Guinevere's Tale

by Nicole Evelina

  As if on cue, a woman yelled, “For Saint Marius!”

  “Pray for us, patron saint of Britain,” answered a man behind her.

  So that was what Camelot had come to—arson, incendiary weapons, and canonizing a monster. Please, Goddess, let Arthur return to us soon.

  We had little time to grieve our losses or even to rescue the remnants from the ashes before the fighting escalated. The following night, Mordred’s supporters struck back, burning homes and buildings owned by known supporters of the absent king. But they didn’t stop there. Fanning out into the countryside, they torched farms, slaughtered livestock, and destroyed crops, heedless of the consequences their depravity would have on all of Camelot’s citizens. Come winter, we would all pay for their madness with shriveled bellies.

  By dawn, the survivors were on our doorstep, their need turning the partially burned castle into a makeshift hostel. We set up beds in the great hall and sent the kitchens into festival-level day and night shifts of cooking. I split my time between helping Mordred and Morgan manage the chaos and providing healing to those injured in the attacks, as well as to others who normally did not have access to a healer. They were eager to tell their stories, to unburden their minds and hearts of the horrors of that night, telling detailed tales of cruelty and hatred directed against Arthur and his supporters.

  “They will go any lengths to prevent him from ever sitting on his throne again,” one man told me.

  Outside, the whole town was buzzing, mobs forming in the sodden, blackened streets. The fortress guards had their hands full trying to contain the crowds and keep violence from breaking out among rival factions. Their chants and demands reached us in Camelot’s council chambers, where we were trying to sort through the mess Arthur’s capital had become.

  “This is not the way of Camelot,” I said to the assembly. “Arthur and I founded this town on the ideas of peace and mercy, uniting our tribes, not fighting amongst ourselves.” Though I was no longer officially part of the council, Mordred had asked me to join him in this meeting.

  “Pretty words. But what do you propose we do to stop them?” Bors asked.

  I glared at him but directed my words to Mordred. “Arthur left you king in his stead. You must make a public statement. The people riot because they are wondering whether the rumors are true. You must tell them once and for all whether or not you seek the throne.”

  “It is not a wise move, my lord, to turn against Arthur,” Owain said. “I am told whatever message or bribery the bishop sent to Brittany before his death did its job. The war there is ending. Your father, the king, will return soon.”

  “Then we make our announcement now, gather what strength we can while Arthur is across the sea. That way we will be ready for him when he comes,” Accolon said with conviction.

  “Are you seeking the throne?” I asked Mordred. He had never been clear on that, preferring to let speculation play out.

  Mordred was seated in Arthur’s place of honor. Morgan sat in the throne of High Queen, a title which she had not been awarded, but she wore the mantle of power all the same.

  “I have made certain alliances my father would deem foolish,” Mordred said, choosing his words carefully. “We have at our disposal the armies of two powerful factions, should we choose to use them.”

  So he had allied with the Saxons and Picts. Mordred had previously admitted to learning from them, but he had given no sign how deep his diplomacy with them ran. Exactly what had he and Ida discussed in private when he was here? What negotiations had we not been privy to? Anything he would keep from the council had to be either illegal or unethical.

  Bors must have been thinking along the same lines. “Tread carefully, my lord. Let us not forget what trusting the Saxons meant for the old tyrant Vortigern.” He made a slicing motion across his neck. “Besides, I’ll not fight alongside their filthy armies with their brutish women. Women are meant for the home, not the battlefield.” He threw a poignant look at Sobian.

  “Is that so? Well then, the next time I have the opportunity to rescue you, I’ll pass you by. I’ve already saved you twice. That is enough,” Sobian spat. “But Bors is right. The Saxons have been our enemies for sixty years. There is no reason to believe that if we ally with them now, they won’t simply betray us like they did Vortigern.”

  “Ah, but we do have a reason to trust them,” Mordred countered.

  “And what is that?” I asked.

  Mordred signaled to Accolon to open the doors. Elga stood on the threshold, her dark eyes shining with a powerful secret. A collective gasp went up from the crowd as warriors recognized their enemy from the battle of Mount Badon.

  “What is she doing here?” Owain asked.

  “She should have been killed on sight. An oversight that can be quickly remedied,” Aggrivane said. He hand went to his side where his sword usually hung, as though he had forgotten all weapons were surrendered before each council meeting.

  Mordred placed himself between them, but it was Elga who spoke, slithering past Mordred’s shielding shoulder with a cruel grace Morgan would have envied. “You are still upset I evaded your pursuit after the war, I see. No matter. I would have killed you had we engaged, so it is better this way for us both.” Her accent was still thick, but her mastery of our tongue was much improved.

  Mordred turned to me, continuing our interrupted conversation. “I suppose it is time all of you knew the extent of my plans. My accord with the Saxons goes deeper than mere words. You see, Elga is my wife. We were handfast according to the traditions of both our peoples. The gods willing, we will soon be bound by blood.” He patted her belly softly.

  The silence that followed was so absolute that had it not been for the chanting of the protestors below, I would have thought myself back in that limbo between life and death. I stared at Elga, whose whole being radiated power. She was likely twice Mordred’s age, but for all those years, she was still beautiful and could reasonably produce a few more heirs before her breeding time ended.

  Aggrivane was the first to find his voice. “Is she to be High Queen then? We have never had a foreigner hold that title. You must know how upsetting it will be to the people.”

  “I am no foreigner,” Elga countered. “I may have Saxon blood, but I was born on British soil. I would see my people rise to power, yes, but alongside yours. Badon taught me much, as I am sure it did you. The biggest lesson was that my first husband was wrong to try to annihilate you. My people are not ever returning to our ancestral lands and I know the fierceness with which you defend your homes, so we are at an impasse. We must learn to live side by side if we are to survive.”

  More pretty words. Elga couldn’t be trusted any more now than the day I met her, the day she took the life of her newborn nephew. “How can we be sure the words you speak are not just lies aimed at softening our underbellies?”

  Elga regarded me appraisingly. “You are wise to ask this, Queen Guinevere. I call you by your title for you still hold it according to our old ways. I will not ask you to pass it to me until after we have ascended to power. Only by my actions will you know my words are true.”

  Her actions? Which ones? Aiding in Mordred’s rebellion? Engaging Arthur in another battle? “You are saying that by killing the king, you will prove to me you are not a traitor to Britain?”

  Elga looked down, unconsciously fingering the blades hanging at her waist. “I hope it does not come to that. I would much rather live in peace with my husband’s father.”

  “He will never accept you,” Aggrivane sneered. “And neither do I.” He rose, confronting Mordred. “No matter Arthur’s trust in you, I cannot continue to serve a man who allies with Saxons. I will rejoin Arthur’s army when he returns.”

  “Watch your back until then,” Bors warned Aggrivane. “For you have just declared yourself an enemy of Mordred’s crown.”

  “Indeed I have. But
if you wanted to kill me, you would have done so years ago. You’ve had ample opportunity.” He was in Bors’s face now, pointing a threatening finger at his former brother-in-arms. “But if you wish, I will face you in single combat. I do not brook cowards, so don’t even consider a sneak attack. We are all witnesses to your declaration, and I swear to you, if anything happens to me, there are men here who will hunt you down.”

  As if in agreement, Gawain and two of his friends drew their eating daggers, making a show of cleaning them on their tunics.

  Owain bolted to his feet. “Stand down, all of you! We have enough factions at war outside. We do not need to create dissension among our ranks as well. I am not happy about Mordred’s choice of wife, but I wish to hear him out. There is one question he has yet to answer. What about the Picts? How will you secure their loyalty?”

  “Thank you, Owain. I have nothing so solid as a marriage to offer you with the Picts, only a traditional alliance. We have been discussing how the borders of the ancient imperial walls hold no value in a world without Rome. Our agreement is based on the mutual understanding that when I become king, all the people of this island—Britons, Picts, and the tribes in between—will be one. I seek to expand north what my father started.”

  It was Sobian’s turn to stand. “But first there must be a mighty battle to determine who is indeed king.” She scoffed, disgust writ large in her features. “Neither you nor Arthur will have my sword. My girls and I will go seek our fortunes in Eire, where at least some bit of reason remains.”

  She signaled to her women scattered about the room, who detached themselves from the rest of the crowd. Without a word, they all headed for the door.

  Sobian paused before me. “You are welcome to join us, but I know your heart lies across another sea. Call if you ever need me and I will return.” She kissed my cheek and was gone.

  My stomach lurched. As bleak as life in Camelot now was, if Mordred followed through on his plans, the future would be even darker. For all his playing at power, he was still relatively untested and idealistic, and so failed to grasp the repercussions of his bid for power.

  “Mordred, have you fully considered the impact of your actions? Your intent is noble and it sounds reasonable in theory, but as soon as you let the Picts south of Antontine Wall, they will invade the Selgovae, Damnonii, and Votadini, who will then flee into Lothian, Bernicia, and on to Strathclyde. Do you really want them overrunning Camelot? Because it will happen. Look at the people who now call Camelot home after one night of insurrection. Can you imagine how much worse it will be when they are pursued by the Picts? Before you know it, you will be overrun with refugees and will have civil war on your hands, thanks to the prejudices against those living north of Hadrian’s Wall.”

  Mordred sighed. “You are correct, but you are also thinking within old tribal rivalries. All of that will be gone under my reign.”

  I shook my head. “You are young and naïve. Do you really believe people will drop tribal allegiances they’ve held for thousands of years simply because you tell them to? You are merely giving them an excuse to harass each other in ways they’ve only dreamed of until now. Please, at least consider my words. I was High Queen for twenty years. I understand how our people think.”

  Mordred’s expression softened. “I know that, and I respect your experience. It is one of the reasons why I keep you in close council. We have time yet before such things will take place. We can discuss them more later. But now”—he took Elga’s hand and rose to stand beside her—“I have a populous to address.”

  As he strode onto the balcony, I slipped from the room with Aggrivane at my heels. I could not stay and listen to Mordred and Elga speak. The reaction of the crowd would be too painful, and it would be a betrayal of all I stood for to silently witness the shattering of the dream Arthur and I had created. But even the thick walls of Camelot could not shield my ears from the competing cheers and jeers that rose like an angry sea in the aftermath of Mordred’s words.

  Like it or not, we were in full-on rebellion.

  Chapter Seven

  Spring 520

  Time was running out.

  The inevitable clash between father and son was drawing near. According to my latest communication with Pelles, Arthur and his troops were even now at sea, heading toward home. By the next full moon, they would no doubt be matched in pitched battle.

  I set aside Pelles’s letter with a sigh and looked out the window across the burned-out shell of the western tower, down to the village below, wondering if Arthur would even recognize his home when he returned. Though this day appeared no different from any other, with tradesmen, fishermen, servants, and soldiers all going about their daily lives, there was an undercurrent of tension in the air, as though we were under constant threat of a storm about to break. If we could feel it even here in the castle, how much more keenly must the villagers perceive it?

  In the streets, clashes between warring factions were now the norm, even as Mordred’s men struggled to keep order. Their exhaustion fed short tempers, causing Camelot’s men to seek any release they could find. The barkeeps welcomed them with flowing ale and whores loved the uptick in business, but when the barrels ran dry and the women were all occupied, even the noblest of men resorted to beating his neighbor to a bloody pulp.

  In the castle, things were little better. Aggrivane had already left to meet Arthur’s party when they docked on the Lothian coast. If Owain could not make Mordred see sense, he was likely to follow. Bors spent his time whipping Mordred’s followers into a froth by harping on the injustices done by Arthur and his men—some real, some spun out of whole cloth. Amid this tension, Morgan was strangely quiet, deeply withdrawn into herself, refusing to take sides between her husband and her son.

  I was all but forgotten, which suited me fine. I had my own decision to make regarding the coming war. On one hand, Arthur was king and I his queen. But on the other, he had divorced me and declared my power void before seriously considering ending my life over my affair with Lancelot. Part of me still hated him. The other part could not bear to see our shared dream laid to waste.

  I understood Mordred’s ambition. After Arthur’s role in my near-burning, many thought him unfit to rule, even if he was the victim of Morgan and Marius’s machinations. Why should Mordred not step in? He could wait for Arthur to die, but Arthur’s weakness and absence gave him the perfect opportunity to ascend while his father still lived. As he’d pointed out last time we spoke, he had been born for the throne, even before he knew he was Arthur’s son. He had been raised by Uriens, King of Rheged, blessed with Morgan’s cunning, learned statecraft from Owen, skills of the blade from Accolon, and was fostered by Lot, the realm’s greatest strategist. Those things, combined with more than a decade at Arthur’s side, made him a capable ruler.

  Yet I could not offer my support to him either. For all his diplomacy and strategy, he was still a rash young man whose ambition could quickly get the better of him. He was so focused on becoming king, I doubted he ever gave a thought to what would happen once he was officially king and the ruler upon whom all of our lives depended.

  A knock brought me back to the present. Mordred stepped into the room, a round board under one arm. “I hope I am not disturbing you.”

  “No, not at all. I was just thinking.”

  Mordred took a seat near me. “About the future, I am certain. It is on all minds these days.”

  I nodded.

  When I did not elaborate, Mordred let the silence stretch between us. Finally, he pulled over a small table and set his circular board on it before arranging stones from a pouch at his waist into two triangles facing off across a field of wood. He sat forward, taking my hand. “I know it cannot be easy for you, being trapped between Arthur and me. You know I need your support for the people to accept me. You are Sovereignty herself. Those of the old faith will only back me with your blessing. But I know
you also feel some measure of devotion to my father, in spite of all you’ve been through. It is my hope that these stones will show us where your loyalty should lie.”

  The same thought had crossed my mind, but I didn’t want him to know that. “Then why not let me do it in private? What do you hope to gain from asking me to read these with you?”

  “I simply wish to run the battle twice, once with your support and once without it. That will tell us if you are as important a factor as I believe you are.” Mordred’s attempts to sway me without being cruel or unjust were admirable. In that way, as in so many others, he really was his father’s son.

  “But you will also get a glimpse of how prepared Arthur is,” I added.

  “I did not say there would not be other benefits,” he teased.

  I exhaled a deep breath through my nose, looking at him, reluctant to succumb to his charm. “Only this once, and only because I see benefit in it as well. When I make my decision, you will stand by it, no matter what.”

  Mordred placed a hand over his heart. “On my honor, I do so swear.”

  I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, willing my whirling thoughts to still. Sending my being down deep, I sought the heartbeat of the earth. Focusing on my breathing, which settled to an even rhythm under such close scrutiny, I let all things go. Soon, there were no crying gulls circling outside, and even Mordred’s presence became a memory.

  I opened my eyes, focusing on the pieces, seeing in their place troops of men. Arthur and Mordred faced off in a grassy field bisected by a shallow river of quick-flowing, dark water. In the space of a heartbeat, the battle began, father against son, Saxon against Briton, Pict cutting down Combrogi. My hands directed the stones without my knowledge. The battle was fierce and bloody. In the end, not a single stone remained on the board.

  Blinking away the trance that had overtaken me, I found Mordred staring at my cupped palms.