Guinevere Evermore (27 page)

• • •

The moon had risen in their window and drifted farther across the sky, trailing stars behind her. Guinevere saw each one staring at her curiously, but with no malice. To Lancelot they were only a smear of light against the blackness. Together they waited for the last dawn they would share.

“You should sleep, my love,” Guinevere murmured. “You need to be strong tomorrow.”

“I’m rested enough,” he told her. “I’ll sleep when it’s over.”

She shuddered and he drew her closer, her ear against his heart. The slow beat went through her and calmed her.

“It was a lovely winter,” she said.

“The most wonderful of my life,” he agreed.

“Will you hate me for going back to Arthur?”

“Will you hate me for letting you go?”

She settled more firmly across his chest. “I won’t really be gone. I know better now. And your promise is unbroken. You will never leave me again.”

“Never.”

They were quiet for a while.

“Lancelot?”

“Mmmm?”

“Tell me, just once more, about Galahad.”

“Galahad was ours, only ours. We made him with our love and there was only love in him. He went joyfully into the light. His last words to me were of concern for you.”

“We could not be evil and be loved by Galahad.”

“No, we could be weak with humanity, but not evil. He would have known.”

“My beautiful, golden boy!” She smiled. "Yes, they can never make me repent my love. The sky is lavender now; the clouds are turning pink and gold. Soon, someone will call us. Sleep a little, while I hold you. Nothing can harm us here.”

• • •

An area had been staked out on a level field not far from Lionel’s castle. There was room enough for the traditional combat on horseback first. But no one believed it would end with that. It would come to hand-to-hand fighting, with short sword and dagger. Meleagant surveyed the area with a pleased smile. A good day’s entertainment. With luck, not only Arthur would be discomfited. Those stiff-necked lords of Banoit could use some embarassment. He’d never bothered with Banoit before; it was too much trouble to do more than send for the tribute each year and count it to be sure he hadn’t been shortchanged. When he returned from Armorica, he’d have to investigate it. There wasn’t land enough in Gaul to provide for all his bastards. Banoit might be a good place to dump a few. Meleagant rubbed his hands together. Sir Modred was right. After all these years, matters were finally working out his way, and most of it was Modred’s doing. There was a man who knew how to get things done.

Gawain banged his sword against his breastplate at Arthur’s tent.

“I’m ready, Uncle,” he stated, as Arthur came out. “But first I have to meditate for a hour or two. After that, you can begin the speeches and reading of the charges and the rules and so forth. Then, after lunch, we can begin the duel.”

“After lunch?” Gaheris had come up to hear this. “Don’t be stupid, Gawain. You know you begin to weaken after lunch!”

“The days are growing longer. I’ll be strong enough,” Gawain answered calmly. “Will you allow me time for meditation, Uncle?”

“If you insist on it, Gawain. It’s your right. Do you feel you need it?”

“To do what I must do? Yes.”

“Then I will tell the others that we meet at the field in an hour and a half.”

• • •

Guinevere dressed herself carefully. Lancelot helped her weave her hair into a crown and drape the veil over it and across her shoulders. Then she helped him into his armor, seeing that the padding under the mail was even and that none of the metal pieces sewn onto the leather were angled to scratch him. She laced up his boots and tucked his pants in before making the last knot. For a moment, she knelt at his feet, struggling with her tears. Then she held out her hand to be pulled back up.

“Are you sure you want to be there?” Lancelot asked worriedly.

“I couldn’t sit alone here and wait,” she answered. “That is not my kind of cowardice.”

There was a knock at the door.

“Lionel and Bors are here to escort us.” Guinevere reached for her crutch. “Do I look all right?”

Lancelot had to laugh. “Like a proper matron on her way to Mass.”

“Good enough.” She gave him her hand. “One last time; I love you.”

“To the gates and beyond, Guinevere, I love you, too.”

• • •

When Gawain saw Guinevere being helped down from her horse, he ran to her, just as he had always done. Bors saw him coming and drew his sword. Guinevere stopped him.

“Bors, it’s Gawain! He’s been my friend since we were children.” She held out her arms to him and he swung her around in the old way. When he set her down, she stumbled against him and held out her hand for the crutch. His face changed at the sight of it.

“What happened to you?”

“It’s all right, Gawain. It’s almost healed; then I can get around with just a stick. Lancelot, look! It’s Gawain!”

Lancelot’s face lit up. “It’s good to see you. Why are you all girded for battle? Have you come to be my second?”

Gawain dropped his hand and stepped back.

“They didn’t tell you yet, did they? I’m your opponent. I’m sorry, Lancelot. I have to do this. I owe it to Gareth. Why did you have to kill him?”

“Oh, no!” Lancelot was at the breaking point. “They can’t make us do this! I won’t! Kill me now and get it over with. I can’t stand this anymore!”

“Why did it have to be you, Gawain?” Guinevere demanded .

“He was my brother, Guinevere, and I wasn’t particularly kind to him while he was alive. I owe him something now. I’m the only one in the family who could give Lancelot a fair match. Everyone knows it. I had to agree. Believe me. This is the best way.”

“But you did nothing! There is no reason to punish you!” she refused to accept it.

“It doesn’t work that way, Guinevere. Gareth did nothing wrong. That couldn’t save him.”

“Look at Lancelot! No matter who wins, you’ll have killed him.”

“I know that, as he will destroy me.”

“Oh, Gawain! This is not the way life is supposed to be!”

“Guinevere, this is no time for philosophy. Just give me a kiss and say you’ll forgive me, whatever happens.”

“Of course.” And she did.

He smiled at her in the old way, as if going off for a day of hunting.

“Good-bye, Auntie! See you in the morning.”

• • •

They waited through the preliminaries, the speeches, the explanations. Father Antonius prayed for the truth to shine forth and for justice to triumph. Then Bors led Clades to Lancelot. When he had mounted, Lionel handed him his shield and spear.

“Remember,” they urged. “Don’t let Meleagant see Banoit defeated again.”

Modred handed Gawain his shield.

“Better you than me,” he smirked. “Don’t trip on your own sword.”

“Why couldn’t Lancelot have killed you?” Gawain replied.

• • •

They missed each other on the first pass, to loud booing from the crowd. On the second, their spears rang on the shields with a screeching clash that set men’s teeth on edge. The third time, both spears broke. They drew their swords and circled each other.

“Are they speaking?” Maelgwn asked. “I don’t trust them not to make some alliance out there.”

“They are my knights,” Arthur told him. “They won’t, whatever it costs.”

“Then they’re fools. I would.”

“I know.” Arthur folded his arms and stalked away.

Gawain overbalanced in an attempt to slice through Lancelot’s bridle and fell, pulling the bridle and Lancelot down with him. There was some confused whacking until they righted themselves, then they seemed to settle down for an afternoon of thrust and parry.

“Oh God!” Meleagant complained. “This can go on for hours. Where is the boy with the wine jug?”

It did go on for hours. With every stroke, Guinevere felt the jar run through her bones. Her hands were clenched so tightly that the fingers were numb. If only they could end it, one way or the other. Anything to have it over!

Gawain felt the sun settling lower on the horizon, drawing his strength down with it. He knew Lancelot was aware of it, but wouldn’t take advantage. Gawain’s arm moved more slowly and he nearly missed countering some of the blows. Lancelot eased in his attack. Gawain knew better than to believe his opponant was equally tired. Lancelot was waiting, hoping to start again in the morning when Gawain would be at his peak and impossible to defeat.

“I won’t let you do it!” he muttered and, closing his eyes, stepped into the blade coming toward him.

He gasped as the steel went through him. He had thought it would feel like fire, but it was more as if he had been hit by something massively heavy. He tried to get his breath but blood was rushing into his lungs and he could only gag on it.

“Gawain!” Lancelot screamed, dropping his sword and scooping up his friend. “Gawain, why? You could have killed me in the morning!”

Gawain smiled and beckoned Lancelot closer. He brought his friend’s ear close to his mouth.

“I know,” he hissed. “That’s why I had to die tonight.”

He tried to smile reassurance, but coughed and gagged on his blood instead. Lancelot tried to raise him, to staunch the wound, to do something that would bring Gawain back. Nothing helped. Lancelot gave a shriek of anguish and brought his sword up to drive it into himself. But Bors was too quick for him and wrenched it away. Deprived of even that release, Lancelot began beating on himself, until his kinsmen restrained him.

Gawain heard Lancelot’s sobs and the cries of the people watching as they rushed to him. Someone, Guinevere, he thought, took his hand and tried to hold him back from death. He felt her fingers and then felt nothing. Nothing at all. It is a noble death, he told himself, so why am I so afraid?

The sun blazed upon the metal in his armor with a fury unusual at the end of day. Gawain felt life flow from him and waited for the darkness. But it wasn’t getting darker, but brighter, and the touch of coldness that had frightened him was being replaced by intense warmth.

“No, not that!” his mind shouted. “I can’t have been that wicked! Damn it all, it’s just my luck. So, come for me, Satan, if that’s what I have earned. Your fires will be nothing so dreadful to me.”

Suddenly he heard the sound of deep, friendly laughter, the sort that made one grin and look around for the source. Gawain was not amused.

“It figures. Even in death there’s something funny about me. Can’t I even be left a little dignity?”

The laughter grew louder. The light surrounding Gawain coalesced slowly until he saw before him a man. His eyes opened wide with awe. It was as if his own radiance had been magnified a thousand times. The apparition was huge with great, muscular limbs and hair as wild and living as unchecked flames. The man put his hands on his hips and laughed again.

“My son, my son!” he bellowed. “What do you want with dignity? There is a universe to play in for those of us who can enjoy it. Come with me. I’ll show you all of it. By day, we will drive the chariot across the sky of this little earth, but by night, ah my son, what wonders I can show you.”

“Then mother didn’t lie!” Gawain said in astonishment as his father took his hand and they rose together high into the air.

Apollo laughed once more. “No, my son. You were an experiment of hers that went farther than she intended. A foolish woman, to conjure me into her room. But I think she enjoyed her mistake. A fine mistake you are, Gawain. I claim you for my own. Come, lad, the universe awaits!”

And Gawain went, without a backward glance.

Chapter Twenty-One

It seemed to Guinevere that a many-armed monster had captured her and was dragging her remorselessly away, separating her from Lancelot and from Gawain. She could just make out Lancelot’s white head above the crowd as he was drawn away by his cousins. He was making no resistance. Poor Lancelot! He must be numb with shock. He would need her when it wore off. He would need her and she wouldn’t be there.

Finally and roughly, she was deposited in Arthur’s tent. There was no one there. With painful steps, she made her way to the narrow bed and dropped upon it, too worn to cry anymore. She thought of Gawain and wondered where his soul had gone. How good he had been to her! God couldn’t let him suffer. Caradoc would say he was a pagan and damned, but Guinevere was beginning to suspect the same was true of Caradoc.

It grew dark and still no one came. She could smell meat roasting but she wasn’t hungry. The taste of bile was in her mouth. There were cries from farther away, but not, she thought, of anger. There were no sounds of mourning. Did no one care about Gawain?

It was very late when Arthur came in. He lit the oil lamp on his table, his back to her. His hands rustled the scrolls as he pushed them aimlessly aside. Finally, he faced her.

“Gaheris is taking Gawain back to Cornwall. We leave at dawn for Camelot. I have been told that no one will attempt to harm you again. The bishops were frightened by the intensity of St. Caradoc’s vituperation. As long as you stay quietly at Camelot or Caerleon, they will not mention your trial again. Lancelot”—he paused—“Lancelot will stay here in Banoit. He has sworn never to see you again in my lifetime.”

Guinevere’s lip trembled, but she nodded. Arthur went on.

“The things that have been done to you, Guinevere, have been because you were my wife. Men who wanted to destroy me used you and your . . . association with Lancelot. I should have realized how powerful they were. I didn’t understand in time how much they resent me. I ask your forgiveness, Guinevere. You are the last person on earth I would want to suffer because of my dreams. I’m sorry, Guin.”

During his speech, she had listened in mute astonishment. Now she fell upon the bed, hiding her face in the sheets.

“How can you?” she sobbed. “After all we did to you, how can you apologize to
me
? Oh, Arthur!”

Gingerly, he came near and patted her on the back. She righted herself at once and, grabbing his hand, held it in both hers.