Guinevere's Tale

by Nicole Evelina

  “So you would allow her to go free?” His warm breath brushed my cheek.

  “Not exactly. I will recommend to Arthur that he set Morgan up in comfort in a remote estate of her choosing so she will be less prone to trouble. I wouldn’t advise keeping her at court, lest she interfere again. And I don’t recommend you condone whatever plan she and Accolon have concocted. Chances are good it benefits them more than you.”

  Morgan returned then, and we jumped apart like two children caught in the act of stealing a cooling bread roll from the windowsill. Morgan didn’t seem to notice, holding out a bag to me. Her icy glare conveyed that if anyone outside this room ever heard that she still possessed a set of Holy Stones, she would make me regret it.

  I tipped the bag into my palm and picked out the lapis, placing it on my left, before setting the malachite on my right. I breathed deeply, allowing the quiet rhythm of four people breathing and the soft crackle of the fire to lull me into that place between worlds where the voices of the gods could be heard.

  The sight took over and I was no longer in the room with them. Flying above the field of battle and seeing through the eyes of the Morrigan’s crows, I learned this skirmish was meaningless. Yes, it would stop Constantine from advancing—for now—but it was but a small thread in the tapestry the gods were weaving with our lives.

  My fingers manipulated the pieces on and off the board until no more quartz or jasper remained. This war was not about the red and clear stones—Constantine and Mordred—at all. It was about those who were left, the blue—Morgan, the child raised in Avalon—and the green—me, the daughter of the Votadini. In the center, all alone, save for our two queens at the head of our armies, was the quartz king. But it wasn’t Mordred or Arthur; it was both. The stones were saying that in the end, the fate of Camelot would not rest in the hands of other lords or even foreigners; it depended on those of us in this room and our absent king.

  I came back to myself with a start. Mordred and Accolon were staring at me, but my attention was drawn to Morgan, who was gripping the edges of her chair, her eyes glassy and far away. She may no longer court the sight, but it clearly had a hold of her now. Her visions may well augment or explain what I had just experienced.

  I rushed to her side. “What do you see?”

  She did not respond immediately. Her eyes whipped back and forth, like those of a dreamer, watching something only she could perceive. “Arthur. He will never again set foot in Camelot.”

  Blood drained from my face and I grabbed her hand, seeking to steady myself on the arm of her chair. “He will die in Brittany?”

  “No. Not death, not yet.” Her eyes darted again as another vision overtook her. She paled and her eyes grew wide with horror, her mouth gaping, chin trembling as though she would cry.

  “What is it? Please tell me.”

  She was back to herself in the space of a breath, but her face still bore the etchings of worry and fear caused by her vision. She refused to meet my gaze, caught somewhere between this world and the next.

  “Morgan?”

  She did not answer, only shook her head slowly, gazing past me at her son.

  I squatted in front of her so that I was at her eye level, breaking her line of sight to Mordred. “I know you bear no love for me, but you need to unburden yourself. We both know the pain will only grow if you do not confide your fear. What did you see?”

  Her attention whipped back to me and her blue eyes fastened on mine. “I do not fear that which I can yet control.” She rose, back perfectly straight and shoulders set. “We can yet avoid calamity.” She took in Mordred and Accolon, who regarded her with a combination of curiosity and fear. “Arm yourselves, my loves. You have a battle to prepare for, one that will do much to cement your futures as leaders of Camelot. Guinevere can tell you more based on what she has seen. I have other matters to attend to if we are going to avoid the fate the gods have shown.” With no more explanation, she stalked toward the door, muttering, “Goddess help me, I will not allow them to make fools of us all.”

  Who exactly were they and how did her visions fit with mine? What role did she and I play in the coming war and how—and why—did Arthur and Mordred stand between us? The stones had told us that the gods knew the answer, but they were not yet ready to make us party to their plans.

  Chapter Six

  The next morning, I woke from a dreamless sleep before dawn, certainty like a block of ice in my stomach. Morgan had gone to see Marius after we read the stones. Why hadn’t I seen that before? Or at least understood it last night? I had been so caught up in my own visions and interpretations of them that it had taken the blackness of sleep to wash away the distractions.

  Marius, Morgan’s only ally in Camelot—outside of her son—was currently locked in Camelot’s cellar, awaiting Arthur’s return and his final punishment. In truth, it shocked me that Mordred had kept him imprisoned after freeing Morgan, but then again, Mordred bore no love for the bishop and at least this way he could keep him under close watch.

  The opportunity for duplicity had been there all along, and now Morgan would see him as a willing pawn in whatever game she was concocting to stave off the darkness of her mysterious vision. As mother to the acting king, anything the prisoner desired was in her power, so striking an accord with Marius would not be too difficult for her. Knowing Morgan, she would do anything Marius wanted if it ensured the future she feared would not come to pass.

  As I neared the cells, my skin prickled with panic and cold sweat dampened my neck. I would never again be able to go near this place without being taken back to my time here, when this very prisoner was plotting my death.

  Taking a fortifying breath, I motioned for the guard to unlock the stout cell door. For a moment, darkness overwhelmed me, but soon my eyes adjusted. In front of me was an empty cell devoid of anything save a fresh coat of rushes under a small pallet. Marius was not kneeling in prayer or huddled against a wall or even mocking me for taking so long to visit him. He was gone.

  I cursed. Depending on how long he had been missing, Marius could be halfway to Rome by now. Seething, I turned on the guard, drawing a long, thin dagger from my belt. “Where is he?”

  The guard stood frozen and unresponsive, fear etched into his features.

  Gritting my teeth, I tried again. “Where is the prisoner? Tell me, man, or it will be your blood upon these stones.” I prodded him with the tip of the blade.

  The guard swallowed hard, the motion making him wince as his Adam’s apple grazed the steel. “He was released a few hours ago. The Lady Morgan—”

  “Where did they go?”

  His eyes bulged in fear. “I do not know. I only did as she commanded.”

  I sheathed my dagger. I didn’t need to hear any more. Once Morgan had someone’s allegiance, she didn’t easily let it go, which was why many of the guards and servants still took orders from her. Damn Mordred for releasing her. Whether he knew it or not, he was slowly undoing all the justice Arthur had managed to impart before he left for Brittany.

  Emerging into the dawn, I shielded my eyes, trying to uncover where they would have gone. Slowly, I turned in a circle, taking in the familiar landscape as if I could reveal their footprints by sheer force of will. Camelot’s great fortress surrounded me on three sides, while the Bloody Lane branched off of the other. The castle’s exterior doors were barred to intruders, so unless Morgan had made a deal with the guards inside, there was no shelter for them within. That meant they had to have taken the Bloody Lane into the village.

  I had no choice but to set foot on the road that had once nearly led to my death. My stomach was in my throat by the time I reached the midpoint of the path. Homes, shops, and inns lined both sides, but few people were about at this early hour. I considered asking a woman loaded with sodden washing if she had seen a red-haired woman and a priest on her walk back from the river, but before I could appr
oach her, I spied a small path leading between two buildings.

  Narrow and nearly hidden by vines, it could be easily missed. Walls taller than a man cast deep shadows, plunging the path into perpetual gloom. This must be the Smugglers’ Path where Sobian heard so much of her information.

  I palmed my dagger, following the prodding of my instincts, which warned me this was not a safe place for a lone woman. But I was here and I had to see this through.

  Stepping into the shadows, I recoiled at the sour stench of urine. At my feet, a beggar lay sleeping, covered in filthy rags. I gingerly stepped around him. The alleyway was not long; already, sunlight beckoned from the far end. For an area no wider than my outstretched arms, it saw a fair amount of activity. Against one wall, a prostitute plied her trade, the girth of joined bodies nearly blocking my passage. As I squeezed past, back toward them to show I took no interest in their activities, two thieves bartered with a third over the value of a purloined bracelet and a little boy begged for coins and scraps. Thank you, Lady, for calling me to a station above this. Though my role as a disgraced queen was not the life I’d chosen, at least I need not make my living here.

  “Going somewhere, love?” The whore’s patron gripped my bottom with a grimy hand, his other arm coming around my neck.

  I ducked and tried to pull away from his grasp, but he was too strong. Abandoning his conquest for the moment, he pulled me against him, his naked prick rubbing against my back. My heart pounded. Memories of being raped and tortured by Malegant, one of the Combrogi, came rushing back as though they had happened just yesterday. They would not, could not happen again. I would not let it.

  “Why not join us?” the woman called, revealing several missing teeth. “Tis always more fun with two.” She laughed salaciously.

  “I prefer to leave you to it,” I answered, slamming my elbow into my captor’s gut.

  The air whooshed out of him in a grunt and he stumbled back, pinning the woman to the wall. I started to run, but he grabbed a fistful of my hair, pulling me back.

  Despite my prickling scalp, I whirled on him. “I was trying to be nice, but you are making that impossible.” I slashed out with my dagger, pinning his free hand to the wattle-and-daub wall.

  Instinctively, he released my hair. His howl of pain followed me down the alleyway as I fled. Men with contraband items scattered before me like rats, the beggar boy clearing the way by raising the cry of “intruder.”

  I stumbled into the adjoining street and my foot found a rut made by a wagon wheel, ankle twisting. I sucked in a sharp breath at the burning wrench, but I did not stop. A safe distance away, I stopped, bending double, hands on my thighs as I fought to catch my breath and ease the stitch in my side.

  Where was I? I had been so intent on escaping danger that I hadn’t paid attention to where I was going. Before me, a low stone wall protected travelers from plunging into the churning ocean as they made their way to and from the port below to the village. In the sea beyond lay the Grail Castle, its red-gold copula gleaming in the rising sun. The tide was just beginning to ebb, uncovering the narrow causeway connecting it to the mainland.

  I shielded my eyes from the brightness of the rising sun. On the near side of the island, a small boat bobbed in the current. Someone had journeyed there while the land passage was underwater—a risky maneuver in the best of times, but even more so in the twilight before dawn. Rocks and sandbars could easily wreck a vessel if one did not know where to steer, and though the castle was not far from shore, the water was deep and rough enough to drown even an experienced swimmer. Few people knew the area well enough to have navigated it safely. As bishop and one of the guardians of the Grail, Marius was one of them.

  The massive stones linking island to land were still slick as I raced across them, praying to catch up to Marius. If I did not, I likely would never find him again.

  I rushed through the exterior gate, past the small cells lining the outer ring of rooms, only to be stopped by a knot of pilgrims waiting to be admitted to the inner sanctuary where the Grail was housed.

  “What is this? Why are the doors closed?” They were never supposed to be closed. The Grail was always available to all, night or day.

  “The bishop asked for some time to pray alone,” answered a small woman who held a sleeping babe in one arm.

  “Did he?” No doubt for some nefarious purpose.

  I hurried down the circular corridor. What the pilgrims did not know was there was more than one entrance into the main chamber. Arthur had designed this building and could not talk about it enough during its long construction. As a result, I had its plans forever seared into my mind.

  The maze of corridors led me to a small antechamber where the priests and deacons of the Grail prepared themselves to celebrate its sacred rites. As I’d suspected, the cabinets were thrown open, their contents askew, sacred linens rumpled in half-open drawers. Marius had likely pilfered the finest, intent on either selling them to finance his flight or at least provide a basis of riches to establish his life outside of Camelot.

  “Going somewhere?” I demanded, bursting into the silent main chamber.

  Bishop Marius blinked at me like a mole newly emerged from underground. He was on his knees in front of the Grail, a large pack belching gold patens and a small book with jewel-encrusted binding at his feet.

  “How dare you disturb my prayer?” he exclaimed, his voice as sharp and cold as a newly honed knife blade. “I could have you arrested for disobeying my direct order of privacy.”

  “Why should I start listening to your commands now?” I countered, moving closer to him with each word. “You have no power over me. You never have. That is why you fear me.”

  Bishop Marius snorted. “If I feared you, I would not be here. I would still be locked away.” The bravado in his voice did not reach his eyes.

  “It is convenient to have friends who are willing to do you favors when it suits them, is it not? Morgan would not have released you if it did not suit her. What deal did you strike with her?”

  Marius glanced at the Grail. “That is none of your concern.”

  “Then call your guards. Have me arrested as you say.”

  Marius’s gaze flicked back to the cup raised high on a pillar for all to see.

  “No? Then you must not wish to draw attention to yourself either. What is your plan? Steal the Grail, then support Mordred’s rebellion from afar?”

  “I would never condone that pagan whelp as king,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain. “My aims lie across the sea.”

  His destination had to be Gaul or Brittany. Morgan did say Arthur and Lancelot were in trouble. Surely she would not move against her beloved Arthur, no matter what her son may or may not be planning. So he had to be supporting Arthur in his current battle. Marius had mentioned once that he had friends among the Bretons and Gauls.

  “How does this plan benefit you?” I narrowed my eyes, trying to position myself between him and the Grail.

  “Let us just say I will have the gratitude of the king if I can bring this war to an end.” Marius picked up his sack, its rich contents clanking loudly. “Now, if you will excuse me. It is time for me to depart.” He moved toward the Grail.

  “So that’s it then. You pay off the Breton nobles and move the Grail where it will bring them unending revenue. How do you expect to spirit it away without everyone chasing you?”

  Marius’s smile was wicked. “Haven’t you heard? Galahad dreamed that God wished it to be moved to Brittany, for they have held the faith much stronger than here. Or at least that is what we will tell everyone. Morgan has the ability to convince even Galahad it is true—and in many ways, it is. Arthur proved unworthy by placing power in his pagan son’s hands instead of trusting in his closest advisor.” He touched his own heart.

  “You tried to have him killed with that drugged wine, remember? Why would he eve
r trust you?”

  “Once he sees my role in ending the war and assuring his continuance as king, I will have his unending gratitude, even if I had to use the Grail to bring it about. It will wipe away all of my past sins and secure my position in his esteem.”

  “You were counting on his devotion to his faith to save you all along, weren’t you? Arthur could never bring himself to kill a priest, no matter what he’s done.”

  Marius gloated. “I know.” He reached for the Grail. “And neither could you or you’d have done it by now.”

  A low chuckle made us both turn.

  Mordred was standing in the entry, his arms crossed, with Mona, the Grail Maiden, at his side. “Then it’s a shame for you his son does not share his faith. I have no such compunction.”

  Marius’s face filled with dread.

  “If you touch the Grail, I will kill you myself.” Mona held up a large silver sickle, the weapon all Grail guardians wore at their sides. “You have proven yourself unworthy.”

  “You. How did you know?” Marius stuttered.

  Mona lightly touched the crescent moon at her brow. “We guardians always know when our sacred charge is in peril. We are bound to it. Now I must demand justice on its behalf.”

  Mordred grabbed Bishop Marius by the cowl and dragged him toward the Grail Maiden. “By your leave, Lady, I fear your punishment too swift for the likes of him. I have something else in mind that I assure you will satisfy both spiritual and temporal law.”

  “Is he dead?” I asked Mordred when more than a week had passed with no sign of Bishop Marius.

  Mordred squinted at me, wrinkling his nose. “I’m not sure. We could go together to find out.” He held out an arm, as though offering to escort me to the fair.