Guinevere's Tale

by Nicole Evelina

  I took the bottle and examined it. Now that she pointed it out, tiny letters near the neck designated it as valerian. While I had hoped this test would clearly proclaim Morgan’s guilt or innocence, all it had done was show that her case was not as cut-and-dried as that of Bishop Marius. I needed time to think. As much as I hated her, as much as I wanted to use this as an excuse for revenge, I could not do so out of hand, because everything Morgan said was plausible.

  I handed the bottle back to her. “I was hoping that would provide us with a clear answer. But it has not.” I rubbed my head. “Let us adjourn for today. I may speak with each of you tomorrow if more questions arise.”

  I left the council chambers and was on my way to the labyrinth at the center of Camelot, a courtyard garden made by Arthur for me as a wedding gift and meant as a place of refuge when I needed to clear my mind, when Arthur bellowed Aggrivane’s name.

  I raced toward the sound, only to find Arthur leaning over a letter in the great hall, a messenger at his side. The midday light revealed his anger, his eyes flashing as they skimmed over the ink, cheeks enflamed, golden hair standing at attention like stalks of barley.

  “My lord?” Aggrivane stepped as close to Arthur as he dared, wisely well out of arm’s reach.

  Arthur looked up, seeming for a moment to have forgotten he’d called for Aggrivane. “I need as many fighting men as you can muster. Bring them to the barracks yard within the hour. I will survey them then.” He turned to me. “Guinevere, I need you to find the Combrogi and call back as many as you can.”

  When Arthur made for the door, I grabbed his arm, stopping him before he could make it into the hall. “What is it? What is happening?”

  “They—the house of Dorngwenn”—he stabbed the parchment—“have taken Kay hostage. I mean to get him back.”

  “Isn’t there any other way? You said yourself you were loath to start a war.”

  Arthur glared at me. “It is this or receive my brother’s body in pieces. They were very clear about that.”

  “Then let me come with you. You know what an asset I can be in battle. You can leave me there with Lancelot once everything is over.”

  Arthur studied me, considering my words. “No. I will not draw you into yet another war. Besides, your job here is not finished.”

  He turned away, but I stopped him, forcing him to face me. “Then I will tell you my judgment now and you can act upon it whenever you will. Please, Arthur. Let us call an end to this.”

  “No. I need someone here to ensure Morgan and Marius do not escape.”

  “So I am their jailor now?” I asked, aghast.

  “Be reasonable,” Arthur all but yelled. “Mordred will be concerned with affairs of state and I will be taking most of the Combrogi with me. I am entrusting them to your care because I know you will do what is right.”

  “And you aren’t willing to be rid of me,” I said under my breath, but Arthur did not hear over his own summons to Mordred.

  Mordred trotted to Arthur’s side before the echo of his name had faded. “Yes, Father?”

  Arthur removed the torc from around his neck and placed it around his son’s. “I turn control of Camelot over to you. I must go to Brittany as soon as possible and likely will not return for some time. Do not carry out the sentence against Bishop Marius or pass judgment on your mother until I return.” He clasped his son’s shoulder. “See that peace is maintained in my absence and watch over Guinevere.”

  Mordred beamed. “Of course, Father.”

  The exchange should have been innocent, but when Mordred looked at me, something in his smile chilled my bones. An ambitious and well-trained heir, he had been waiting for just such an opportunity. Only time would tell how much Arthur would come to regret this choice.

  Chapter Five

  Summer 519

  As summer’s heat slowly took hold, it became clear that Camelot was changing under Mordred’s rule. With most of the Combrogi off fighting at Arthur’s side, he enjoyed nearly absolute power, something to be feared in one so young and rash.

  I was not the only one to take note, and that meant our people, already distrustful, became increasingly nervous. It began with rumblings in the countryside. The lowly men and women who came to Camelot on pleading day—a custom Mordred tolerated but delegated to me because it tried his patience—all told tales of the Picts massing as though for some great council. According to one woman, the northern tribes—the Damnonii, Novantae, Selgovae, and Votadini—were growing restless as well, no doubt spooked by the sudden activity of the Picts.

  Next came whisperings in the marketplace, brought back by Sobian’s ever-observant ears. “Some of the women say the townsfolk are quietly taking sides. The whores at the Boar’s Head say their patrons argue nightly. Some of the merchants’ wives say their husbands have been discussing it too.”

  I stopped the spinning wheel in front of me, relaxed the arm holding the yarn, and looked at Sobian. “You cannot truly believe Mordred is planning an insurrection, can you?”

  She leveled me with her most serious look. “I can, and I do. And I do not believe he will do it alone. He aims to unite the Picts and the Saxons against Arthur. The northern tribes too, if they’ll take him. I think that’s the real reason why he’s keeping you here.”

  “Keeping me here?”

  “Yes. Mordred easily could have sent you to Brittany with Arthur or put you on a ship following in his wake, but he needs you. You are Mordred’s greatest asset, and also a threat. Regardless of what Arthur said that day in front of the Combrogi, you are still our consecrated queen. Arthur cannot undo that. He can renounce you all he wants, but only death can unmake a queen. We all know how the ancient law works. For another to become king, the power of sovereignty must pass through you. He needs your cooperation, if not your blessing, to fulfill his plans.”

  I considered her words. “I have already told Mordred I will not seek the throne, so I am no threat to him. How else could I be of help to him?”

  Sobian fixed me with a hard stare. “Are you daft or in denial? He could marry you, for one. Do not tell me it never crossed your mind. He needs a strong wife to cement his power, and you have more than proven your skill. It is either you or one of the Saxons or Picts. He already knows and loves you. It is not so big a leap.”

  “But I am like a mother to him!” I swallowed hard to contain the bile that soured the back of my throat.

  “Still, you are not his kin, so nothing is stopping him if he is of a mind to do it. All I am saying is to be wary.”

  Thanks to this exchange, that night at dinner, we both had our hackles up, especially given the extravagant meal. The largess was unusual and could not be without meaning. Who was Mordred trying to impress and why? I couldn’t help but watch every move he and Morgan made, my eyes narrowing as I calculated the nuances behind the idle conversation as we slowly demolished the fully dressed swan and several additional courses.

  The pageantry had to be for his mother’s new champion, Accolon, the second son of the house of Rheged. I had never trusted that man, not since the day he’d tried so hard to catch his cousin Aggrivane and I in the act of a dalliance under Pellinor’s roof. He certainly shouldn’t be privy to the intimate conversations of our private meals.

  For such dynamics to be at play, more had to be going on in Mordred’s court than simply holding power in Arthur’s stead. Waiting any longer to find out if the rumors were true, if Mordred was angling to make his temporary power into something more, would be dangerous. However, I couldn’t simply ask him outright; I needed to use a question that would appear innocent to outsiders, yet test the limits of Mordred’s willingness to confide in me.

  Picking at my pudding with feigned disinterest, I asked, “The barracks and smithy were quite busy when Sobian and I passed them earlier today. You have given them some special assignment?”

  “On
ly ensuring our standing army stays in practice and our weapons are at the ready in our king’s absence,” he answered.

  “That does not explain the Saxon spears and Pictish swords I saw cooling on the racks,” Sobian said, one eyebrow raised in subtle challenge.

  Mordred shrugged. “Just because Arthur refuses to adopt the weapons of our enemies does not mean I will be as narrow-minded.” He turned to me. “You were a battle queen. Do you not agree that we should have every useful weapon at our disposal?”

  I ran a finger around the rim of my cup, considering his words. He did have a point. If his words were true, then my suspicions were nothing more than a case of mistaken purpose. Maybe the rest of the rumors were the same. The Pictish gathering everyone was so concerned about could have been planned long before Arthur left for Brittany. As for the villagers taking sides, wasn’t it natural to compare the son to his father? It could all come down to a matter of interpretation. Having known Mordred for so long, I desperately wanted to believe it, to trust him.

  “I do. In fact, I wonder that we did not think of it before.”

  Mordred smiled. “It is understandable. You had more pressing matters to attend to, such as securing the peace we now enjoy. But I wish to be prepared, for our enemies will only stay quiet for so long. We will be ready when they decide to move.”

  Satisfied with his answer, at least about the smithy, I settled back into my chair, casting a glance at Sobian to gauge her reaction. She was observing Mordred through lowered lashes, pretending—for I had learned many of her schemes in the last nineteen years—to be overcome by the generous food and drink. That she was employing such an act meant only one thing—she didn’t believe him.

  Though I accepted his answer about the weapons, I still harbored misgivings about his overall plan. Did Mordred know a strong contingent of his people were suspicious of his motives? He deserved to know what was being whispered behind his back. “I fear your good intentions may have been misunderstood.”

  Mordred wrinkled his brow and fixed me with a questioning look.

  “Surely you have heard what the people are saying about you?”

  “I have not,” he said slowly, leaning forward over his plate, elbows on the table, intensely interested now.

  I cleared my throat, unsettled by how much he looked like Arthur in that pose. “They say you are planning rebellion. They tell tales that you are allying with the Picts and trying to convince the four northern tribes to overthrow Arthur while he is in Brittany.”

  As quickly as they’d materialized, the similarities between father and son melted away. Whereas Arthur would have gone quiet at that news, blue eyes pensive with concern, Mordred merely nodded, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

  “This news cannot possibly please you,” I said, aghast.

  “Of course it can,” Mordred answered over the rim of his cup. “What did the old philosopher say? ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend’?”

  Mordred’s calm unnerved me more than if he had screamed his outrage. I narrowed my eyes at him as I ripped off a hunk of bread, needing something to do with my hands. “But the northern tribes are our allies. Whose enemy does that make them? The Saxons?”

  “For one,” Mordred replied around a mouthful of spiced plums.

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “What exactly are you planning?”

  It was Morgan who answered. “That is for us to know.” She gave me an indulgent smile that reeked of triumph and stroked Accolon’s hand as though he were a prized pet. “While we’re talking about enemies, I have it on good authority that Mark’s nephew, Constantine, may be our next threat.”

  “Is he still waving his sword around?” Accolon asked, more amused than concerned. “He is fairly impotent as long as Arthur and Mordred live.”

  “What about Helene? Does she not factor into the line of succession?” I asked, glancing at Morgan.

  “No one would accept a woman as High Queen alone, much less a mere girl who has not yet lost her milk teeth,” Accolon scoffed. “But as Arthur’s daughter she will be quite a prize as she grows.” He turned to Morgan. “You would do well to guard her against men like me.”

  She glared back at him, but said nothing.

  Returning to his original point, Accolon added, “No, Constantine is not a real threat. His claim to Camelot rests only in that Arthur favored him before he knew about his son, so he can do nothing until the throne is vacant.”

  “Tell that to the people of the Summer Country,” Morgan retorted. “I hear that he is working his way north and has his sights set next on Venta Belgarum. The people there are either fleeing into the hillfort or trying to outrun his army to safety.”

  Mordred’s expression clouded. “Why did I not know of this?” His tone was sharp, a mixture of anger and accusation aimed at his mother.

  “I only received word yesterday.” Morgan placed her hand over her son’s as though to placate him. “I have friends in the south who report he is showing signs of having taken after his uncle in ambition. They say he now demands his household function like a Roman villa. His confidants say he wishes to restore Britain to its former Imperial glory.”

  Mordred adopted Arthur’s pensive look, staring across the room into nothingness.

  “That is troubling.” It was the only thing I could think to say.

  “Indeed,” Mordred mumbled, still deep in thought.

  Morgan looked at us as though we were daft and threw up her hands. “Am I the only one who sees the opportunity here? Son, you need to act decisively against Constantine without delay. The people need a reason to trust you—perhaps even fear you. If you can secure Venta Belgarum, you will be a hero to the largest kingdom in Britain and you will demonstrate your might to the kingdom of Bernicia and anyone else who might oppose you.”

  Sobian leaned over and whispered in my ear, shielding her mouth from view with one hand, “She is acting like Mordred is king in fact as well as name, as though Arthur is dead.”

  I shivered involuntarily. “Perhaps to her, he is. He abandoned her without a ruling, and no one knows what will happen when he returns. If she doesn’t act now, she may miss her only chance.”

  “Meaning?”

  I shook my head, glancing at Mordred. “Not here. I’ll tell you tonight.” I sighed, watching Morgan quietly explained her idea to Mordred. Accolon nodded along like a devoted hound. “I don’t like that she can so easily manipulate Accolon. He and Owain are a formidable force, and popular as well. If she can control them, Arthur may not have a throne to return to.”

  “Guinevere,” Mordred called, breaking up our side conversation, “do you still have your set of Holy Stones? Bring them out.”

  “What? Why?” Despite my confusion, I rose, already obeying his command.

  Why would he make such a request? Holy Stones, considered by some to be merely a game but taught to all priestesses as part of our training, was a method of divination long used by the Druids to advise chieftains in battle. Each stone represented a different type of solider, each triangle an opposing army led by a red queen. When combined with the sight and proper training, a Druid or priestess could use them to divine the outcome of a battle, thus ensuring the safest course of action for their ruler. It was normally only used in times of war or uncertainty.

  Ah, that was it. Mordred was weighing the wisdom of his mother’s plan and wanted to know what the gods predicted. Since Morgan’s conversion to Christianity, she had forsworn such acts of divination. But lucky for Mordred, I had not and I had a different gift. Whereas she could see the future, I could see what was presently happening at a distance, which would give Mordred the chance to head off any future that his mother had already foreseen.

  My stomach churned as I traced the halls to my chambers and back, a small round board under my arm and a bag of stones in hand. My feet moved by long habit, mind absorbed in t
he ramifications of what I was about to do. I had little choice but to read the stones for Mordred; while he did not hold me there against my will, I had nowhere to go if he tired of me or turned me out. Plus, angering him was dangerous; there were sufficient people who wished to finish what the bishop had started that I was best under Mordred’s protection until Arthur could pardon Lancelot and see me safely to Brittany.

  When I returned, they had all arranged themselves in front of the fire, leaving an empty place to Mordred’s right for me. I set up the board with two sets of opposing stones, the clear quartz representing Mordred’s army, the red jasper Constantine’s, just as we had been taught in Avalon. But something was not right. Every time I looked at the board, I saw shadows to my left and right. There were more parties involved.

  “Morgan, do you still have your set? I need more stones. They are telling me there is more at play.”

  She scowled at me but silently got to her feet and left the room.

  While she was away, Mordred drew me off to one side, out of Accolon’s hearing.

  “I heard you and Sobian speaking earlier.”

  “And?” I tried to keep my voice light, but my embarrassment at being caught burned in my cheeks. How much had he heard?

  He leaned in so that our noses almost touched, an oddly intimate gesture. “What is your ruling? Would you kill my mother along with the priest?”

  I swallowed, not wishing to divulge my thoughts to him, especially without Arthur as witness. Although, since Mordred was acting king, he had just as much right to that information as his father. I took a deep breath.

  “No,” I answered slowly, forcing myself to look Mordred in the eye. “Just as when you were accused of raping that girl, I cannot determine her guilt or innocence with any certainty. She could be lying or she could be speaking the truth. As much as I want to punish her for what she has done to me and to Arthur, I cannot condemn a fellow priestess without irrefutable proof.”