Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn (4 page)

On the loft landing I paused before the big bronze mirror. Long and lean, with masses of apricot hair and a face more interesting than pretty, I was hardly the picture of a beautiful queen. But I wore the torc of royalty with dignity and grace, and though I’d never be as regal as Arthur’s mother, Igraine, or as lovely as Mama had been, I had the respect of my husband, the love of my people, and the tender concern of Lancelot.

So I smiled at the image in the mirror and gave her the old Roman thumbs up sign, then gathered my skirts and rushed down the main staircase.

Halfway to the bottom I felt the golden circlet on my head begin to slip forward. My hands were full of the heavy robes of state and I was in too much of a hurry to stop, so I tilted my head to one side and by the time I reached the bottom step the crown was riding rakishly over one eyebrow.

Lance was just coming to join Arthur at the door, and he stifled a laugh at the sight of me.

“That will never do, M’lady,” he admonished, stepping forward to adjust the circlet. I grinned up at him, grateful for his help.

“Thought you weren’t going to make it this time,” Arthur noted as I took my place beside him. He gave me one of his droll sidewise glances, both knowing and amused.

“Gawain and Mordred aren’t among them,” I whispered breathlessly, tugging my garments into place. “Pelli’s here, sure as rain, though I didn’t see Lamorak, or Cador of Cornwall, either. But an Irish group has come, as have some Picts.”

Arthur acknowledged my news as the double doors of the Hall were thrown open and the two of us marched forward to meet our guests.

The entire area between the steps to the Hall and the end of the barn had filled with strapping men and sleek horses. There was much milling about and greeting of old acquaintances as the leaders dismounted, and after Arthur and I welcomed them, my husband stepped into the crowd.

The men who had brought ladies with them came forward to avoid the press and I was just greeting Enid when Arthur hailed me above the din.

“You’ll never guess what Gwyn has brought you as a gift!”

The mob parted and when I realized Arthur was standing next to a carriage, I let out a yip of delight. It was one of those two-wheel contraptions such as the Welsh nobles use. Agricola had let me ride in his when we were in Demetia, and the last time we visited, he’d taught me how to manage the horses. The very notion of owning one of my own was scandalously exciting.

“It’s beautiful, is it not?” Gwyn announced pointing to the ribbons twined along the tongue and the bells attached to the back rim. Even the spokes of the wheels had been stained bright colors, and an embroidered shawl covered the cushions on the bench. “I bring it especially for you,” the little man allowed, “but think I better keep it at my horse farm lest Your Highness forget all about matters of state in favor of gallivanting about the countryside.”

He cocked an eyebrow in amusement and cast me a sly look. Gwyn of Neath—impish, gnarled and brown as a beechnut, our wily neighbor carried the air of the Otherworld about him. I personally suspected he was related to the Old Gods, but that wouldn’t keep me from accepting his gift.

“May I have the honor?” he asked, gesturing for me to board the conveyance. I paused a moment, staring up at those black, glittering eyes and wondered just how far he was to be trusted. More than one fairy king has been known to kidnap a mortal woman.

“Surely you’re not afraid, M’lady?” he challenged. “The great queens of the past didn’t flinch at anything, remember?”

My pride rose to his bait like the trout to a mayfly. Lifting my chin with a laugh, I climbed into the carriage and sat down on the bench.

No sooner had I done so than he let out a roar, and cracking his whip above the suddenly rearing horses, wheeled them around and headed toward the staging area beyond the gates. A number of the townspeople who were to lead our procession in the evening had followed the visiting royalty up to Camelot, clustering near the gateway to talk with Dagonet, who was organizing the details of the parade. As the slewing carriage bore down on them, flower girls, musicians, and acrobats fled in all directions, shrieking in surprise and fear.

I yelled at Gwyn to stop but he was intent on urging the horses on, howling like a man possessed as he sent the animals careening along the narrow track that curves up from the base of our hill. Looking back, I caught a glimpse of Arthur vaulting onto a horse’s back while the rest of the Companions stood gaping in astonishment.

Obviously the fey Welshman didn’t care that he was interrupting a Round Table meeting; nor had he any interest in my carefully planned procession. There was nothing for it but to hang on for dear life, so I clutched my crown with one hand and the rim of the carriage with the other as we dashed down the steep track and veered off toward town.

Merrymakers and shopkeepers scrambled out of our way when we went clattering through the village. Some raised their fists and swore while others hollered encouragement, but through it all Gwyn gleefully continued to snap his whip in the air. A flock of geese scattered in terror as we rounded the corner and headed for the bonfire meadow.

Arthur and the Companions were in hot pursuit, the pounding of their horses’ hooves shaking the ground behind us. I glanced again at Gwyn, hoping desperately that this was just a high-spirited prank, not the beginning of disaster.

The little man looked over at me, shrewd and laughing as always. “Nay, M’lady, I mean you no harm. But it will do your husband good to rescue you for once. Too often that Breton, Lancelot, gets all the credit.”

I could barely catch my breath, let alone laugh out loud, so I settled for shaking my head in mock reproof. He was right, of course. Lance had come to my aid so many times, he’d been named the Queen’s Champion years ago. Perhaps Gwyn was simply giving Arthur an equal chance to play the hero.

The wind was tugging at my hair, making a mess of Vinnie’s coiffure. Finally I slid the crown over my wrist for safekeeping and shook my tresses free. They streamed out behind me as I clutched the front panel of the carriage for balance. White-knuckled or no, I was loving every moment of it.

The horses fairly flew over the ground, and when we reached the clearing where the bonfire was lain, we made a sweeping circuit of the green before the little man brought his steeds to a snorting, plunging halt.

“That, Your Highness, should satisfy your need for adventure for a while,” Gwyn announced. “Mind you don’t try driving like that when you use it, though, for it’s a magical cart that requires a firm hand.”

“I’ll remember,” I assured him breathlessly. “Only sober transportation, unless you’re with me.”

With another wink and dimple, Gwyn darted around to help me out of the carriage as Arthur galloped up. The Welshman presented me to my husband with a courtly bow, then turned to his horses and calmly led them away while Arthur and I stared at each other, speechless.

“Are you all right?” he demanded, concern vying with relief.

“Absolutely,” I responded, nonchalantly planting the crown atop my head. “Scared witless, but fine. Though I’m afraid Gwyn’s prank has turned our stately procession into a shambles.”

By now most of the Companions were racing full tilt across the meadow, still not knowing I had been safely deposited. The rest of the guests, along with the townspeople and members of the procession, were hurrying up on foot.

Arthur shook his head in bemusement and stared after the master of Glastonbury Tor. “Eccentric hooligan…” he muttered good-naturedly.

It was clear that by the time we rounded everyone up again and trekked back to Camelot, we’d have lost most of the afternoon, so Arthur suggested we put off the council meeting until the end of the tournament, and move right into the midsummer celebration.

I nodded in cheerful agreement and slipped my arm through his. In spite of the lost pomp and pageantry, it was a wonderful way to begin the festivities.

***

Later, when everyone was fed and the fire lit, Dagonet drew out his elder pipe and began to play a lively tune. The Scottish contingent brought forth their bagpipes, and even the Picts joined in with their flutes as a circle formed and the dancing began.

Arthur and I led the first round, but when the musicians paused, the High King called Lancelot over. “You know how I hate to dance,” he apologized, twirling me toward the Breton.

Lance’s arms went around me, steadied me for a moment, then dropped to his sides. It was always like that—our coming together, yet having to stand apart.

Arthur admonished us to dance our shoes to tatters, then went off to discuss the northern situation with Urien. I turned to look after him, too used to it to be hurt, too aware of Lance to be sorry.

“What’s M’lady’s pleasure tonight? Dancing? Games of chance by the fire? Strolling in the birch grove?” The Breton spoke in the deep, low tone that still sends shivers down my spine, and the warmth of his closeness surrounded me. I looked up at him, seeing the dark brows, the broad cheekbones, the eyes that crinkled as he smiled. I let my gaze linger on his lips a minute too long and felt the old desire waken.

“Dancing!” I said quickly, deciding it was unwise to risk the privacy of the woods.

So dance we did, as we had on countless nights before. Skipping, spinning, hopping to a gleeful tune, we capered under the stars like the Celts of old…sometimes whirling away with others, yet always returning to each other, drawn together as irresistibly as iron filings to a lodestone.

When we first discovered the love that flowed between us, I naturally assumed that we would bed, Celtic queens having the right to a personal as well as public life. But Lance saw that as a betrayal of Arthur’s trust—though later, as our passion grew, he begged me to come away with him and be his wife in fact, if not in law. That was a far more difficult choice than simply bedding, for I love my husband, too, and could not imagine abandoning him and my people. Still, I might have done so when the secret of Mordred came to light, had not the boy been suddenly cast on my doorstep, half-orphaned, frightened, and desperately in need of family. So I had vowed to raise the child as my own…and that was the end of running away with Lancelot.

But not the end of loving.

It was Lance who had run, traveling the length and breadth of Britain in search of…peace? forgetting? a new lady? No, never that. Always he swore he would love only me—it was, he said, this very love which brought him back to Camelot. Back to my side and Arthur’s. So the three of us resumed our work as a team, as though Lance had never left—friends and comrades, each devoted to the other in our different ways. Lance and I never spoke of what might have been, but rested content in the knowledge of the love that would always be between us.

Now we danced the night away until the early dawn began to lighten the eastern sky. Arthur suggested that Lance drive me and the carriage back to Camelot while he paced beside us on his stallion. I leaned back among the cushions, delightfully, dizzyingly exhausted, content to watch the two men chatting quietly beside me, their profiles crisp and clear against the silvering sky. The rest of the revelers fell in behind, singing softly as they escorted their monarchs home after a night of celebration.

Surely there was never a realm more blessed, a people more cheerful and content, a king and court more deservedly honored. I thanked the Gods that had given us such a splendid moira…never guessing how fragile it would all turn out to be.

Chapter II

The Tournament

Our guests slept late after the night of carousing, but by noon everyone had gathered at the water meadow by the stream, where the flatness of the land provided the best field for horse- and sword-play.

The greensward was surrounded by the pavilions of various Round Table Champions, each with his own standard stuck in the turf beside his tent flap. Nestled between them, and spreading into the woods beyond, were the peddlers’ stalls. Some were little more than blankets laid on the ground and covered with items for trade or barter; others were lean-tos, hastily constructed around the base of a tree or propped against a similar hut for support. Here one could find spurs and bridles and pieces of tack or decoration, remedies for lameness, colic, coughs, witches’ knots in mane or tail, and anything else a horseman might need to keep his animal healthy. Horse blankets, curry-combs, and variations on the canvas and wooden loops we call stirrups abounded, while at one end of the list the Royal Smith set up his forge at Arthur’s behest. Here the people could get tools mended, horses shod, or weapons sharpened, all at our expense.

Cei had built a reviewing stand with bright awnings and gay bunting. Once the majority of the Court had arrived, Arthur and I walked slowly toward it down the length of the field with pages, heralds, and Irish wolfhounds in attendance.

These last were my pleasure, for Arthur preferred the great snarling black brutes Gwyn bred and trained for him for war. But I’d lived with Irish wolfhounds since childhood and even brought a pup to Arthur as a wedding present. We were now well into our second generation of gentle giants—like many large dogs, they don’t live long—and I continued the tradition of naming them for Roman heroes. It amused my husband, who was fond of reminding me how suspicious I used to be of Roman ways. But the names seemed appropriate for the large, stately animals, and it was the gray-coated Claudius that paced beside me now, his massive, scruffy head under my right hand.

When we were all settled and Claudius was lying by my feet, Arthur signaled for the tournament to begin.

The trumpeter, so necessary in battle for conveying the commander’s wishes to hard-pressed warriors, gave the notes of assembly a lively, playful air.

Two by two the standard-bearers of the nobles came forth, bridles jingling, pennants lifting in the freshening breeze as they paced the length of the meadow to present us with a formal salute before trotting briskly to their positions at the edges of the turf. The flags were almost as colorful as the pennants we hang from the backs of the chairs in the Hall, and when they were all in place they formed a bright, impressive ring.

Another trumpet flourish announced the entrance of the High King’s standard as Bedivere and his squire rode onto the grass. The Banner of the Red Dragon was unfurled in all its glory, and the boy who held it concentrated on keeping the pole steady as they cantered to the center of the turf. The two riders came to an abrupt and solemn halt, then pivoted their horses slowly in place. The flags of the client kings dipped respectfully; it was a rippling progression that made me think of field poppies bowing before the wind.

After completing the maneuver, the one-handed Champion advanced to the reviewing stand where Arthur and I sat and gave us a proud salute.

Slowly and majestically Arthur and I returned the greeting, and once Bedivere dismounted and brought the Banner to its place beside us, Arthur declared the tournament open.

When Lancelot led the cavalry out for a display of precision riding, a gasp went up from the crowd. This was the first year we’d been able to mount all the Companions on the black horses specially bred by Gwyn, and they made a most impressive sight. Each man carried his own colors on his shield, naturally, but Arthur and I had presented a pair of golden rondels set with red enamel to each Companion, to grace the headstall of his bridle. The handsome bosses gleamed rich and elegant against the satiny-black horses’ heads.

Going through their drills, wheeling and turning and regrouping in close quarters and at high speed, the Companions were a wonder to behold. I had no doubt the more distant tribes would be inspired by the stories of Arthur’s mounted warriors and decide to make treaties with us instead of war.

When the cavalry work was over, Lance came to take his usual place beside the High King, along with Lynette, who sat by me. Lynette—more urchin from the streets of London than noble of either Celt or Roman lineage, she was the youngest of my maids-in-waiting, and the most mischievous as well.

“Move over, you big scamp,” she admonished the wolfhound as she plunked herself down on the stool and scanned the crowd. Peasants and townspeople and visiting nobles milled around the tents, found places to sit on the sidelines, and even—in the case of the more adventurous youngsters—climbed into the surrounding trees for a better view. As the field cleared and preparations for the individual trials of skill were being made, Lynette suddenly reached across and tugged Arthur’s sleeve.

“Your Highness, my cousin holds a small fortlet by a river ford—nothing fancy, just a fortified steading, really. But ever since her father died last winter, the local warlord has been pestering her for marriage. With only a few farmhands to protect her, she’s asked me to find a Champion to put the fellow in his place. Do you think, with so many warriors here for the tournament…”

The girl’s voice trailed off hopefully and Arthur shrugged. “You’re free to ask whomever you wish,” he told her. “Got the best in the realm to choose from, I’d say.”

The ancient call to battle, sounded on silver-rimmed aurochs’ horns, was booming and rippling around the glade. There is no other sound like it, and every Celt knows in his blood it is the signal of life and death. Although this was only a tournament and test of skill, each of the contenders who hoped to prove his prowess before the King raised his head expectantly at the sound.

Like the nobles, these warriors came in all shapes and sizes—young and hopeful, mature and confident, some with rich trappings and fancy mounts, others dressed in sturdy homespun and riding country nags. One freckle-faced lad made his way from group to group, offering his service as a squire to anyone who would accept him. A cadre of southern dandies hooted in derision and sent him packing, but later I saw him talking earnestly with Pellinore, who gave him a jovial clap on the back and sent him over to see to his armor.

Lynette was carefully scanning the group, looking for a likely Champion. At last she turned away, dissatisfied. “If only Gawain were here,” she murmured. “He’d help me in a minute, I know.”

The gamin was probably right, for Arthur’s nephew had recently taken a vow to protect all women and was still full of enthusiasm over the idea. He was also one of the most famous warriors in the land; his absence at the tournament meant the field was open to all comers, and there was much speculation as to who would win the prizes of the day.

The contests began easily enough, with Cei carefully pitting men of equal skill against each other. Lance’s cousin Bors, as blond as Lance was dark, was a fierce and showy swordsman, well matched with Gaheris of the Stag’s Head, while Bors’s more taciturn brother, Lionel, fought ably against the sly and wiry Dinadan of Cornwall.

Gradually, as the less familiar names were called out, there was more room for unexpected surprises, and when the herald announced that Lancelot’s protégé, Beaumains, would take the field, a stir of excitement went through the crowd. Beaumains had been at Lance’s steading in Northumbria for the last year or more, and no one knew he had returned until this very afternoon.

“He’s developed so well at Joyous Gard,” Lance explained proudly, “I thought it was time to introduce him to the rest of the warriors. I have no doubt he’ll qualify for the Companions.”

Certainly the young man who took the field was a far cry from the boy Lance had found wandering on the Road several years back. Although he was still tall and willowy, he no longer had the half-starved look of a waif, and while that youngster was unfamiliar with more than the rudiments of horsemanship, this lad had an excellent seat.

There’s always a group of old men who gather to gossip around a forge, but this afternoon they moved away from the fire, their interest piqued by this Fair Unknown. Even the Smith laid down his hammer and came forward to watch.

Beaumains rode onto the field carrying an unmarked shield and wearing an old Saxon helmet, which gave him an air of mystery. The audience murmured curiously, trying to place him among the many squires at Camelot That he was introduced as Lance’s student spoke well of him, but they would withhold judgment until they saw what he could do. The boy acquitted himself handsomely, and by the time he had unhorsed two opponents, the crowd was shouting its approval.

It was only when he stepped forward to receive his prize that he took off his helm. The pale blond hair tumbled down to his shoulders and a murmur of recognition ran through the gathering. Arthur smiled broadly, delighted that the youth who had earned his first year’s keep in our kitchen should so excel.

Lance was equally pleased. “I couldn’t ask for a better student. Whoever that lad’s family is, they can be proud of him.”

Arthur leaned over the edge of the reviewing stand and bestowed the prize of a golden bracelet on the young man. It was a gesture that both congratulated him on his victory and brought him up to the level of warrior fit to receive gifts from his overlord. Even Lynette greeted him warmly, surprised to see him after so many months.

“Thank you, Your Highness.” Beaumains spoke calmly and clearly as he slid the bracelet onto his wrist. “But since there are no wars to fight, I need to prove my prowess some other way. I beg you give me a mission that will let me show the world what I can do.”

Arthur looked puzzled for a moment, but remembering Lynette’s request, I suggested the boy go to the rescue of her cousin in the Welsh Marches.

When he heard what the problem was, Lance’s pupil began to beam. “I’ll not only rid the lady of this warlord’s pestering, I promise to send him back to swear allegiance to you as well.”

“Will you now?” Arthur mused, stroking his mustaches as he sized up the lad.

I turned to Lynette, thinking the girl would be glad of the offer, but instead she was scowling ferociously.

“My cousin needs a Champion, not an untried boy,” the girl declared. “A hero proven in battle and able to strike terror into the blackguard’s heart.”

“What’s this? Beaumains isn’t good enough for you?” Arthur was both bemused and surprised that the lass should be so picky.

“I’m sure he’ll become a fine warrior, someday,” Lynette hedged, rounding on him with an air of practicality. “But right now he’s only the boy I worked with in the kitchen—a brave fellow, and quick to boot—but not very impressive. You have to admit that, M’lord…not nearly as impressive as Gawain or Lancelot, for instance.”

My husband’s eyes flashed with amusement. “Well, Gawain isn’t here, but you’re welcome to ask Lance to be your Champion.”

“Not my Champion, my cousin’s,” Lynette responded, then ducked her head at the realization she was correcting the High King.

“My dear,” Lancelot put in, “you could not find a more upright and honorable fellow to take up your cause.”

Beaumains flushed at the praise, but he looked steadily at Lynette. “Who was it who put out the fire when the coals spilled out of the oven at Martinmas?” he asked.

“Yes, I know it was you…I said you were quick.”

“And who netted the mad dog when it came foaming and frothing into the kitchen garden?”

“So you’re brave and fearless too…I never said you weren’t, Beaumains. All I said was you aren’t very impressive.”

The new warrior snorted indignantly. “I dare you to come along with me, and see how impressive I can be. I bet you’d turn tail at the first sight of a bandit.”

“Would not!” Lynette hurled back at him, stamping her foot emphatically.

“Then it’s settled,” Arthur announced firmly, before the two youngsters got into a free-for-all. “Beaumains will undertake to relieve your cousin of her problem, and you’ll go along to show him the way—and observe his behavior.”

The youth bowed deeply before us, and the audience cheered happily, but Lynette turned to me with a look of pure horror.

“You mean that’s really what’s going to happen?”

“So it would seem,” I answered, giving her hand a pat. “I’m sure you’ll find him more impressive than you think.”

But the girl just stared after him, obviously not convinced.

Cei took Lance’s place next to Arthur when the Breton rode onto the field and challenged all comers, only to discover no one would come forth.

“Everyone knows he’s invincible,” the Seneschal muttered and I fetched him a sharp look. Over the years he’d proved a genius at ferreting out hard-to-find items, and his loyalty to Arthur was beyond question, but his acid tongue and frequent moodiness were often wearing. “No point in going against a man who can’t be bested,” he complained.

When Lance had to retire for lack of takers, Cei suddenly climbed down from the dais and called for the crowd’s attention. Standing in the middle of the list, he challenged the King of Devon to swordplay on foot.

A buzz of excitement went up, for Geraint had a reputation as a fine warrior as well as a military genius, and his skill with the blade far exceeded Cei’s. But instead of picking up the challenge, the southern king tactfully declined.