Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn (11 page)

“It’s only a condensation and not a complete rendering, Your Highness,” Father Baldwin noted apologetically. “But Boethius thought you’d be happy with anything that gave you some idea of what they cover.”

Arthur opened the scroll, which appeared to be old and much used already, and carefully scrutinized the Latin phrases of its beginning lines. From the expression on his face, it was more than satisfactory.

With a broad smile, my husband invited the clergyman to winter over with us. “The Queen will find a room for you,” he added nonchalantly, then, remembering that I did not get on well with clerics, gave me one of his “this is important” looks.

I watched the new priest suspiciously, sure that he would reflect the Church’s attitude that women were second-class citizens. But Baldwin proved to be a gentle soul, prone to self-effacement rather than paternalistic scorn, and before long I grew comfortable with his presence.

With a resident priest to hand, we celebrated Christmas in the Hall that year, combining it with the holiday for calling the sun back from its winter wanderings. All the household and many of the Champions, whether Pagan or Christian, came to hear Mass, and both Arthur and I knelt through the service. At the end Bors spoke up, asking the Christian Father God to protect his cousin, Lancelot. It seemed that Bors was beginning to put his faith in Father Baldwin’s religion.

During the dark winter months Arthur pored over the legal scroll, discussing various points with Baldwin and Bedivere or the Companions who lounged around the fire when the weather was bad.

“Did you notice that Gawain now supports my idea of a legal system?” Arthur asked. He moved restlessly about the room as I snuggled under the comforter. “Don’t know why, for sure,” he mused.

“Maybe he sees it as a matter of honor,” I quipped.

“Maybe. At least the Companions have accepted the idea of justice based on evidence and testimony rather than Trial by Combat. With any luck, they’ll never again have to put their lives at stake in order to prove someone else’s guilt or innocence.”

I thought of my own ordeal, when Morgan made the people believe I had tried to poison Arthur. Lance had saved my life by risking his own in Trial by Combat. It was then I realized the Lady of the Lake would use any means to get rid of me, though it had taken my husband a greater time to recognize his sister’s treachery. Only Lance had seen it clearly and tried to protect us.

At the thought, fear and panic rose up again. Oh Lord, if only I knew that he was safe…

Arthur gave me a perfunctory glance as he came to bed. Something on my face must have shown my thoughts, for when he slipped between the sheets, he slid his arm around my shoulders and pulled me to him.

“You’re still worrying about the Breton, aren’t you, lass?”

“Aye,” I whispered miserably.

“Me too—me too,” he admitted, patting my shoulder in commiseration. “But we’ll find him—no matter how long it takes, we’ll find him and bring him home. In the meantime, you go ahead and cry for both of us.”

Such unexpected tenderness weakened my resolve, and a long sigh went through me, followed by wave after wave of gusty sobs. Finally, at last, the tears broke loose and I wept long and hard in my husband’s arms. It was one of the dearest moments Arthur and I ever shared, and I’ve always remembered it with gratitude and love.

***

As the gray, bleak winter came to an end, Father Baldwin baptized Bors. I thought Palomides might convert as well, but the Arab seemed to be struggling with larger questions and was not ready to declare his acceptance of Christ as the only path to the Godhead. He came to see me one afternoon, however, hopefully suggesting that Lance had gone off on some spiritual journey of his own. “We often talked about the need to leave the lures of the world in order to find God.”

I remembered the story of Saint Simon on his high pillar, and the holy man in my dreams. It was not a fate I would wish on anyone.

When the snow melted and the Roads were cleared for travel, a great rangy beast of a man appeared at our gate. He carried a red shield and was clad in an armored jerkin, half chain mail, half metal scales. From the way he moved, I guessed he was well past a warrior’s prime, and his stoutness came from age, not muscle. Still, he made a fierce impression as he stood demanding entrance in the name of Beaumains.

The sentry was uncertain what reply to make, but Mordred and I were just returning from our morning ride, so we led the newcomer up to the Hall.

“Smells like a stablehand,” Cook commented as the fellow splashed about at the water trough, trying to make himself presentable to the King. I nodded in agreement and left Mordred to tidy him up while I went to find Arthur. The two of us had barely taken our places on the dais before Mordred brought the lout into the Hall.

The man stared about in gape-mouthed wonder, his eyes moving from the lions that were carved on the arms of our chairs to the Red Dragon that climbed the wall behind us. Finally, with a massive sigh, he let his gaze drop to the two of us.

“Your Highnesses,” he rumbled, going stiffly down on one knee. “The young warrior who bested me at the ford made me swear to come to Camelot and offer service to you—else he will hunt me down and lop off my head. He said he was only a kitchen lad at your Court, but in truth, if your sculleries fight like that, I’d hate to face a Champion of the Round Table.”

Arthur managed to keep a straight face, though I could see he was as surprised by the tale as the fellow was humble in telling it.

“We commend your courage in coming here,” the High King intoned. “If you would stay with us, Bedivere will find a place for you among the warriors. Er…do you have a name?”

“When my jerkin was new, my wife called me Ironside,” the man answered with a sigh. “The good woman’s dead these many years, and my armor is more rust than shine, but I’d be pleased to spend some time with your men. Just make sure to tell that young one that I’ve honored my oath, and he can put away his sword.”

So Mordred took Ironside to find Bedivere and Arthur raised an eyebrow in my direction. “It looks as though Beaumains is coming into his own,” he mused.

“Who is this fellow everyone talks about?” Mordred asked the next day when we were seated at the long table, practicing our writing.

“You remember—the boy Lance found on the Road.” But Mordred swore he’d never met him, and when we figured it up, either Beaumains or Mordred had been gone when the other was at Court. “I’m sure you’ll like him,” I concluded, thinking it would be good for my stepson to begin making friends among the younger warriors and not always be tagging around after his older brothers.

As the great cycle of the seasons came round to spring, my spirit rose with it. The marsh of the Somerset Levels turned green and whispered with the stirring of tadpole and newt; warblers and voles played out their busy lives amid the reeds and willow-banks, while enormous flocks of water birds came to nest on the lake. At Camelot we were busy packing, for as soon as the May Day rites of Beltane were over, we would be starting on a summer journey to the kingdoms along the south coast of Wales.

“We might hold another tournament,” Bedivere suggested. “Stories of last year’s event have traveled throughout Britain, and everyone wants to try their luck at the next one.”

We were standing at the table in the kitchen where Cook had put out cider and bannocks for those who wanted a last bite before we moved out onto the Road. Arthur finished off his beaker before nodding in assent. “The amphitheater at Caerleon’s a good place for it, and if we plan for the first of August, we’ll celebrate Lammas with the Fellowship as well. You and Cei can stay at Caerleon to arrange things while I go visit the neighboring Kings,” he added, giving me a smile. “Keep you from racing all over creation in Agricola’s carriage.”

I wrinkled my nose in response. Arthur had talked me out of taking my own carriage on this trip, on the grounds that it would be unseemly unless we rode together, and he needed the independence that his warhorse would bring. Now he was even blocking my use of the King of Demetia’s vehicle.

“After all, I need you in one piece,” he teased, wiping his mustache with the back of his hand. “The people would never forgive me if I got careless with their Queen.”

It was on that jesting note we left Camelot.

The high mood maintained throughout our trip. Birds of all kinds flitted through the woods that flanked the broad Roman Road, while the Banner of the Red Dragon rippled proudly in the breeze. Behind us the entourage of courtiers and household spread out like a bright, spangled ribbon of gaiety. Many of my ladies-in-waiting were escorted by Arthur’s Companions, while the older matrons, such as Vinnie, rode in a trundling wagon and gossiped among themselves.

Even the artisans came with us, for Smith and Bard, Kennel Master and Cook, would all be needed over the summer. Frieda and Griflet had charge of the wolfhounds, while the warriors ranged back and forth along the length of our party. At the rear Gwyn and his brother, Yder, rode next to the new black horses they’d be taking to Illtud’s stables.

I personally was delighted to be on the move again. Camelot was fine, but something in my soul needed to be out and roving.

Bedivere rode between us, taking pride in pointing out the new signs of prosperity—here the fields of a deserted villa being reclaimed by a peasant family, there a copse of hazels well managed by forest folk. Even the livestock looked healthy and well fed; stolid cows, thick-fleeced sheep and sleek horses all raised their heads to watch us go by.

Bedivere cast an appraising eye over Etain. “How do you like your new filly? You know Gwyn’s mighty proud of having bred and trained her for you.”

“Well he should be,” I confirmed. “Her mouth is gentle and her heart immense. And she loves to race,” I added, looking at Arthur.

“Really?” My husband gave me one of his droll, sidelong glances. “Seems to me we haven’t had a good run since Featherfoot got too old to keep up.”

“It’s been awhile,” I agreed, surreptitiously gathering in the reins and shifting my balance slightly.

His reply was still bantering, even as he collected his own steed. “Too long, I think. Don’t know if this old fellow still has the wind for it.”

“Which old fellow?” I challenged, eyeing the gray at my husband’s temples.

“The four-legged one,” he exploded. “To the next milestone!”

And then we were away, pounding down the soft verge beside the pavement, daring each other on and grinning like children with never a care in the world. Even the horses loved it; the stallion running with his neck outstretched, great hooves scattering divots of grass behind and the young filly racing to keep a nose ahead, nostrils flared and tail lifted in the high-plumed style of the Welsh Mountain ponies. No one felt like stopping when the milestone slipped past, so we followed the Road over the crest of the hill, pulling up only when we came to a rocky ford.

“Clears the head,”Arthur opined as we waited, winded and happy, for the rest of the caravan to catch up.

And the heart, I thought, nodding in agreement. For the first time in months I was racing exuberantly toward the future. Apparently even the season of despair must give way to the passage of time, and though the loss of Lance would always leave a void, I was both pleased and happy to be alive again, at last.

Chapter IX

Caerleon

My teacher, Cathbad, used to say there might be times when our moiras crossed and recrossed those of the others that shaped our lives…all at once, and each without knowing. That summer at Caerleon was one such time.

Like most Roman cities, Caerleon is built on high ground near the banks of a river, with a massive fortress at its heart. Once Legionnaires had marched through the gates and down the paved Roads, past the taverns and shops, baths and amphitheater that cluster outside the walls of the fort. Now the inhabitants speak more Celtic than Latin, while thatched round-houses and the huts of newcomers sprawl higgledy-piggledy in the shadow of the fortress walls.

Yet even during the Time of Troubles, after the Legions had left and tyrants ruled the land, the people looked at the ruins of their Imperial buildings and remembered grander days. So when Merlin declared that Arthur Pendragon would be the king to heal the wounds left by so much civil strife, the natives of Caerleon took him to their heart. It was here he was crowned, here we had held the first Round Table—albeit inadvertently—and here we had come again to celebrate Lammas and hold a tournament. No matter that we made Camelot our headquarters; Caerleon knew itself to be the High King’s city, and turned out to meet us with cheers and joy as we crossed the bridge over the river Usk.

Among the attributes of the town—besides a fine amphitheater and three working baths—was the basilica of the fort itself. I have never seen another building as impressive; made of stone, it is hundreds of feet long, with a semicircular apse at the end of the nave and colonnaded aisles along each side. Here huge columns lift the central roof several stories high, and under the lofty ceiling clerestory windows let in great shafts of sunshine, making the long nave remarkably light and airy. It is a magnificent place in which to hold the Round Table, so Cei and I set about turning the nave into our Hall.

We were not the only ones preparing for the occasion. Townspeople shook out buntings and draped them on walls, baskets of blooming flowers were hung from the eaves or sprang up on gate posts, and even the dancing bear was brought out.

Arthur and I stayed in the praetorium of the fort, which was comfortable enough. Since there was no garden to attend to, I often walked down to the river before the day properly began. It gave me some chance to feel the earth under my feet, the green leaves against my skin, the song of birds within my heart. On one such morning my path crossed that of the bearkeeper taking his big, shaggy charge to the amphitheater.

“He needs a bit of freedom, just like anyone else,” the man said as I fell in with him, being careful to keep him between me and the animal. The trainer gave me a sharp-eyed, sidelong appraisal, no doubt as cautious of me as I was of his bear. Apparently satisfied that I wouldn’t upset his pet’s routine, he invited me to join them in the amphitheater. “Gots his likes and dislikes, like anyone else, but mostly he’s good-natured, as long as he gets plenty of exercise,” he noted fondly.

In the entrance passage leading to the arena we passed the niche where a small statue of Nemesis, Goddess of Fate, stands. It reminded me of Elaine’s declaration that whatever befell Lancelot must be on my conscience. I shivered as though a curse had been laid on me, and cast the Goddess a small prayer in the Breton’s behalf, then hurried after the trainer, who had already entered the arena.

Once inside the building he unclasped the chain from his animal’s collar. The bear swung its head back and forth, snuffling the air, then began to shamble about the arena. It found a particular sandy patch in the early sunshine, turned a somersault, and began wriggling on its back like a horse rolling after it’s been unsaddled, all four legs in the air. It grabbed hold of its own hindfeet and, rocking back and forth, pulled itself to a half-sitting position. Resting on its tailbone, front paws holding the splayed feet apart, it peered at us raffishly over the broad expanse of exposed tummy. I couldn’t help but laugh at its clowning, and it nodded its head up and down as if to encourage my mirth. It was pleasant to think that even the bear enjoyed our presence here.

During the next weeks we sent out invitations to the Fellowship and proclamations about the tournament. There was housing to organize, a menu to construct and entertainment to arrange. And it all needed to be in place by mid-July, when the High King would return from his state visits.

Arthur and his men hastened on their rounds, stopping first to see Illtud at the monastery at Llantwit. I was sorry not to be along for that, for I liked the warrior prince who had become a monk and turned his estate into a monastery. He admired Arthur’s military acumen, and recognizing our cavalry’s constant need for fresh, well-trained horses, had set up stables for training our remounts.

On this visit he and Gwyn would decide which of the horses to train for battle, which to geld for riding, and which to trade off for domestic use. I smiled at the notion of the Christian holy man and the fey horse breeder working so closely together.

Later the royal party went to the hill-fort at Dinas Powys, where they hunted waterfowl with the scruffy warlord, Poulentis, admired the man’s new pigs, and drank great quantities of honey brew in the small, drystone building he called his Hall. By comparison, when they were in Demetia they ate off elegant pewter plates and spoke Latin with the wise old aristocrat, Agricola. It was here that Gawain left the party, going off to look for a hermit who was said to be living in a rocky cove among the shoreline cliffs. Such interest on the redhead’s part surprised me, and even bemused Arthur.

“It seems that philosophy is taking up more and more of my nephew’s time,” he noted. In fact, Gawain had not returned with the King’s party, though he would certainly arrive in time for the Lammas gathering. After last year it was unlikely he’d miss this tournament.

As the time for the festival approached, people of all sorts poured into Caerleon. Peasants and farmers came from far and near to observe Lammas; client kings and their Champions came to take part in the Round Table and tournament; and a fine assortment of mimes and acrobats, sword swallowers and jugglers, came to perform on every comer.

Two days before the Round Table convened, Gwyn and Yder accompanied me in a stroll through town. We stopped to admire an enterprising young fellow who had found a selection of masks among the ruins of a theater and was putting on a small performance all by himself—one minute as a coquette, the next minute as a tyrant, depending on which mask he held before his face. I laughed heartily at his jesting and made a mental note to have Cook send round a picnic supper for his efforts.

A little girl, whose mother was hawking flowers, came sidling up to me and thrust a bouquet into my hands before disappearing in a fit of giggles behind her mother’s skirts. I thanked them both for the gift, noting that field poppies are one of my favorite flowers.

In the Square a crowd was gathering to watch the dancing bear. The keeper had slipped a muzzle of stout leather over its nose and kept tight hold of the creature’s chain, for the people crowded around it in awe and delight. They regarded the bear’s presence as a kind of talisman binding them even more closely to Arthur.

“So this is your husband’s namesake,” Gwyn teased, referring to the similarity between Arthur’s name and the Celtic word for bear. “Seems as though it could give the King some lessons in dancing.”

I laughed, knowing Arthur would have been amused as well. The animal was standing upright, looking remarkably like a giant man with a big head, sloping shoulders, and long, pudgy torso. The keeper piped a lilting tune and went prancing about the Square while the bear followed after on its short, stubby legs, jouncing along in an oddly disjointed fashion, as though it were indeed dancing.

Both the song and the laughter of the crowd were infectious, and the bear commenced nodding its head in time with the music. When it paused to look directly at me, I wondered if it remembered the morning in the arena. Without thinking, I held out my bouquet of flowers as a gift.

Quick as lightning the paw swung round, scimitar claws slashing through the fabric of my sleeve before they hooked the posies from my hand. The force of the animal’s thrust gave me a glancing blow and sent me sprawling on the paving stones as a hideous scream broke the air.

Although he was no more than half the bear’s height, Yder went swarming up its back, dagger in hand, filling the air with howls of rage. Clinging to its shoulders, the little man plunged his dagger over and over into the ruff of fur and fat protecting the creature’s nape.

The bear shook itself violently, ripping the chain from its keeper’s hands. After a moment of shocked silence the crowd began to roar, and while half the people scrambled to get away, the other half converged on Yder and the bruin, some trying to pull the wild Welshman from their mascot, some attacking the animal in Yder’s behalf.

Blood spurted everywhere, over both me and the stones, and I watched with horror as the mass of flailing arms and legs and claws seemed to sway endlessly back and forth. Screams and grunts and a long, shivering groan came out of the scuffling mass before it finally sank to the ground from its own sheer weight.

Suddenly there was silence, and I pulled myself to my feet while the tangle of people began to disengage. Here was a scraped arm, there a bloody nose, but aside from Yder and the bear, all others seemed to be more dazed than wounded.

Without a word Gwyn dragged his brother free of the inert animal as the trainer knelt beside his dying pet. A lake of blood was spreading over the paving stones, and a great, deep sob rose in my throat. I had no more meant to cause the death of the bear than I had meant to drive Lance to his, and a sense of bitter, futile destiny hemmed me all around. Hordes of curious townsfolk had gathered, staring helplessly at their mascot and murmuring in consternation.

Yder lay gasping for breath in his brother’s arms, and I made my way to him. He was covered with blood, though it was impossible to tell if it was his or the bear’s.

I knelt shakily by my would-be rescuer and took his hand in my own. The little man’s eyes were glazing over, and I was afraid he, too, had met his end on my account.

With great effort he focused on my face and wheezed out a declaration. “Now that Lancelot’s gone, I’d like to take his place, M’lady.”

The idea came as such a surprise, it caught me speechless, and Yder lost consciousness before I could reply.

“He’s always had a romantic streak,” Gwyn explained with a shrug. “Yder’s dreamed of becoming your Champion since he first met you—probably the only one at Court glad to see Lancelot go.”

I stared at the two men in amazement, thinking them both mad beyond measure. “I swear I had no idea…” I stammered.

“Oh, that’s all right, Your Highness. Everyone knows the Breton is your favorite and as the best warrior in the land, most suited to be your protector. What you don’t realize is how many men would like to claim that honor themselves.” Gwyn gave me an impish grin, then turned his attention to his brother. “Yder’s more scared than hurt—a couple of days doctoring will see him well again.”

By now Elyzabel had made her way to me, her festive dress as splattered with mud and blood as mine was. She insisted on checking my arm which, miraculously, had not even been scratched when the bear’s claws slashed the sleeve. “We’d best be getting on, M’lady,” she suggested, offering me her arm. “At the least your hair needs recombing, and a rest wouldn’t do you a bit of harm, either.”

I nodded, glad for her support as I rose to my feet and we made our way to the praetorium. Both she and Gwyn proved to be good nurses; I stayed quiet all the rest of the day, and Yder was back on his feet by the next evening. He moved stiffly, like one favoring sore ribs, and would not likely take part in the tournament, but he seemed to have suffered no permanent damage.

Since Lance’s departure I had made a habit of inviting a different warrior to sit beside me each night. So on Yder’s first night back he was seated next to me in order that the Court see I was grateful for his valor on my behalf. In truth I felt more compassion for the bear than the man, but we chatted amiably enough and I was relieved to find that since his habitual shyness had returned, he made no further effort to pursue his suit to become my Champion.

***

This year we had decided to hold the Round Table meeting first, then the tournament, and finally, on the last night, a Grand Feast to go with the Lammas rites. Watching the members of the Fellowship take their places for the Council, I noted that Enid and Geraint seemed as comfortable and happy together as before, though there were no signs of pregnancy, either past or present. Ironside was quite smitten with the dark-haired queen, however, and solemnly handed her a nosegay as he passed their segment of the Round Table. It was such a quaint thing for the old reprobate to do, I couldn’t help smiling. For all his gruesome history at the river ford, there was a sentimental streak underneath his bluster.

Agricola arrived with his long-faced, pasty-skinned nephew at his elbow, and Bagdemagus marched proudly to his seat, announcing to anyone who would listen that the men of Dorset had asked him to be their permanent liaison with the High Court. I wasn’t surprised that Nimue and Pelleas hadn’t come; the doire and her husband were more than happy living on his remote, if sizable, holdings and since she’d spent so long with us last fall, it was unlikely we’d see her again unless Arthur were in danger.