her, Nimue fell to the ground, clutching her head and making animalistic grunting sounds. For a long while, she lay on the ground, dazed.

  When she finally stirred and climbed unsteadily back to her knees, the Archdruid approached her. When he stood next to Viviane, they drew blades simultaneously and pointed them at her.

  “The blade is naked against her. Never again shall she be one of ours,” they said in unison.

  Slowly, each member of the circle came forward, touched their blade to her throat, and repeated the words. When they returned to their place in the circle, they turned their back toward her, signifying her excommunication.

  I was the last to do so because as queen, I had one final duty to perform. I placed my hand on Nimue’s shoulder, forcing myself to look at the angry red and black weeping wound between her eyes. I took a deep breath, remembering the willful young girl who had grown up in my father’s hall.

  “I am so glad your mother did not live to see this. Under other circumstances, you would face your temporal punishment outside the mists, on unhallowed ground, lik
e other criminals, but you have committed no ordinary crime. You have spilt blood consecrated to the gods in a holy place. Therefore, to maintain balance, like must happen to you.

  “I will show you one final act of mercy. I will allow you to choose the manner of your death. But it will be a death which you approach willingly in recompense for your actions, not one wrought by human hands. Should you refuse, wild beasts will be unleashed to tear you to pieces. If you do not wish this fate, you may choose to be buried alive in a cairn, submerge yourself in the mist and marshes, walk willingly into the flames on the next holy day, or cast yourself from the top of Chalice Hill, but know if you survive, we will leave you for dead. You have the night to think it over. We will return for you at dawn.”

  I drew my dagger and repeated the ritual of excommunication, but instead of sheathing it, I laid it on the ground before her. “You have one other choice. You may take your own life this night.”

  I looked into Nimue’s haunting eyes to make sure she understood. What I saw was not the fear I had witnessed in the eyes of countless criminals condemned to death nor the contrition of one afraid to meet death. It was the stark, shocking lucidity of the truly insane, the ones who have given themselves over to the dark forces that tempt them away from everyday life.

  Just when I thought I would get no reaction from her, she smiled. A wicked grin split her marred features, and she laughed, a manic, high-pitched cackle.

  “You have no idea what you have begun this day. My blood will haunt this land forever. Never again will you know peace.”

  It was a curse, one proving how truly dangerous Nimue was. Around me, the priestesses and Druids chanted as those left to guard her took up their positions.

  At dawn, I returned with Viviane and Myrdin. Nimue had made her choice—but not without struggle with whatever dark forces possessed her. Her fragile body, covered with self-inflicted scratches trailing the length of her arms, legs, and chest, lay in a pool of blood. Deep gashes marred her wrists and elbows.

  As a criminal and an oath breaker, she would have no funeral. Her body was loaded onto a stretcher and placed in a boat bound for the outside world. We committed her body to the bogs on the other side of the mists just as had been done to outlaws in ages past.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Summer 518

  Outside the mists, the Grail was true to its promise of peace until our own men began to turn on us. The rumors began with rumblings from the countryside of bands of marauders terrorizing farmers and herders, destroying crops and livestock. Then one of Arthur’s men was brought before us, accused of inciting a riot in a village by killing the local lord’s heirs and carrying off his eldest daughter to become his wife.

  I would never forget the intensity in his eyes as he strove to justify his actions, pupils dilated, blue-green irises burning with the passion of the depraved.

  “What would you have me do, sit around and whittle figurines out of wood? I am a fighter. I know nothing else. When the opportunity for combat doesn’t arise naturally, I make one.” He pointed a stubby finger at Arthur. “You made me this way. I am only doing what you’ve trained me to do.”

  The warrior’s words hit Arthur hard. He sent the man to work in the gold mines of Gwynedd, hoping a sense of purpose would rehabilitate him.

  That night, Arthur ran a hand over his tired face and through his graying hair. “I wish Merlin was here to tell me what to do. He was wise. He would know how to handle this.”

  I wanted to remind him that he was the one who had told Merlin he could go and replaced him with Bishop Marius, but I did not. I stroked his shoulders instead. “You too are wise. You learned from him. You have his wisdom inside you.”

  My words calmed Arthur for a while, but there was one thing we weren’t prepared for—a charge against Arthur’s own kin.

  The next full moon, only three days after Beltane, we heard cases as we did every month, but there was something different about this gathering. The crowd was agitated, restless as if they were waiting for something. Many of them didn’t come forward, so I began to wonder why they were there, what it was they were present to witness. I didn’t have to wait long.

  One of Arthur’s underlords from Strathclyde, a man called Ceredig, approached our thrones with a hooded woman at his side. He bowed before us, expression somber.

  “My king and queen, Lady Morgan, I am sorry to have to lay this before you, but I must do my daughter justice. I charge your son, Lord Mordred, with the rape of my daughter, Caitlin.”

  I inhaled sharply. That was a most grievous charge. If Mordred was found guilty, the official penalty would only involve a fine, but it would also make legal any retribution the girl’s family wished to make against Mordred, including murder.

  I looked at Mordred, who appeared as stunned as I was. He was holding onto Morgan’s arm as though he would fall without her support, and his mouth was open in silent horror.

  Arthur’s whole body was taut, but he responded as he would have if the person in question were a stranger. “What grounds have you for this charge?”

  “Three days ago, on Beltane eve, my daughter attended the fires with her friends. Your son and his companions met them late in the night, when they were already deep in their cups. Your son took a particular liking to my daughter. They danced together, and soon he took her off to a secluded area. I have several witnesses who will testify to this. After that—” Lord Ceredig became flustered, apparently not wishing to speak of sexual details about his daughter.

  Arthur held up a hand. “Let us hear from your daughter.”

  Caitlin lowered her hood, revealing two bruised eyes, several scratches, and what appeared to be a bite mark on her cheek. When she lifted her arms, there were bruises on both wrists, and the longer I looked, I realized they matched the ones on her neck. This woman had definitely been abused. The question was, by whom?

  “We went off into the woods, as all couples do on Beltane,” she spoke in a small, shaky voice. “Mordred kissed me and touched my body, to which I had no objection, but when he began to remove his trousers, I knew what he intended was different from what I wanted. I told him no, but he wouldn’t listen. He tried to hold me down, and I fought against him, scratching at his hands and face, screaming with all my might, but he was too strong. It was then he—he overpowered me.” She looked down, clearly ashamed.

  I grasped the arms of my chair, digging my nails into the wood and fighting the panic that followed her testimony. It was so much like my own experience with Malegant that the memories, so long ago locked away, threatened to come rushing back.

  “What did you do then?” Arthur asked in his most tender voice.

  “Eventually, I stopped struggling.” She looked up, eyes pleading. “I just wanted it to be over. When it was, he stumbled away as though nothing had happened. I lay on the ground, sobbing. That is how one of my friends found me.”

  “Is your friend here?”

  Caitlin nodded and pointed at a plain girl with hair the color of dirty dishwater. She was standing with two others of the same age who must have been their other companions.

  Arthur motioned the girl forward. “You may return to your father,” he said to Caitlin.

  Caitlin’s friend curtsied awkwardly in front of us.

  “What is your name?”

  “Ellen.”

  “Ellen, what is your account of that night?”

  “What Caitlin says is true. We met the boys and danced, and she went away. Not long after, we heard screaming, but it took us a while to find her. By then, the deed was done. I found the poor thing crying and shivering. She was bleeding, especially from—” She motioned to the place between her thighs.

  Arthur turned his attention to the other two girls. “Do you support her testimony?”

  “We do, my lord,” they answered in near unison.

  “Thank you, Ellen.
” Arthur motioned Mordred forward, his face stricken. “What say you to these charges?”

  Mordred looked as though he had no idea what to say. “I didn’t rape her if that is what you are asking. What she said is accurate up to the point of me leading her into the forest.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I—” He looked at Caitlin. “I don’t remember. The next thing I recall is meeting up with my friends at a dockside tavern.”

  “You lie!” Lord Ceredig yelled.

  Caitlin clung to her father as though her life depended on it.

  “Son, if you cannot recall, how can you be certain you did not do what you are accused of?” Arthur asked.

  “Because I would never do that!” Mordred’s voice cracked. He looked at his mother. “You raised me better than that.” He turned back to Arthur. “I have sworn a vow to you to respect all of your people. I couldn’t, wouldn’t do this.” He was desperately pleading now.

  “Are any of your friends from that night here?”

  Mordred looked around. “Yes, Naill.”

  Arthur gestured for him. “What say you?”

  Naill stood confidently before Arthur. “They are all correct about the attraction and going off. What happened then, I cannot say. I was with a girl of my own—consensually, mind you. We had agreed to meet at the Paps of Anu—that was the tavern—if we split up. Mordred came in shortly after I did.”

  “Did he say anything that would lead you to believe he’d forced himself on that girl?”

  “No, sire. He said he had lain with a girl, but it sounded like she was agreeable.”

  “Did he have any marks on him indicating he had been in a fight?”

  “No, only those consistent with the heat of passion.” Naill grinned.

  Caitlin found her voice and used it to shout at Mordred. “Then what are those scrapes on his knuckles? I gave him those.”

  Mordred held up his left hand. “These are from archery practice yesterday. Ask Lancelot. He was there.”