Guinevere (27 page)

“His name is Gawain,” he explained. “He is one of Morgan’s boys, remember? The summer Lot was away and she declared that the child had been fathered by a ray of light that had forced its way into her sleeping chamber.”

“Oh, yes,” Guenlian nodded. “That remained a conversation staple for about two years. So this is the child. I had heard that there was something strange about him. What should we do with him?”

“Have someone carry him to bed. He cannot be awakened until sunrise. We can speak to him then.”

When Gawain awoke the next morning in a strange, soft bed in a clean, dry room, he thought for a moment that he had died in the night and was now in paradise, but upon reflection he realized that heaven was not likely to be his fate, and the sound of voices outside the window reminded him of where he was. His heart sank as he remembered Leodegrance’s stern accusations, and knew that he would now have to face him and Guenlian and explain how he had let their daughter be captured. He lay in bed for a long while, hoping that everyone would forget about him. Then he grew angry at his own cowardice and got up, dressed, and went out in search of his host.

He found them all in the dining hall, sitting much as he vaguely remembered from the night before. Leodegrance, Guenlian, Cador, Merlin and, oh no, Arthur, too! It could not be anyone else. Gawain saw all his dreams of glory flutter away.

The table before them was set with food which had obviously been there some time, for pools of grease had congealed upon the plates. The candles were burning low or had already guttered out, unnoticed. Gawain entered as unobtrusively as he could, but he came in just as a lull occurred in the conversation and all eyes turned on him. He didn’t know what to do. He felt like an intruder and a fool. He didn’t know that in the early morning sunlight he looked like a god, valiant and strong. Guenlian thought in surprise how much he resembled the portrait of Christ in their chapel, which, as was well known, was simply a portrait of Apollo with a nimbus added.

For a moment, no one addressed him. Then Guenlian gave him a tired smile and beckoned him closer.

“Merlin has explained your problem to us, Gawain,” she comforted him. “We know that you could do nothing more than you did for Guinevere. Now we must try to find a way to get her back. Come sit with us. Perhaps you can suggest something that we haven’t thought of.”

“Guenlian,” Cador sounded exasperated. “We have chased this around and around like a dog after its tail. We must recover Guinevere before the Saxons get her back into their territory. The only way to do this is with a large army and a sudden attack. The longer we delay, the less hope we have of catching them.”

“And I have said that is madness!” Guenlian retorted. Her voice was growing hoarse. “That is the one sure way we have of getting my daughter killed. The first thing the Saxons will do is slay her.”

“I think we should try to bargain with them,” Arthur added. “I’ve had enough of killing. Perhaps they are sick of it, too. They may only want a simple exchange, Aelle’s daughter, Alswytha, for your daughter. I would go myself, to treat with them.”

“They have already broken their bond,” Leodegrance broke in. “We cannot trust them to return her unharmed in any case.”

Gawain realized then that they were only reiterating arguments they had made over and over throughout the night. Each gave an opinion and then waited for a rebuttal. But no one was sure enough for them all to agree.

Merlin knew it too, and was tired of pointless wrangling.

“Stop,” he commanded in a thunderous roar. “We can’t wait for Guinevere to be imprisoned in their land. They are too powerful there and the conditions for her release would be even harsher. They have already shown how little they care for Alswytha, for her safety was forfeit when they broke the truce. We cannot attack them openly for they would slay her at once, having nothing to lose. We have considered everything tonight but a Trojan horse. And for all we have argued, the time is quickly fading for us to catch them. If we do nothing, she will certainly be lost to you forever. Now, let us decide on some plan. Anything.”

Merlin was furious, half because he was tired of the arguing and half because he was irrationally angry with Guinevere for causing him yet another problem. Why couldn’t she have stayed at the castle! It seemed that every time that child did anything, she upset the entire country. And Arthur had it in his head to marry her. Merlin knew that it would be a disaster. Damn these forebodings! Why couldn’t he either see the future clearly or not at all? He sometimes felt that God was mocking him, reminding him that he was only a man after all, despite what people might believe. He almost wished that Guinevere would be killed. It would be a clear rallying point for amassing an army, and then they might be strong enough to rid the island of Saxons once and for all. Also, it would leave Arthur’s mind free to consider a more sensible alliance. If she were anyone’s daughter but Guenlian’s, he might even try to arrange an accidental death to be blamed on the Saxons. However, he sighed and reached for the flask of wine.

Gawain only half listened to the discussion. He was still reeling from the relief he felt at being understood and forgiven. Anyway, he didn’t think he could come up with anything better than Merlin could. Then his ears pricked up at one of the phrases that connected with something he remembered.

“A Trojan horse?”

Leodegrance stopped what he had been saying and stared at Gawain.

“Do you know what that was?”

Gawain nodded.

“Well, then, I don’t suppose you take such an idea seriously? It would take months to build such a thing. It was very useful to the Greeks but somehow I doubt that even the Saxons would be taken in by a hollow wooden horse. There always seemed to be a number of flaws in that story, anyway. How did the soldiers keep their armor from clanking? Why didn’t the Trojans hear them breathing? How many men could really fit inside a wooden horse? How would they get out without being noticed? Perhaps the Greeks knew the answers, but it won’t help us now.”

He dismissed the idea.

“That’s not exactly what I meant, sir,” Gawain said eagerly. An idea was growing in his mind and the words spilled out. “What I meant was, must we attack them honorably? Do we have to send warning or follow the usual plan of attack?”

Leodegrance and Cador looked at him as if he had gone mad. “Honor? What has that to do with the situation? Guinevere has been kidnapped in a vicious trap sprung on you quite without warning. The Saxons have broken every binding solemn vow they have given. We will get her back by any trick we can think of.”

“Only,” Guenlian added sadly, “we can’t think of any.”

“Well,” Gawain hesitated. He felt rather outclassed by his company. “I did have a thought. Alswytha told us many of the stories of her people. Geraldus is helping her translate them. One thread that seems to be in all of them is a great fear of monsters and ghosts.”

“Monsters?” Cador snorted. “What child’s tale is this?”

“It’s true,” Gawain insisted. “You have seen that they won’t live in our abandoned towns. Alswytha says that’s because of the ghosts. And one of their kings across the sea apparently won his crown as a result of this defeat of some horrible monster that was ravaging their land.”

“Legends! Minstrels’ tales! No one really believes them.” Leodegrance waved him away.

“No,” Gawain repeated. “The man is still alive! Aelle knew him. The Saxons believe that the forests and meres are full of monstrous beasts and they fear them when they shrink from nothing else.”

“That is very interesting, if true,” Merlin said calmly over the derision of the others, “but I do not see how it will help us.”

Gawain looking pleadingly at the group before him said, “I know it seems impossible, but everything else you suggest sounds even more so. Couldn’t we create a monster? Maybe have it carried within view of their camp on horseback so that it would seem even larger? Take along kettles or horns to make a noise with. Then, when they are engaged in fleeing from this creature, another group, perhaps only a few strong warriors and horsemen, could race in from another direction and rescue Guinevere. The horsemen might even paint their faces like the Piets in the north and wear horns or masks to be more fearful? It could work . . . couldn’t it?”

He saw that they were considering. Perhaps it sounded too theatrical to work. His shoulders drooped. What hope did Guinevere have?

Arthur spoke first, slowly, as if still revolving the plan in his head. “There are problems. It would have to be done carefully and swiftly, with no mistakes. Still, it appears to present the smallest amount of risk, both to the Lady Guinevere and to the rescuers. I would be willing to lead the group that attacked. The greatest danger would be to those who played the ‘monster.’ Finding the camp will be the least of the worry. They are making a direct line for their own territory. I think we should try it. But it is your daughter. I will not go without your approval.”

Leodegrance and Guenlian looked at each other. They were silent a long time. Finally, Guenlian laid a trembling hand upon her husband’s. Without looking away from her face, he nodded.

“There is no plan without danger,” he said. “If you will take the risk for Guinevere’s sake, we will give it our blessing.”

“Gawain, would you be one of the rescue party?” Arthur asked. Gawain ground his teeth in frustration. “I cannot, Lord. I would give anything in life to do this, for Guinevere is as dear to me as a sister. But this must be done late at night, when most of Aelle’s men are asleep and easily surprised. I . . . am unable to be of use then, you see. . . .”

“I’m sorry, lad. I forgot,” Arthur apologized. “Do not be ashamed. I have had excellent reports of your valor and courage and, when I return, we will try to find a place for you in my cadre, if that would please you.”

“Oh, yes, my lord,” Gawain breathed, almost forgetting Guinevere in his good fortune. “It would please me greatly.”

• • •

Guinevere finally woke to find herself lying on a pile of dusty furs. Her head hurt and her back and stomach were sore. She couldn’t imagine what had happened to her. There were Saxon guards all around her and at a campfire a few yards away were more men in Saxon dress. Her hands were not bound and she wondered how they had missed this, until she realized that the guards would surely be able to catch her if she tried to escape. She was hardly a match for them. The night was chilly and she was still clad in her thin woolen gown. Her braids had become unpinned and hung across her shoulders and almost to her knees in disheveled plaits. She was frightened, but also curious. So these were Alswytha’s people. There were resemblances. They all had the pale, almost silver hair, which the men wore in thick braids held in place by gold buckles. They wore short tunics over leggings and boots, and every man she could see was festooned with gold jewelry: arm bands, brooches, pins, earrings, belts, all of it intricately shaped and finely wrought. She wondered if all of them were noblemen or if everyone among the Saxons was so rich.

One of her guards noticed that she was awake and called to the men about the fire. One hurried over and stood above her, staring thoughtfully. Guinevere stared back in pride and fear.

“Yehwineverah!” he said. It made no sense to her and she continued her blank gaze. He repeated it. “Yehwineverah” and pointed at her.

Suddenly, she realized that he was trying to say her name. She lifted her chin in disdain and pronounced it correctly. Now the man looked puzzled. He switched his stare to her braids and, with a strange look, reached down and lifted one. Guinevere shrank from him. He laughed, not unkindly, but she was too afraid to tell.

“
Ic haebe an dohtor with swa gold
,” he murmured. It wasn’t true, of course. His daughter was lovely, but her hair was not as rich and living as Guinevere’s. Still, in his eyes, Alswytha was beautiful too. However, Guinevere had no idea of what he was saying and only grew more terrified as he tried to speak to her. Finally, he put down the braid and went back to the campfire. There he seemed to be giving orders about something. Guinevere peered into the dark. Someone was being dragged from the other side of the camp. The person was protesting and struggling all the way. The fire was too bright between her and whomever it was, so she couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. She saw the light gleam upon the neck band of a slave, and wondered why the poor thing was so determined not to be brought to its master.

Aelle was not interested in hearing the complaints of his slave. “We brought you with us because you speak her language. Now go over there with us and translate. I will hear not a word more. And if I discover that you have said one word other than what I tell you, I will have your tongue for my breakfast!”

Guinevere heard the shouting and angry words and shrank as far as she could into the furs. Aelle was coming back now. Two other men were dragging the slave between them. She could see that his clothes were ragged and that the collar was his only ornament. Even though Guinevere had no imagination, she felt a nameless dread slip over her and she remembered half-heard stories about strange, horrible things Saxons did with women captives. She felt her hands grow icy and her heart pound in her throat as the men brought their struggling burden nearer. The slave kept his face averted all the while so she could not see him. No matter how he fought, he didn’t move his head. She could tell that the side toward her was hideously scarred and feared that the side he was hiding might be even worse. Her stomach started to recoil when a slap made the slave turn and face her fully.

For a second Guinevere just stood there, unable to believe what she saw. Then she screamed. Over and over in choking gasps she cried out. Finally she managed to push forth one lone word.

“Mark! Mark!” she sobbed and fell into his arms.

“Hush, Guinevere, hush. You mustn’t let them know who I am! Try to control yourself,” he begged. But she couldn’t stop shaking and sobbing.

“What’s wrong with her?” Aelle demanded. “What does
mark
mean?”