Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn (36 page)

“We hope you’ll stay awhile,” Arthur declared, hastily guiding him into the room we used as an office, away from the curious eyes of the household.

I nodded my concurrence. Time spent with Bors and Lionel had always cheered him in the past. Perhaps their company could now help him cope with his grief over Galahad.

“Mostly I just want to talk with Perceval,” Lance said stiffly, his voice flat and stoic. “I understand he was there…”

“Of course. We’ve put aside a room facing the garden for you,” I responded, but Lance shook his head without looking at me.

“I’d rather sleep in the barn. I may stay on, or maybe not, depending how I feel. But if I decide to leave early tomorrow, I want to be able to go without causing any fuss.”

Or seeing me. From the careful way he spoke, and the fact that he never met my eyes, it was clear he intended to keep as much distance between us as possible. I wondered whether he was simply exhausted by his sadness or had been warned by the Church against turning to me for solace.

He spent that first night with Pellinore’s son, but when I returned from my ride next morning, I noted that Invictus was still at the stable.

The day turned hot and sticky, and Arthur decided to take a hunting party out along the cool course of the Eden. “Maybe up to Armathwaite,” he opined. “They say the greylings are biting, and if it doesn’t rain, we may camp over. Do us ‘elders’ good to get out and about,” he added wryly.

The notion that somehow, when no one was looking, we’d all become “elders” seemed preposterous. “Just don’t get a summer cold,” I admonished, then laughed in rueful recognition of how much I sounded like a nattering granny.

“I won’t.” Arthur was bundling up his leather cape and an extra blanket, and when he had the bedroll ready, he paused, suddenly awkward.

“You look out for yourself,” he said, coming over and deliberately slipping his arms around me. “And be good,” he added, staring down at me.

It was such an odd thing to say, I pulled back and searched his face carefully. But outside of looking tired, I saw nothing to explain it, so I reached up and tweaked his nose in an effort to lighten the mood. “Always,” I assured him. “And you bring home a good catch.”

And that was it. He went off with half the Companions, and I stayed in Carlisle, working in the garden until the heat drove me inside. Later I asked Enid to bring a cold dinner to my chamber. I had no idea where Lancelot was, and while I didn’t want to avoid him, neither could I seek him out, under the circumstances. I figured he knew where to find me if he so desired.

The evening was muggy and still; even the warblers in the willows along the riverbank were quiet. I sat in the open window, staring out into the long twilight and thinking back over the years: the rowdy freedom of my childhood in the hidden valleys and high mountains of the Lake District; my delight at discovering that Arthur was a man to love as well as a husband to honor; the pain of losing the only child I was ever able to conceive; and how Lance had sat beside my bed for days when I lay ill in Brigit’s convent after Maelgwn kidnapped and raped me. Tender and loving and dedicated…just as I had been at his side following his battle with the bear. Just as I should be now while he struggled to come to terms with Galahad’s death.

The memory of his plans for a future with his son suddenly came to mind, and I railed silently at the irony of its loss. Lance might try to hold his anger and misery inside, but I held mine up to the Gods, wanting them to admit the unfairness of it all.

A figure moved at the base of the garden, tall and shadowy, wearing a monk’s habit. It was Lancelot, pacing slowly along the river’s edge, his head bent in meditation, or prayer.

Instinctively I raised my hand, meaning to call out his name, but uncertainty stayed my voice. Once I had dreamed him thus, clothed in the habits of a holy man. Then I had hated it; now I was not so sure. Christianity was something that filled his life as nothing else could—something he had chosen, had deliberately sought out. I could compete with another woman for his love, but there was no way I could win in a contest with God.

The greeting died on my lips. Perhaps his prayers would give him as much comfort as I could…at least I would respect his choice.

With a sigh I moved back into the room, and getting into the coolest nightshift I could find, sat down to comb out my hair. When it was done, I was still too wakeful for sleep, so I tossed the covers off the bed and stretched out on my stomach on the cool sheets, staring up at the stars beyond the casement.

The new moon had long since set, and the sky was finally darkening. Soon it would be netted with brilliants, a fine black velvet strewn with jewels of burning ice that whirl in majesty to music only bards can hear. I watched them dreamily, wondering what they might know of life and death, or what it was to love.

I must have dozed off, for when I realized someone was tapping at my door, the room was enveloped in darkness. The rush-light in its clip had burned out, and I hadn’t thought to light my lantern before lying down, so there was nothing for it but to make my way across the floor in the pitch-black, not even pausing to search for a robe.

Whether by instinct or empathy, or some inner communication that needed no voice, I knew who it was even before I lifted the latch. Lance stood in the hall, still in his monk’s robe, candle in hand. I stepped back before the halo of light, inviting him in without a word.

He put the taper on the bedside table as I closed and barred the door. I turned to look at him, seeing a man who stood unmoving and helpless in the face of tragedy. He was as defenseless against the despair of his heart as he was unarmed against the world. Tears began to run down his cheeks, and he slowly reached out to me in mute appeal.

A great, profound quiet had descended on the room, and I moved toward him as in a dream. Like the Great Mother, I opened my arms, gathering him in to my embrace as I would a child—comforting, holding, shielding him with a love that asks nothing, but simply is. At such moments one draws on the oldest power in the world, and it flowed through me as a spring flows up through rocks to slake the thirsty greensward.

I felt the long shudder that shook his frame as he bowed his head and let the aching of his heart pour out in silent tears.

***

How long we stood like that I have no idea—I would have stayed there all night if he had needed it. But suddenly there came a wild stamping in the hallway and someone pounding loudly on my door.

“Open. Open in the name of the King!”

Startled by such shattering of the night’s peace, Lance and I jumped apart.

“Who disturbs the Queen?” he demanded, reaching for the candle.

“You there, Lancelot. We hear you in there! I demand you surrender, in the King’s name.”

There was no mistaking Agravain’s voice, and realization of danger flashed through me as I whispered to Lance, “It’s a trap to discredit us, and Arthur. Quick, out the window.”

“Wretched woman, we’ve caught you with your lover. Open up, I say!”

The shouts were coming from different voices now, some I could identify, some I couldn’t. Clearly there were a number of warriors intent on breaking down my door.

“Have you any weapons?” Lance asked, hastily scanning the room.

“None that would help. Go out the window, love, and let me deal with this.”

“And leave you to face that mob alone?” Lance’s question was a statement in itself, made as he pulled off his robe and wrapped it around his shield-arm. Wearing only his trews, he advanced on the door, which shivered in its jam under the onslaught of constant pounding. Putting his shoulder against the wood, he paused to look back at me. “Whatever happens, if we survive this, I’ll not leave you again.”

Before I had a chance to answer, he was easing the bar from its hasp and, bracing himself against the crush, opened the door just enough to allow a single person into the room.

It was Colgrevance who stumbled into the gloom as Lance forced the door closed again. The Frenchman stood staring at me, momentarily bewildered, until Lance leapt on him. There was a scuffle of bodies, silent and deadly, while bedlam continued in the hall, and suddenly Colgrevance slumped to the ground, his neck broken. Lance turned the body over and, grabbing his shield, tossed it on the bed while I fumbled for the baldric, being careful not to look at the fellow’s face.

Fortunately he was wearing Roman armor rather than mail, so we had it off him in seconds. Retrieving both sword and shield, Lance motioned me to the window before he jerked open the door.

Caught off balance when it suddenly gave way, the howling intruders fell forward into the room. Lance used the door to protect his flank, hacking and swinging with a strength born of desperation. The clash of blade on blade was punctuated with occasional oaths, a hideous gurgle, and someone’s scream of death or destruction. The sweet, sticky smell of blood filled my nostrils as I watched, horrified.

Slowly the flailing of arms and legs began to lessen. In the shadowy melee one figure turned to flee, leaving behind three bodies sprawled upon the floor, one more groaning beside the bed. Lance was still engaged, however, cornered by a silent, deadly opponent.

I lifted the heavy water pitcher from its ewer on the chest, hefting the weight with every intention of coming to Lance’s aid if the chance arose. There were just the two of them now, moving away from the door, slashing and parrying. It was easy to pick out Lance, sweating and straining to keep the other fellow at a distance, but only when the dark head turned to profile did I see—and know—that the last of the attackers was Mordred.

What depth of bitterness and hate had turned him thus? Was it jealousy? Ambition? A feeling of betrayal, fed by his cruel, vicious brother? Or did it shadow a destiny delivered at birth, a moira from which there was no appeal?

In the midst of the blood-spattered present my mind hared off to the past, hounded by questions which had no answer. Where had I failed? What could I have done differently? All the wrong decisions I’d made in raising the boy piled up around me as waves of riotous glee began to ricochet in my head, goading me past reason. Whatever help I might have brought to Lance was lost in peels of mirthless laughter.

Through the demonic veil of tears and hysterics, I saw Mordred break away, his arm squirting blood, his face smeared with hate. The rage that had driven his body forward now turned to fear, and he bolted for the door, leaving his comrades heaped at my feet. I stared at the carnage as the awful laughter continued.

“Stop it! Stop it, Gwen!” Lance was shouting at me, and when I continued to laugh idiotically, he took me by the shoulders and gave me a hard slap before demanding, “Are you all right?”

The laughter ended as abruptly as it started. I turned to stare at my savior, trying to blot out the pictures of the bodies strewn around the room, and nodded numbly. “And you?” I whispered, unable to control my voice.

“Only flesh wounds.”

Footsteps were pounding down the hall, and lantern light swung wildly around the walls as people rushed to converge on my room.

“Whatever happens, I will not desert you,” Lance said planting a hasty kiss on my forehead. “Remember that.”

And then he was gone, grabbing up the monk’s robe and leaping out the window. I stood there, cold and shaking, as members of the household poured through the door and came to encircle me. Some had friendly faces, many did not, but there was caution and fear on all of them.

“Arrest her!” Agravain demanded, pushing his way into the room. “We caught her in adultery, in plotting against her husband, in treasonous actions. She must be held for trial.”

I stared at him without comprehension.

“See how she stands, near naked in the flimsiest of gowns? Not even wearing a robe to cover her shame! And the bed…” With a sweeping gesture he pointed to the covers that lay in a heap where I’d pushed them, then shrugged as though that were proof in itself. “Didn’t the Lady of the Lake warn us of this woman’s treachery? Didn’t she tell us that Lancelot and Guinevere were lovers? Have been lovers for years? Now we’ve caught them in the act!” He was riding the crest of triumph now, his voice grown ominous as he brought home his point. “If Morgan le Fey was right about their adultery, is she not likely to be right about their plots—their treasonous plots to overthrow Arthur?”

Gradually, with the slow, ponderous weight of the inevitable, the truth came clear. It reeked of Morgan’s determination to destroy me, and I looked slowly and carefully at the faces of my captors, hearing the mutter of their agreement, seeing the accusation in their eyes.

Aside from Ironside, who had declined to go on Arthur’s hunting party, and Agravain, who strutted before me, the men were young or new to our domain. The women, with the exception of Enid and Lynette and Elyzabel, were equally unknown—girls whose names I might recall but whose hearts and natures I had not bothered to get acquainted with. Some of them bent to attend the warriors on the floor: Gingalin and Florence and Colgrevance dead at Lance’s hand, Gaheris groaning in half consciousness.

In the center of it all I stood defenseless, wrapped in the tatters of royal dignity and wondering where Arthur was, if Lance had gotten away, and what would happen next.

Mordred appeared, having put a hasty bandage around his wound before going to fetch the manacles and chains from the dungeon. When I saw the irons, I stretched out my wrists with cold disdain while my eyes searched his face, trying to find some knowledge of his heart. But all I saw was the bruise from where I’d slapped him the day before.