Guinevere Evermore (24 page)

He looked around the room for confirmation. St. Illtud’s face was considering, Bishop Teilo’s grave but resigned, Meleagant’s positivly gloating.

St. Illtud spoke with hesitation. “It may be the only way to save poor Lancelot. If you could have seen the struggle he made to free himself, you would know the power of this woman’s sorcery. I, too, think it barbaric to burn her. But to save a man’s soul, I will agree even to that.”

Father Antonius pushed back against the door.

“This cannot be the Christianity I was taught! What sort of men are you? I will not be a part of this. You must hold the torches. I will be at her side. You will not deny the Queen a confessor.”

“My boy,” Dubricius soothed. “Of course you must do your best to help her. We don’t forget that you have been in her household and under her influence for years. When this is over and you’re free, you’ll understand.”

“Never!” He found the latch, opened the door, and stumbled out.

Dubricius shook his head. “I can’t believe how far this went without our knowing. Yes, I agree also. The Queen must burn.”

Chapter Eighteen

“I don’t know how you did this, Modred, but I’ll see that you pay for it. Don’t ever doubt me!”

Gawain’s voice was low in the crowded forum but his outrage could not be contained even by the need for secrecy. His hair coiled and sparked out his fury. Modred noted it and smirked.

“Be careful, Brother. In the mood here today, you, too, will find yourself tossed into the flames from which you came.”

Gawain spat on the ground at his brother’s feet. “You could have been the best of us all, Modred, but you chose to follow Aunt Morgause in her blind need for revenge. Why should any of us have cared what Arthur’s father did to our grandmother? What does it matter? They’re dead now.”

“Every family must have its little traditions,” Modred replied. “I wouldn’t speak so openly, Gawain. You know how Morgause likes to eavesdrop.”

He laughed again at the change on Gawain’s face. Morgause might very well be perched on one of the eaves, attending to their conversation. Gawain clenched his fists but did not raise them.

Around them the townsfolk scurried by. It was Saturday afternoon and the execution was set for Monday. Caradoc and his cohorts had arranged for it to be as soon as possible in order to carry out the sentence before the ardor of the people could dim and before Arthur could arrive to stop them. Cei, stunned by the horror of it all, had gone with Father Antonius to try to see Guinevere. Gawain had decided to make an unauthorized visit later, to assure her that he would not let her be killed, whatever the consequences. How could anyone have believed all that nonsense! Over Modred’s shoulder he caught the curious, fearful glances of the people. What kinds of ugliness lurked in them that they would want to destroy a beautiful, innocent woman? What did they think her death would give them? He had no answers. He only knew that it was through Modred’s machinations that it was happening.

“How could you do this to Arthur now that you know him?” he asked sadly. “You know what this will do to him; his grief and anger will destroy Britain.”

“I don’t think so.” Modred stared directly into Gawain’s eyes. “She is only a woman, after all. He may take revenge on Meleagant and the bishops, but that will mean he’ll have their property to give to those who help him. He may even remarry and beget a son.”

Gawain leaned away in disgust. “I see. You don’t know Arthur after all. If you planned on playing Merlin to a boy-king heir of Arthur’s, you can forget it. He won’t look at another woman. It’s more likely he’ll die of grief.”

Modred smiled. In his face Gawain saw the confirmation of his accusations. He backed away but Modred caught his sleeve.

“You can tell anyone you like, Brother, but you won’t be believed. Every man here will swear I have spent all my time in efforts to save the Queen. No one will weep more convincingly when we bring her ashes back to Camelot. You still think you can save her, don’t you? I thought of that, too. The pyre will be lit in the hour before dawn, 'when evil is weakest,’ and when you are still trapped in your unnatural sleep. You see? You are defeated, Gawain. Go back to Cornwall. Agravaine will take you in. You can live out your remaining years in safety, a curiosity of the house. But if you continue against me, well, think how vulnerable you are in the night.”

With a contemptuous snort, Modred turned and left his brother. The remaining townspeople made a wide circle to pass Gawain as he stood there, too angry to move, lest he smash whatever or whomever came near him. Finally he took a deep breath.

“I will not let you win, Modred,” he muttered. “And Guinevere will not be the sacrifice to your ambition.”

• • •

Cei was back when Gawain returned to their quarters. In the past week Arthur’s seneschal had grown gaunt and pale. He sat on the bed and leaned against the wall.

“I can’t believe it. They wouldn’t let me in, and Father Antonius had to invoke the right of a confessor before they would let him through. What am I going to tell Arthur?”

“Don’t give up, Cei. You did all you could in the face of this madness. I know I can rescue her. I’ll take her back to Cornwall with me. She won’t die!”

“Gawain! I know how strong you are, but the town is full of warriors brought by Meleagant, Fergus, and the others. You can’t defeat them alone.”

“He won’t be alone!” Gareth spoke from the doorway. “Caet and I have come to help you.”

With a glad cry, Gawain grabbed his brother and hugged him.

“I never thought I could be so glad to see anyone! How many men did you bring? Is Lancelot with you?”

Gareth pulled away in embarrassment. “Only the two of us came. We left the day before yesterday. Arthur doesn’t know about the verdict, yet. Isn’t Lancelot here? I haven’t seen him since the night Guinevere was taken.”

“No, at least he hasn’t been seen. Arthur didn’t send you? Why are you here then? Of all people, I’d think you would be the last to want her rescued from the flames.”

Gareth sat down. “Thank you, Gawain. What sort of man do you think I am? I know, I said she bewitched Lancelot, but I didn’t mean
really
. I couldn’t spend all those years with our aunt and mother at Tintagel and not know the smell of sorcery. I don’t like Guinevere, but I won’t let her be killed. For whatever reason, she is precious to Lancelot and I’ll do whatever I can to help you.”

Cei turned to the other man. “Caet? What are you doing here? You have no stake in this. You’re not even a knight.”

He meant it kindly, to give the man an excuse to go, but Caet’s eyes flashed.

“No, I’m not. I’m only the son of a slave who might have been a king if the Romans had never come to Britain. Now I breed the horses and see that they’re ready when you gallant warriors ride forth. I have no stake in this but that woman they mean to burn. You’ve all forgotten whose family owned mine. I saw her the day she was born and I’ve loved her almost as long. Even now, I’m the one she comes to when she’s homesick, when she’s lonely. All these years I’ve watched her, worked in the stables, just to be near her. I ride better than any of you and I can wield a sword well enough. I will die for her. Will your prejudice deny me that?”

He glared the other three down. Cei held out his hand.

“Welcome, Caet. We need your help. Your fidelity is worthy of knighthood. Sir Sagremore and Sir Perredur have shown what they thought of Arthur’s trust. There will be empty places when we return if you wish to be considered.”

Caet sat down heavily for such a small man. The bed creaked under him.

“If we return I will think about it. Has anyone thought of a plan of attack? We are only proposing to cut our way through a thousand people, sweep up Guinevere, and ride off. I think it will take some organization.”

Cei groaned at hearing it so baldly put. The four men put their heads together and tried to think.

• • •

The sun hung like a great red eye on the horizon outside Guinevere’s window. From the town came the clanks and calls of the evening meal. Pale and still, she lay on the narrow bed. Her gold hair was loose on the blanket, spilling to the floor. Her hands fell at her sides, limply open in a state of resignation. Her breath was slow as in sleep, but her eyes stared at the ceiling. Guinevere was waiting for feelings to come. Logically, she told herself, there should be fear or hurt or violent rage. Monday before dawn, strange men with lustful eyes were going to take her down to the forum, put her on a wicker throne and set torches into a pyre beneath her.

Father Antonius had wept as he listened to her simple confession; the many sins of omission and the one of love. His head had rested in her lap as he sobbed his grief and fury at his inability to make the bishops believe in her innocence. Her hands had been cool on his burning cheeks.

“You are absolved of guilt in this,” she had told him, and he had gone away comforted.

Even then she had felt nothing but a wistful pity for the young man. She thought of Galahad and a tear slid from the corner of her eye. She wondered softly if Lancelot were safe and hoped he would remember her promise to wait for him, even at the gates of hell. She thought of Arthur and managed a brief ache of regret. He deserved a better wife, one who would have pampered him and loved him unasked and given him a long line of children to rejoice in. But for herself, she had no emotion left.

The music surrounded her but she didn’t turn to look for the singers. Dear Geraldus! Perhaps she should go with him. Would the shame for Arthur be any the less if she simply flew away into the night? But an eternity without Lancelot, even in Eden, would be torture. She smiled thanks and shook her head. The music stopped on a mournful high sough. There was a creak at the door, the smell of pork simmered in fresh cider. She closed her eyes. There was no need to bother with food anymore.

“Guinevere, sit up, old girl, and eat a bit of this.”

“Gawain!” Her fingers stretched out as he lifted her hands and pulled her from the bed. “How did you get in here?”

“I bribed the guard. I had no idea how cheaply they come. Now, come on. Take a bite. You’ll need all your strength. Your rescue party will need any help you can give.”

“Rescue! Oh, no, Gawain! Don’t try it!” Guinevere dropped the spoon he had just handed her.

“Guinevere! We have to. We can’t let those slimy obscenities kill you!”

“But Arthur, they’ll go against him, even send armies if he keeps me. Meleagant has been looking for an excuse for years.”

“Do you think that matters to Arthur?” Gawain picked up the spoon, wiped it on his tunic and handed it back. “He’s ready to sweep them from the earth with his own hands simply for the pain they’ve caused you already.”

She stirred the meat seriously, her attention fixed on the bowl.

“But what about the pain I’ve given him, already? You know better than anyone what I’ve done to him. Perhaps I am as wicked as they say. I don’t think I mind dying so much, if it doesn’t hurt too badly. It seems easier than facing my poor Arthur again.”

“Guinevere.” Gawain nearly shook her in exasperation. “They are going to
burn
you. I have it on very good authority that it will hurt a great deal. And think, also, of what it will do to everyone else, both those of us who couldn’t save you and those who think death is your only salvation. Especially those! What if this becomes a custom, a standard way of dealing with people who follow the old gods as well as the new. You’ve seen how easy it is to accuse and how hard to deny. We can’t let them start believing they can rid themselves of enemies merely by crying ‘heresy’ and ‘treason’! Think of all those other innocent victims!”

Guinevere gave a crooked smile. “You always did tell me when I was behaving thoughtlessly. Very well. I would not want to be so inconsiderate as to die so that Caradoc can continue spouting his venom against truly innocent people.”

“I knew you would be sensible. Now, there are only four of us, so you must be ready to act quickly. This is what you must do . . .”

• • •

The morning was thick with mist. Cloaked shadows appeared and vanished through the columns of the forum. Caradoc leaned from his window and cursed the witch who must have conjured the weather to make it harder to light the flames.

“I don’t suppose,” Dubricius ventured timidly, “that God might have created the fog to keep us from committing this act?”

Caradoc’s answer was unbecoming a man of the church.

“Have the guards around her doubled!” he yelled to a soldier in the street. “Let no one come near her until it is over!”

Dubricius shook his head doubtfully and went to find St. Illtud and Bishop Teilo, who were already beset by the same second thoughts he was having.

“I should have been stronger,” he thought. “Or am I just being swayed by the charms of an evil woman? I wish I could tell!”

In Guinevere’s room, the guard’s wife was helping her into the simple white robe of the penitent which Caradoc had decreed she must wear.

“This linen is too thin, my Lady,” the woman was saying. “You will be cold on a morning like this.”

Guinevere could not keep from laughing. “You needn’t worry, good woman. My inquisitors have arranged to warm me well enough.”

The woman covered her face in the fabric. “Oh, my Lady! Forgive me! How could I have been so tactless! Those wicked, wicked men!”

Guinevere smoothed the material against her waist. "You mustn’t say that. Someone might hear you.”

“If it weren’t for my man and my children, lady, I’d shout it from the top of the Basilica steps. It’s an evil thing they’ve planned this day.”

Guinevere was cheered by the championing but something compelled her to admit, “But I was unfaithful to my husband.”

The guard’s wife put her hands on her hips. “Were you, now? Well, if they burned every woman in Britain who had a lover on the sly, there wouldn’t be a tree left on the island to cook a meal over or a woman left to do the cooking. It’s those saints with their preaching of celibacy. It isn’t natural. It turns them mad. And it’s you, poor dear, who must pay for their madness.”