Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn (39 page)

“I don’t know—I was concentrating on you and didn’t see how it began. At a guess, I’d say it was likely to have been Agravain who broke the faith. It…it wasn’t supposed to be that way. My men promised they wouldn’t use their weapons unless they had to. Now, God knows how many have been maimed or killed.”

“Besides Gareth?” I formed the name carefully, praying all the time it wasn’t true, “He died, didn’t he?”

“Um-hm,” Lance nodded miserably. He was silent for a long while, gently brushing my hair from my face. When he spoke, his voice was husky. “Gareth insisted on being next to the stairs, so as to be able to cut you down and bring you to my horse. It meant I didn’t have to dismount. It was his choice, his moira.”

The reality was even worse than I feared, and the realization that he had given his life for mine brought out a deep, aching moan.

Lance gathered me close in his arms, shushing me softly and crooning a little wordless lullaby just as he had when he’d carried me to safety after the rape all those years ago. That had been in the middle of the night, with stars flung all around us; now we were in the first flush of morning, with the peaceful flutter of a green bower overhead and a splashing brook nearby—a time fresh spun, separate and away from all the past.

“Sleep if you can,” he whispered, rocking me gently. “We have to wait till evening before moving on anyhow. They’ll be expecting us to use the Road, and patrolling along the Wall, so we’d best stick to the cover of streams and forest paths for a while. If necessary, we can follow them all the way to Northumbria, and make Joyous Gard in little more than a fortnight.”

Joyous Gard—that memory of pleasure and delight, the haven in the midst of difficulty, the peaceful home untouched by violence. Like a child, I repeated the name over and over, until it became a murmur akin to the sound of the nearby stream, and I drifted into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

Chapter XXXI

The Journey

A full day’s rest and only moderate travel that evening did much to restore my strength. We talked little—perhaps both needing to come to terms with the devastation we’d left behind—but we touched often, in the simple, companionable way of partners facing hard times together: a hand on my shoulder when I bent to dip up water from the stream, a pat on the knee before rising from a meal. At night, fully clothed and sharing the single blanket, we cuddled together for warmth with the innocence of children. Both age and circumstances were bound to have banked the fires of passion, a fact I noted with only mild interest; no doubt exhaustion had something to do with it as well.

The stream we’d been following joined the South Tyne just before the waters of that rambunctious river went leaping through a gorge where soft gray cliffs rise above the water, their crests festooned by hanging forests. Above the high branches a flock of rooks filled the air with their raucous cries and endless acrobatics. The blue streak of a kingfisher skimmed above the water like a peacock jewel flashing amid the mossy, fern-clad steeps, and the serene majesty of the place filled me with a sudden, sharp joy.

Clearly death and fighting, intrigue and power were not the only definitions of life; the grandeur and simplicity of places such as this touched my soul more deeply than any fancy court ever could. I would have liked to stay there and let it heal my battered spirit, but Lancelot, ever mindful of the danger we were in, insisted we press on.

By then we’d developed a routine of sorts. Lance spent the early morning catching fish or fowl while I searched out wild turnips, greens, and whatever edible fungus was available. We moved our camp during midday if there was a cover of trees, or in the long evenings if the land was open, and took turns riding or walking the stallion.

Where the river opened out into a broad, grassy vale, I found a blackberry patch and we stopped to pick the sweet fruit with the glee of youngsters on a holiday. It was the first time in years that I’d seen Lancelot enjoy himself so thoroughly.

We lived simply for the moment, as much intent on finding food and shelter as on our travel, and both body and spirit grew stronger. The horror in Carlisle’s Square began to fade, as though all that went before had happened to someone else.

When we reached the confluence of the North and South Tyne, we made a small camp and fire in the protection of a long-deserted hill-fort. “Do you suppose,” I mused as I turned the salmon on its willow-wand spit and stared into the coals of our tiny fire, “that I am still Queen, for all that I’m living in the wilds like an outlaw?”

“Probably,” Lance responded. “The people will not forget you so fast, nor will Arthur. And I’m quite sure they’ll be wanting you back, sooner or later.”

I groaned aloud at the thought. Lance had brought me a second chance, a new life over and above the one my moira had envisioned, and I wanted to reach out and take hold of it freely, without being tied to what used to be. The past was over and gone.

Except perhaps for Arthur…the picture of my husband standing alone as I was dragged back to the cell returned whenever I thought of him. Even now he was no doubt struggling through the turmoil following my rescue—alone, hemmed in, without anyone to break through his inner isolation. The idea brought a terrible pang, and I turned resolutely away from it. Once we reached Joyous Gard, I would send word that I was safe. Under the circumstances, there was nothing else I could do.

“We need to get across the Wall,” Lance said, spearing a piece of salmon with his dagger. “We’d best follow the northern branch of the river up to Chester and see if we can slip across there.”

“Chester? Yea Gods, that’s a full-sized community. They’ll have guards at every gate, for sure.”

“I was thinking we’d swim under the bridge.”

“Swim?” The word came out as a squeak. Lance made it sound like the most reasonable idea in the world, but I couldn’t have been more shocked if he’d suggested we sprout wings and fly. “Have you ever seen how fast the river rushes through there? And there are grates between the piers that hold up the bridge. I’ve seen them—put up by Romans to keep people from doing just what you’re suggesting.”

“They’ve been untended for at least a hundred years then. Even elm is going to weaken somewhat in that time,” Lance noted, not understanding my reticence.

“What if I can’t manage the swimming part?” I inquired. “I haven’t been in anything other than a calm pool since I was a child.”

“You can always hang on to the horse’s tail, if your royal dignity doesn’t mind,” Lance teased, and I made a very unroyal face, convinced we were courting disaster.

But Lance was not going to put aside the idea till he’d proved to himself it wasn’t possible, so the next night we crept along the bank of the North Tyne until we came in sight of the fort.

It was in the heart of the night, with no moon above and most everyone asleep in the town. As we neared the ruins of the bathhouse, a dog set up a commotion, barking his challenge though we couldn’t even see him. He must have been on a chain, for there was shortly an explosion of swearing, a whine from the beast, and a noticeable silence.

We stopped while I tore off a length from the bottom of my shift and Lance wrapped it around the horse’s bridle to keep the jingling from alerting anyone else. Then we started forward again, the Breton walking at the animal’s head, steadying him against nickering or snorting. And I trailed behind, my heart in my mouth as we came up to the walls of the fort.

By great fortune the guardroom at our end of the bridge was lit with only a feeble lantern, and there was no sign of shadow or silhouette in the window. Torchlight spilled from the tower on the other end of the bridge, and from the laughter and swearing that carried on the summer night, it would seem that the sentries were involved in a dice game whose stakes were high enough to hold everyone’s attention.

After we crept under the bridge to the abutment, Lance slid into the water and worked his way upstream to where the remnants of the grates slapped and pressed against the stone piers. It took some time, and a lot of strength, but he finally succeeded in tearing one away enough to allow us to get through.

Since it was high summer, the water was down, or we might not have made it. As it was, both Lance and the horse had to struggle against the current, while I clung to Invictus’s tail and tried to keep from swallowing half the river. It was one of those wild, exhilarating experiences which could easily have turned to tragedy but in retrospect is called a fine adventure.

The caterpillar spins its cocoon and emerges forever changed. The Christians claim to be reborn after baptism. And for all that I misunderstood her at the time, Nimue had promised me a new beginning. By the time I clambered out on the far shore of the Tyne, soaked and bedraggled, the last remnants of my old life had been swept away like the ashes in Carlisle’s Square. I was as clean and free-washed as the pebbles that tumble along the river’s bed…and full of excitement.

“Didn’t think I could do it,” I declared, planting my hands on my hips like any country maid proud of her accomplishment.

“You?” Lance responded, wiping down the horse and grinning at me in the starlight. “There isn’t anything you can’t do. I could have told you that. Now, get on up on Invictus’s back; there’s a clear path ahead and we’ll all dry off best at a brisk trot.”

Later we tethered the stallion to a birch tree and bedded down on the woody slope that overlooks a curve in the river. For the first time since the entrapment I no longer went to sleep under a shadow of dread and sorrow.

At dawn the pretty little song of a linnet wakened me, and when I stretched slowly and opened my eyes, it was to find the Breton propped up on one elbow, watching me intently. The look on his face was so loving, I flushed in surprise, and he laughed softly.

“You snore, did you know that? Little, puffy snorts, as if you were muttering to yourself in your sleep.”

“Hmmph,” I responded, reaching up to trace the tantalizing line of his lips with one fingertip. “Do you know what I was saying?” He shook his head, and I whispered, “Where’s Lancelot, where’s Lancelot…”

“Right here, M’lady,” he answered, bending his head until his lips were covering mine—full, rich, and trembling as much as mine were. A breathless flutter of desire leapt to life in me, and when he started to lift his head, I raised mine to follow, unwilling to be separated from the mouth that had fascinated me for so long.

Thus we embarked on our long-deferred idyll of loving. His hands moved over me like a sculptor’s, forming and smoothing, defining the shape of my desire from rib to haunch to hip, and I responded to his touch like a cat arching its back to be petted.

Wave after wave of desire enfolded us, building slowly until all my limits began to melt, smudged and blending like the colors of a sunset. A fine, soft mist stole over us, making my skin both hot and cold—and still our lips touched, gliding, nibbling, sometimes breaking away, always plunging back like moths into a flame. Inside me the whole of existence trembled, rising, pulsing, turning toward his touch like a flower opening to the warmth of the sun.

And when I rose to gather him to me, pulling, plunging, drawing him downward to the heart of the stars, a deep, unconscious moan rose between us.

Afterward, dozing in the crook of his arm, I drifted as light and free as a butterfly wafting on the barest breeze. Isolde had once spoken of the indefinable wonder of being with Tristan, and I, jealous of such depth of intimacy, had not wanted to hear. Now I smiled to myself, saluting the Queen of Cornwall with full understanding. Lance and I might have lived all our lives without this coming together, but with the hindsight of experience, I would no longer call such a life complete.

“Happy?” I asked, turning to look at my love.

“Um-hm,” he confirmed, eyes closed but fingers playing with a lock of my hair. “And you?”

I nodded vigorously, “I didn’t know…”

It was true, I didn’t know it could be like this, but of a sudden I wished I hadn’t said it. It was too much like comparing him with Arthur.

“Nor I,” Lance sighed, his easy tone making me forget my embarrassment. “Perhaps,” he teased, opening one eye but not moving his head, “we should try it again sometime.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” I agreed, sitting up and stretching my arms over my head. Yet even without seeing, I felt his eyes caressing me, and when I turned toward him, he was watching me intently.

“Put your clothes on, Lady,” he grinned, “before I ravish you all over again.”

I gave him a punch in the ribs, and then we were rolling and laughing like children half our ages, and when we came to a breathless stop, he looked down at me, slowly shaking his head. “It’s remarkable to be able to say I love you without having to rely on words.”

Who knows how long we would have stayed there if Invictus hadn’t begun pawing the ground and reminding us that he, too, was awake. “It sounds,” my lover noted with a sigh, “as though the old fellow thinks we’d best be on our way.”

***

Whether because the constraints of the past were lifted or simply because we took such joy in being alive, the rest of the trip to Warkworth was more pleasurable than difficult. We followed the ever-changing Tyne past swirling pools, whiffling rapids, mossy crags, and fringing woods. I loved its marvelous liquid song, and was sorry to leave it when we turned up the stream they call the Rede and headed for the high, heather-covered moors.

Soon the soft leafiness of the river valley was left behind. Instead of dappled shade and gentle zephyrs there was naught but wide skies and rolling, sweeping, wind-swept hills covered with rippling grasses. We made our way along tracks that followed the curve of the land, occasionally climbing to the high summits where the moors were bursting into purpie splendor. Huge buzzards wheeled lazily overhead, while skylarks from the grassy slopes below hurled their tiny bodies upward, frantically fluttering higher and higher into the blue as they flung their song against the day.

Not since childhood had both body and spirit been so free, and I ran to the brow of a hill, arms extended to the wind that ruffled my hair as it combed the grass. Lance caught me from behind and, locking his arms around my waist, lifted me from the ground. I leaned my head back against his shoulder as we spun in gentle circles, there on the top of the world. I don’t think either of us had ever been happier.

Signs of people were few and far between in this high, open land. Once I saw the hives of a beekeeper—brought, no doubt, to collect the special nectar of the heather—and occasionally Lance would point out the distant outline of a steading on a south-facing hill. By tacit agreement we avoided such places, me because I wanted no intrusion into this happiness, Lance for fear of recognition.

But when a summer storm came racing across the sky, we were forced to seek shelter at a crofter’s home. The wind was whipping around us as I piled my hair under a cap Lance had, then hid the whole by drawing the monk’s hood up as we approached the rundown steading.

A farm wife appraised us with silent thoroughness, eyes narrowing at the sight of the warhorse. Just then a gust of rain swept across the farmyard, so she gave a terse nod of welcome and ordered the boy by the barn to look after the horse.

“Kimmins’s hunting,” the woman allowed as she led the way into a farmhouse with drystone walls and a heavy thatched roof. “But I’ve enough pease porridge for supper, whether he brings home meat or not.”