Guinevere's Tale

by Nicole Evelina

  “We ride to Lothian.”

  Chapter One

  Summer 518

  Arthur’s men caught up to us before we reached Lothian.

  I thank the gods they did. Otherwise I would be dead.

  Lancelot and I were camped in the woods less than a two-day ride from Camelot when they found us. No doubt they spotted our fire, but we could not be without one, for I lay on the ground, wrapped in Lancelot’s cloak and shaking with fever. The burns on my left side that ran from above my hairline down to my foot stung with the fury of a whole nest of hornets and my skin glistened with sweat, yet nothing could warm me. We had had no choice but to stop, for I could no longer sit a horse.

  Only days before, Arthur had tried to have me burned at the stake after Lancelot and I were accused of infidelity and treason as a result of our extramarital affair. Initially banished from Camelot, Lancelot returned just in time to rescue me from death, though I suffered severe burns in my escape. We had intended to flee to my mother’s homeland in the Votadini territory, but my injuries proved too severe for so long a journey.

  Now, a group of Arthur’s most loyal knights—the Combrogi—approached on horseback, no doubt to drag us to back to face the justice we had fled. Lancelot was doubly condemned as both a traitor for his affair with me and for interrupting my death sentence, so he had even more to fear than I.

  Lancelot drew his sword, ready to defend me. I stumbled to my feet, holding onto him for support. Each movement was fresh agony, pulling at my inflamed skin and taxing the damaged muscle underneath. But I was a warrior. No matter how ill I was, I would not cower on the ground while they dragged me away like the spoils of the hunt. Repositioning Lancelot’s cloak to give me greater freedom of movement, I took up his dagger, prepared to use it if I had to.

  As they approached, Aggrivane, Bedivere, and Kay held up their hands, still on the reins, to show they wielded no weapons against us.

  “We come in peace,” Bedivere called.

  They would have to forgive us for not believing that.

  My heart stuttered and squeezed at the site of Aggrivane, unsure whether to love or hate him. In our youth, he had been my lover. We’d planned to marry, but my father made a contract with Arthur before we could tell him, which trumped our plans. Then less than two months ago, Aggrivane was among those who betrayed Lancelot and me to Arthur, though Aggrivane later repented of his actions.

  They dismounted, hands still raised.

  “We are not here to arrest you,” Kay said. “Arthur ordered us to bring you back to Camelot. He wishes to grant Guinevere a full pardon. He never intended to have her killed. That was the work of his bishop, who now awaits his trial in prison.”

  “How do we know you speak the truth and are not simply trying to get us to come along peacefully?” Lancelot retorted.

  “If we had ill intent, would we warn you to flee, Lancelot?” Aggrivane asked. “Arthur may be merciful to his former wife, but he has not spoken of you. As far as we know, you are still exiled, still a subject to death upon your return.”

  Aggrivane was right. Arthur may once have been a king of justice and mercy, but with the events just passed, it was impossible to know if that still held. After all, if he could order his wife’s death, what worse did he have in store for the man who’d cuckolded him? Even if they were telling the truth about him not wishing me dead, Arthur was still a wronged man who had a right to revenge.

  I turned to Lancelot, his blue eyes frightened and conflicted. “You cannot return to Camelot, but I will not go without you. Let us carry on as we had planned.”

  Bedivere cautiously approached me. When I didn’t lunge at him with the dagger, he put out a tentative hand, carefully examining my charred skin and weeping, red blisters. If he noticed how my teeth knocked together despite my clenched jaw, he didn’t show it. “If you remain on the road, you will die. Only a priestess can heal these wounds, which I’m certain you know, seeing as you are one.” He gently brushed a finger over the blue crescent moon tattoo on my brow—a mark that all priestesses of Avalon wore—as though to remind me.

  Lancelot turned to me. “You must go with them, Guinevere. I will go on to Brittany. Send word when you are well, and I will make sure a boat awaits you in Camelot’s harbor.”

  I made to grasp his tunic but stumbled as a wave of dizziness overtook me. Lancelot steadied me. “No. We will not be separated again. You are Arthur’s best knight. Surely he will pardon you too.”

  Kay joined the two men at my side. “Arthur has reason to forgive you, Guinevere, especially in light of all you have suffered. But Lancelot defied him twice. He will not be inclined to be merciful, lest he set a precedent of weakness with the other Combrogi that could lead to his ouster. The people are not pleased with him after what he did to you.” Kay turned to Lancelot. “You can take the risk if you’d like, but I do not advise it.”

  Lancelot growled in frustration, looking at the stars as though they could advise him. After a period of thought, his gaze returned to me, cataloging my injuries. To the Combrogi, he said, “She will get worse the longer she goes without aid. I will not sacrifice her life to save mine. Let me come with you as far as the edge of town. If I can see she is well received, then I can bear the guilt of knowing I abandoned her and that she suffers without me.”

  They carried me to Camelot on a stretcher. While it was not quite the indignity of being transported in a prisoner’s cart or forced to walk behind the Combrogi in chains, it certainly was not the entrance any soon-to-be-redeemed queen wished to make. But I did not really care, for my wounds turned even breathing and blinking into torture. They throbbed and burned, rubbed even rawer against the fabric of the stretcher with every jolt. My fever came and went, plunging me into nightmarish visons where I relived my failed execution and created far worse fates for myself, only to be brought back to reality with startling clarity when the heat relaxed its grip.

  I was between bouts of delirium when Camelot came into view. The castle loomed large on the hillside above as we trod the hidden track to a private entrance, rather than the wide thoroughfare used by noble guests, merchants, and all manner of visitors. The people need not know I had returned. There was no need to stir up a mob now, especially when I needed peace and quiet to heal. They would have plenty of time to voice their joy or displeasure later.

  Seeing this place, this dream begun by Arthur’s father and fulfilled in our reign, through fresh eyes was strange. When I’d first seen it as a new bride so many years ago, it was to me a place of wonder and majesty, a place of light and welcome. Now, its shadows held dominance, swallowing up the comfort I used to find within its walls, daring me to attempt to find solace here.

  Kay and Aggrivane had just carried me into my old bedroom when Arthur met us. Grainne and Morgan—Arthur’s second wife and my lifelong enemy—trailed in his wake, their blue robes of priestesshood covered by thick off-white aprons that signaled their readiness to see to my wounds as soon as I was released into their care. Arthur dashed to my side, his eyes widening as he took in my scarred face and neck, all that was currently visible from beneath my clothing.

  “Guinevere! Sweet Mother of God, what have I done?” Arthur brought a hand to his blond beard, covering his mouth.

  “You’ve nearly killed her, that’s what you’ve done,” Grainne shot back, already examining me.

  Morgan moved in to help transfer me to the bed, but Arthur stepped in front of her. Her eyes widened in offense. If I was not in so much pain, I would have laughed.

  Arthur leaned down to me, his blue eyes softened with tenderness and grief. “I did not intend to kill you, please know that. I gave no order, despite what you may have been told. You must believe me.”

  “Arthur, move away and let us work,” Morgan snapped, elbowing past her husband. She dripped a few drops of a bitter liquid onto my lips, and I instinctively licked them away before r
ecognizing my error.

  “No. I will not let you poison me too,” I yelled, flailing my right arm at her and trying to sit up. A wave of nausea pushed me back to the pillows.

  Grainne held me down with muscles honed from years of birthing babies and wrestling recalcitrant patients like me. “Stop fighting us. No one is trying to poison you. It is only a small dose of poppy juice, just enough to make you sleep. You do not want to be awake to experience what is to come.”

  “Why did she accuse you of poisoning her?” Arthur asked Morgan. When she ignored him, slicing into my dress with a dagger to expose the extent of my injuries, he turned to me. “What did you mean, Guinevere? You said ‘too.’ Who has she poisoned?”

  I attempted to answer, but my lips felt swollen and my tongue wouldn’t obey my commands. Snorting out a breath, I balled my fists and tried again, but the effort was too great. Blackness tugged at my eyelids, making them feel as though they were made of wet sand.

  Finally, I managed to slur, “You,” before I slipped into unconsciousness.

  Chapter Two

  Winter 519

  The next month was a blur, lived in flashes that were more like visions than solid reality. First the world was black, then searing light pierced my eyes and the left side of my body was consumed by fire, burning, skin crackling and peeling back, leaving tender flesh and muscle exposed. Strong arms held me down when I tried to fight the sting of water and wine. By the time the sweet scent of honey and herbs reached my nose, I was worn out, numb, spent from the pain.

  I slipped in and out of fever dreams that were no more pleasant for my mind and soul than the treatment my body was undergoing. In one, Arthur embraced me at Camelot’s gates, only to sink a sharp blade into my side again and again. This blade did not kill me, but rather it gave him a place to begin peeling away my skin, which came off in searing strips until my flayed flesh was gone completely. Sometimes this was intermingled with Morgan or Grainne’s voice and the now-familiar scent of their healing salve.

  Other times I dreamed that Bishop Marius had his boney arms around me, pressing his poisoned Communion chalice to my lips, only to wake and find one of the priestesses holding a mug of warm, earthy liquid to my lips and commanding me to drink.

  Long stretches of blackness followed, interspersed with periods of agony. Had I an axe, I would have happily cleaved myself in two, if only to stop the sharp, burning pain. Many times in the past I had burned myself while cooking, on a candle flame, or practicing manipulating the element of fire in Avalon. Then, I’d thought I would die from a wound no bigger than my little finger. Now, with half of my body flayed, skin pulling and pinching as it tried to recover from the deadly kiss of the flames, I begged the Goddess for relief. Deliver me, Mother, and I swear that from this moment forth, I will suffer small injuries in silence, without complaint. Deliver me, please. But most of the time I could not form rational thought. All I could do was scream, and when my throat grew raw, my screams were silent.

  In the cold gray days between the winter solstice and Imbolc, I woke to find the pain, while still present, was much more manageable. Grainne was sitting by my side, holding a cool, wet cloth to my forehead, her gray eyes as full of love and concern as a mother’s for her child.

  “Praise Brigid, you are with us once again.” The relief in her voice was so great, I wondered how close I had come to dying. I tried to sit up, but Grainne placed a firm hand on me. “Do not move. Your wounds are exposed. I was just about to cover them when I felt you stirring.”

  My eyes were drawn to find the source of my pain. From my shoulder, down my left arm, to my hip, knee, and part of my left shin were pockets of angry red rivulets where blisters had once bubbled and burst. Around them, the skin was twisted, blackened, and tough. Slathered on top was a layer of the honey herb mixture I had smelled in my dreams. I had seen my share of battlefield burns and knew enough of healing to understand how badly I was injured.

  I searched Grainne’s gray eyes for some sign I was wrong. “These will scar, won’t they?”

  She pressed her lips together. “I’m afraid so. But at least you are past the risk of blood poisoning.”

  She relayed the events of the last few months as she wound me tightly in white cloth to keep my wounds clean. Arthur still held Marius in the jail. Morgan had brushed off my comment about her poisoning someone as a mistake of the fever, and rumor had it Lancelot was involved in a civil war with his brothers in Brittany, but Arthur still hadn’t offered to pardon him.

  I was only partially listening, having raised my healthy hand to my left cheek. The skin was leathery, pulled tight over my cheekbone. What was worse, I could not feel the touch of my fingertips. I moved my hand to my ear with the same result. Snapping my fingers, I was relieved to be able to hear the sharp sound with as much clarity as before. But when I brushed my hand through my hair, it came out in dry, straw-like black clumps.

  I stared at it for a moment before the tears fell. “What have I become?”

  She held me close and rocked me as I cried. “You are still you, a queen—regardless of what Arthur says—and a strong, courageous woman. You only need time to heal. By summer, you will be back to your old self. You’ll see.”

  A knock on the door interrupted any further conversation. I wiped my eyes so that whoever it was couldn’t see that I had been crying.

  Grainne went to the door. From the bed, I could not see who was on the other side, but I heard her tell my guest I was awake.

  She turned back to me. “It is Arthur. Do you feel well enough to see him?”

  I scowled, tempted to say no, but reluctantly agreed. I couldn’t avoid facing him forever.

  Grainne slipped out as Arthur entered, leaving us alone.

  Even nearing forty summers, Arthur’s height and brawn were fearsome to behold. Where other men responded to the passage of years by curling in on themselves like the fronds of a fern, Arthur held his head high, shoulders squared, every inch the High King. Even his skin, which was crossed with deep wrinkles and battle scars, appeared chiseled rather than wizened. Had he not betrayed me so, I would have been proud to be married to such a handsome warrior.

  Arthur made to embrace me, but seeing my bandages, he stopped himself. “Oh, praise God. I will offer a thousand Masses of thanksgiving that you are well.”

  I smiled, knowing it was expected of me, even though the gesture meant nothing since I did not share Arthur’s faith. “I am alive,” I corrected him. “But I have a long way to go before I can be called well.”

  I shifted in the bed, unsure of how to act but unable to flee. How does one interact with their former husband who might or might not be guilty of trying to have one killed? I supposed one could pretend everything was fine, but that was not in my nature. I desperately wanted to ask how Morgan had deflected his curiosity about the poison, but leading with that was likely not a good idea.

  Arthur cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind, I would like to explain what happened that night. I want you to know.”

  “Go on,” I said cautiously.

  He sat on the edge of the bed. “You may recall that at Bishop Marius’s suggestion, I received Holy Communion and retired to bed after being unable to come to a verdict in your case. A night of prayer showed me how wrong Bishop Marius was in demanding your death. Upon reflection, I realized he was not in the least concerned with your affair with Lancelot, which was my reason for putting you on trial. He claimed to be concerned with your treasonous betrayal of me, but he was really acting out of his own selfish concerns—all because you do not share my Christian faith. You were unfaithful to me, yes, but as you said, I was equally disloyal to you. The whole trial became much more than anyone, Aggrivane and Mordred included, ever intended. They have told me how sorry they are.”

  I eyed him warily, pulling the blankets tighter to my breast like a shield. “They have shown me their regret by aiding i
n my rescue and healing. But what of you? I know you were unable to stop the burning. I saw it in a vision as I fought back the fire that raged around me.”

  Arthur’s face lit up with hope. “If you had a vision, then you know I was ill, incapacitated.” His words came faster now, as he sought to make me understand. “I have been over and over that night in my mind, trying to determine why I was so ill. It was no ordinary sickness, so I must suspect poison. The only thing I consumed that no one else did was Holy Communion, so I am holding Bishop Marius under suspicion.”

  In my mind’s eye, I once again saw the bishop tip a tiny drop into the Communion chalice. He turned and handed the vial to a woman in a dark hood. Her face was obscured, but a strand of copper hair peeked out, betraying her identity. “He did not act alone. You likely will not believe me when I name his accomplice, but I must.”

  Arthur studied my eyes and squeezed his own shut. He pinched the bridge of his nose as though his thoughts pained him. “Please do not say it was Morgan.”

  “Why do you suspect her?”

  “I don’t, but the bishop has named her as an accomplice.”

  “He tells the truth, at least in that regard. That is why I refused to let her near me with those anesthetizing drops. She heard me say she poisoned you. It is not so far a stretch to think she might not want someone who knows her secret to live.”

  Arthur scowled at me. “Morgan could never kill anyone, least of all you. You have known each other since you were girls in Avalon together.”

  “I would not be so sure.” I told Arthur about my vision of him crying out that the burning should be stopped. He was alone, so no one heard, and he was so ill he could not stand to go to anyone and give them word that he did not condone what was happening in the courtyard below.