Guinevere's Tale

by Nicole Evelina

  That didn’t even factor in the Saxons and the Picts, who, even if the last of the Combrogi managed to contain them, would likely be making their own bids for expanded land. I had a feeling Elga still lived, and if I was correct, she would come here to seek my blood. I would not let Mayda pay for her sister’s twisted sense of vengeance. Plus, even if the Picts chose to turn tail and return to their homelands, they would no doubt wreak havoc on their way, and sooner or later, they would resume their centuries-old war with the tribes of the north. With no strong Briton leadership to stop them, they would press as far south as they could.

  No, this was not the time for me to retreat into the mists. Let those who will believe I died in a convent, but I would complete my life as I had started it—as a warrior’s daughter. There was only one place for that—my mother’s homeland and its capital of Din Eidyn.

  I knelt one last time, squinting through the small window to ensure the sisters would be at Mass a while longer. My gaze traveled over the white-robed women, hair covered in light lace veils and crowns of lilies, and alighted on Mayda. She was at the head of the group of older sisters, nearest to the priest, her face suffused with joy at the resurrection of her god. I would miss her terribly. I couldn’t predict what her sister would do when she showed up here and found me missing, but at least Elga would have no reason to harm her. That was the best repayment I could give—for now.

  I smoothed out the bedspread and turned in a circle one last time, making sure I hadn’t left anything. On impulse, I swept a hand under the bed, and it brushed against something hard. I withdrew the box of jewels. I opened it, tempted to take one to safeguard my passage north. But I could not. It would be wrong to use my hosts that way.

  I closed the box and set off to return it to Mayda’s office. On the way, I passed the kitchens, silent save two young maids, one turning the spit and the other minding a bubbling cauldron, both of which would be served at the feast after Mass. They were so intent on their duties, it was not hard to slip past them and into the small larder. As I would not be around for the morning meal, I did not feel guilty about taking some bread, cheese, a bit of smoked fish, and a skin of wine for my journey.

  Provisions packed, I unlocked Mayda’s door and placed the box back where I had found it. The light caught on Arthur’s ring in its customary place on my right hand, and I realized I had the means to fund my journey after all. I could easily pawn it in town. No one would recognize me, and it was doubtful any enterprising man would turn down a rare piece of gold and jewels. It was also fitting, I supposed, that I leave my last vestige of Arthur behind, as I was leaving behind my life as queen.

  I stepped out into the bright light of the courtyard with a heart weighed down by sorrow. No one was around to witness my leaving, not even the porter. She too was attending Mass. But that also meant there was no one to witness my grief. As I closed the latch of the convent gate, I didn’t even bother wiping the tears away or trying to stave off the throbbing of my thrice-broken heart. Facing the open road and an uncertain future, I gave in to my loneliness and misery, praying that at my journey’s end, I might find some measure of peace.

  Chapter Nine

  Summer 520

  On my way north, I detoured to Traprain Law to express my condolences to Lot and Anna over the loss of their sons. Not long after I arrived, word reached us from Avalon that Arthur was dead; even the ministrations of nine priestesses hadn’t been enough to save our king.

  Anna and Lot shared my loss and understood my relationships with Arthur and Aggrivane better than anyone, so they allowed me to fall to pieces in ways few others would have tolerated. I did not sleep and refused to eat, taking only a little bread and water and only after Anna practically forced it down my throat.

  I had lost my husband—estranged though we were—and the man I considered a son even though we were not related by blood. Mordred’s death brought back the stinging pain of losing my own children in childbed, redoubling the bitterness that lingered in the cockles of my heart. I mourned Mordred’s unfulfilled potential, for what could have been had he not been corrupted by the lust for power that poisoned his blood, a curse inherited from his mother. He had been a brilliant man, perfectly suited to carry on Arthur’s legacy, but somehow he had gone astray, forming loyalties that may have destroyed our country had he lived to overthrow his father.

  I railed at the gods for the loss of Arthur. Despite all we had been through, he was my husband and I still loved him. I grieved the man that only Morgan and I truly knew, the humorous, tender soul behind the gruff, noble exterior. The man who built the labyrinth and garden at the center of Camelot out of concern for my welfare, who laid his newborn children to rest alone when I was too ill to attend their funeral, who accepted a madwoman back into his heart and made room for me beside the woman he truly loved instead of consigning me to the whims of fate, as was his right.

  I had been so focused on hating Arthur for his missteps over the last two years that it took his death to make me remember what a truly remarkable man he was. I shed tears over my shortsightedness and mourned the loss of any chance of reconciliation. I would have relished watching him grow old from afar, passing Camelot on to Mordred and enjoying his twilight years in peace. But such is not the fate of a warrior, much less a king, and somewhere deep down, I knew his soul gloried at having died in battle, even if it was against his own son. Perhaps they were even now making peace in the Otherworld.

  Then there was Aggrivane. Of all the losses I had faced in my life—my mother, father, Arthur, Octavia, countless friends and warriors dead in war—this pain was the most bitter. Aggrivane was my first love, and with his death, I grieved the end of the hopes I still held from our youth. He had been my first great mistake, but one I would make again if given the chance. A man I betrayed in my efforts to safeguard both our hearts and our reputations; he had betrayed me too, but he had also been there for me in the darkest moments before what, by all rights, should have been my death. To say goodbye to him was to bid farewell to so much of who I had been, to dreams buried deep, to a love that could never be.

  In his death and the end to all I held on to from my youth, I had to accept my own aging and mortality. I was no mere girl, nor even the thriving queen who had once overseen the whole of the country; I was now an old woman, a crone, who had seen forty summers. Tangled with my mourning was a loss of self unlike any I had ever known. Even as a young girl facing my reflection before stepping onto the boat to Avalon, I had been secure in the knowledge I was the daughter of the king and queen of Gwynedd. I may not have known whether I was fated to become a priestess or rule a kingdom—or both, as the years later revealed—but I was certain of my roots. I had a foundation on which to build my budding personhood.

  Now, all I had was a pile of discarded identities—lover, wife, queen, mother—none of which fit anymore. I didn’t even know what had become of Lancelot. Had he tried to find me in Camelot? What fears had plagued him when I was not there? Was he still searching for me? Until I was settled and could send a message of inquiry, I had no way of finding out. The only thing that was certain was that I was still a priestess, for that honor was etched into my very soul. That was the only comfort I could wrap around my cold, shaking shoulders.

  None of this made any sense. In Avalon, the Lady of the Lake had taught us to trust in the gods and follow their voices, but in my grief and uncertainty, all I could do was question their wisdom. They had taken not only Camelot’s future, but its leader as well. Why? What was the purpose? Yes, Arthur had fallen on hard times, but I had to believe that, given time, he could have earned back the trust of the people, especially if he had separated from Morgan and dedicated himself to securing peace once again. Did the Goddess wish us to fall into foreign hands? What a strange and unknowable future that would be.

  What was my role in this? Why could Lancelot and I not have lived our intended life in Brittany? What was my purpose in this
land? All of the other times I had questioned the will of the Goddess—when I arrived in Avalon, when my mother’s death forced me to return to Northgallis, when Father Marius’s hatred forced me to live in Dyfedd, when I unwillingly became queen, at the death of my children, during my captivity and its aftermath, and when Arthur and the bishop nearly had me killed—the Goddess had been preparing me for a new role.

  What could possibly be her will now?

  While I was struggling to find my place, Anna showed remarkable strength, continuing to direct and protect her kingdom in an increasingly unstable country, with Lot by her side. I stood in awe of her. She had lost three sons in the last two years—only Gawain remained of the four—yet she carried on as though her bones were made of stone and her blood fueled by her private tears. Surely she had the same questions as me, but she never showed her doubts in public, remaining stoic until we were alone, with only the deepened wrinkles around her eyes and on her brow and her chalky complexion betraying her pain. Lot showed his sadness more readily, retreating into himself and conducting a fast borne of grief until he became a hollow shell, more ghost than man. He stood sentinel at his wife’s side, but he was not really present.

  Together, she and I watched from afar, like nesting eagles looking down upon the forest, as Britain reverted to its native state and warring tribes and ambitious men fought for the throne Arthur had left empty. Some, like an uprising in Powys, were easily quashed, while others, like Constantine, rose with each kingdom that fell to his sword. Constantine’s closest competition was the joint forces of the sons of Rheged, Owain and Accolon, who were known to all as loyal members of Arthur’s Combrogi and had the support of Morgan, the former royal wife and mother of Arthur’s only living child. If I knew her, she was really supporting them to give her daughter a chance at the throne. If they defeated Constantine, she could declare Helene queen and rule as regent until she came of age. Together, they dominated the northern part of the country and protected Camelot, while Constantine ate up the south and central kingdoms. The confrontation of those two forces was inevitable, and when it came, it would change the course of our country utterly.

  In many ways, it was like watching a game of Holy Stones play out, only these consequences were immediate and often devastating. Borders were redrawn with such speed that the cartographers gave up trying to accurately reflect the changes. In the cities and towns, workers supplied the armies with weapons, and able-bodied men—and a few women—enlisted to support the noble of their choice, while in the countryside, people moved animals to safer pasture and hid valuables and food against marauders and defeated armies. The Irish, smelling the blood running from the battlefields, attacked our western coast with a vengeance not seen since my childhood. To the north, the Picts rumbled, forcing the tribes between the walls into high alert. Only the Saxons remained silent, watching and biding their time just as we did, which chilled my blood more than if they had shown up on our doorstep demanding vengeance.

  Soon, Lot and Anna would have to travel to Din Eidyn to pledge their allegiance to the Votadini, for they had no desire to be involved in Britain’s war. Though Lot and Anna had been loyal to Arthur, their kingdom was historically an annex of the Votadini tribe, and now Anna desired once again to bring her people under the protection of the Votad and Votadess, as their leaders were known, trusting them more than any of her former countrymen. I was to accompany them in order to claim my ancestral lands inherited from my mother, the only choice left to me as a throneless, homeless former queen with no living relations.

  Our departure was delayed when, near midsummer, Lot was felled by a mysterious ailment that caused his blood to boil and consumed him with fever and sweat. That he succumbed to the illness was of little surprise to those of us who had watched his grief eat away at him, but the speed and ferocity of his decline frightened us all.

  Lot lay abed, walking between the worlds in fever dreams that made him cry out to his dead sons, offering them apologies for offenses both real and imagined and declaring his eternal love for them. He even spoke with Arthur in a conversation so seemingly lucid that I could make out what Arthur was saying to him. Not long after, Lot reached out into the open air, eyes focused on something I could not see.

  “My ancestors call to me.” He turned his head, and a smile like the dawn lit his face. “Ah, Gareth, Garheis, my boys, come to see your father home, have you? I am ready.”

  After Lot breathed his last, Anna closed his eyes with silent sobs and a gentle kiss. I rested my head on his shoulder. I had few tears left with which to bathe him, but my heart contracted all the same. In its bitter consequences, the Battle of Camlann had taken one final life and one of the last remaining shards of my heart in the man who should have been my father by marriage.

  Now it was my duty to help Anna settle into the role of widow. Then I would continue to Din Eidyn as planned. Lot would not see the new kingdoms that would sprout from his body and those of so many others fallen in battle, but I would, and I needed allies if I were to survive. Drying my eyes and calling on the last dregs of my resolve, I faced north. It was time to go home, even if I had to face my new life alone.

  Chapter Ten

  Autumn 520

  Anna chose to cede control of Lothian to Gawain, so after Lot’s funerary rites, she and I set off for Din Eidyn, riding through hills and mountains resplendent with autumn color. All around us, fiery oaks competed for attention with rust-colored rowan, while elders offered their juicy purple berries as a final harvest before winter. Birches provided a splash of sunlight even on days of driving rain, especially when set against emerald pine and green alders that refused to give up their summer foliage. On the banks of mountain streams, willows and birch gilt the water’s course with showers of golden leaves, and in the mountains, fields of fragrant heather defiantly bloomed pink, even as the mornings took on a slight chill.

  Only a few days remained until Samhain when we arrived, and lines of travelers clogged the roads into the fortress both overland and leading up from the harbor. Anna explained that it was tradition that those who sought employment or married into other lands return to their tribal capital to honor their dead on Samhain.

  As Arthur’s sister, she would commend him, Lot, and her sons to the Votadini tribal gods during the Samhain rituals. After, she would become part of my household as an advisor and lady’s maid. Having given Lothian to Gawain, Anna wanted nothing of power or war, only to live out her days in peace. In that, as in so many things, she and I were a good match.

  We pushed through packed streets thundering with the guttural tongues of many tribes. Imprinted on the forearms of men and shoulder blades of women were tribal markings declaring the birth tribe of each person: the Votadini horse, the Selgovae raven, and even a few Novantae stags. Noticeably sparse was the Damnonii wolf. Above the din, blacksmiths’ hammers rang as they mended wheels for those transporting goods from the countryside and sharpened swords for the Votad’s army, and merchants hawked their wares, tables heavy with apples, nuts, and meat freshly slaughtered for the coming winter. With the boisterous exchange of goods for what currency remained, Din Eidyn was thriving despite the chaos looming to the south.

  Compared to Camelot, the castle itself was small, cramped, and dark, but from the outside, it presented a formidable façade, blending the intimidating strength of a fortress and the opulence of a castle into the black mountainside. Inside, men and women jockeyed for position in the great hall, eager to present themselves and their needs to their rulers. Anna had explained that here, they only held pleadings four times a year—for the three days before, during, and after the full moon nearest the major feast days—so their subjects were even more desperate for attention than ours had been. On top of that, there was no orderly system of presentation such as we had had; petitioners were seen in the order they could rush forward and fall to their knees before the throne.

  Anna stood to my left, whispering adv
ice and commentary to help me understand the rules and players at this court. On my right and to my back stood strangers covered in woolen tunics and fur coats reeking of sweat, eyes attentive to an opportunity to move forward. My line of sight, however, was blocked by the fur cloak in front of me. Not for the first time, I cursed my short stature. Because Anna could see over most of the crowd, we agreed that if she saw an opening, she would shove me forward so I could plead my case and she would follow immediately after.

  Being on the other side of the throne, praying to be noticed instead of being the one to listen and dispense solutions, was humbling, a stark reminder of all I had lost and that I was once again dependent on someone else for my welfare. A choking insecurity bore into my chest at the thought that the Votad and Votadess, Mynyddog Mwynfawr and his wife, Evina, held the power to grant my request and secure my future or cast me out into the mud to fend for myself. With the hindsight of age, I wished I had had this perspective before taking my own throne; it would have made me a more sympathetic and patient ruler.

  After several hours, my feet tingled and my muscles were locking in place, but at least the Votad was clearly in my line of sight now. As the crowd shifted, preparing to spit out its next supplicant, I turned my shoulders to the side and stepped forward, determined to push between the human barrel in front of me and the gaunt woman next to him. As I took a breath to wedge myself between them, hands grasped my shoulders and pushed. I fell forward, knocking the couple to either side. My right knee hit the stone floor with an impact that rattled my teeth, and I narrowly missed scraping my chin on the paver in front of me. Gracefully or not, I had made it before the throne.