Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn (44 page)

That night we had a lovely party, with the salmon augmented by whatever Mrs. Badger could spare from the fowls in the barnyard. Not only were all the men present, but the villagers as well. The smith and his family came, and the tanner with his three daughters. A juggler who was stopping off at the tavern heard of the festivities and, bringing his colored balls, entertained us as well as any jester might. Two of the Badgers’ three sons flirted outrageously with the tanner’s girls, and when Palomides pulled out a little elder pipe and whistled up a tune, Melias asked the third girl to dance with him.

I looked around the room, thinking it not unlike the Round Table feasts, for family is family whether plain or fancy. Tears of love and despair welled into my eyes, and I turned away hastily, not wanting to spoil the revelry for the others.

Later that night Lance and I lay long in each other’s arms, sometimes weeping, sometimes loving. That he must give up Joyous Gard because of me added one more loss to all the rest.

“Ah, love, I could not stay anyway, now that you are going,” he said. “Your presence haunts every corner, and I would go crazy not having you here. There is no place else that I have been happier, so it’s best to remember it that way.”

The realization that he could never again come to Camelot—indeed, that we must never more see each other—was crushing me, and I began to sob again.

But by the time dawn came, all our tears were shed, and when everyone else was mounted, the big Breton helped me onto Flyaway.

“Kanahins will accompany you,” he explained. “The boy’s returning my shield to Camelot; I have used it always in defense of Britain and the Round Table, and do not wish to take it to my new life. Tell Arthur that I bear him nothing but love and gratitude for the years I was one of his Companions—and meant no dishonor in taking you away.” He swallowed hard, then added softly, “I shall watch each month for the new moon.”

A savage ache gripped my throat, and I nodded mutely as Uwain signaled we must leave. For one last heartbroken moment Lance and I stared deep into each other’s eyes, until, with a sob, I turned the bay mare’s head toward the gate and blindly joined the party, never looking back.

Even now I do not remember anything of the trip to Holystone.

Chapter XXXIV

The Return

Thank God you’re coming home!” Bedivere’s smile was as warm as his voice.

“Thank God you’re the one to fetch me back,” I replied. Numb and empty as I was inside, it was a relief to be under the protection of someone who had always been a friend.

We were standing in the grove that surrounds the Lady’s Well. The Romans had captured the waters in a fine square pool, allowing thirsty men and tired horses to drink beside the Road. The sound of their blowing and slurping mingled with the light trickling of the runoff, making a mosaic of sounds like the changing patterns of light and shade cast by the ivy-clad trees above us. I stared at Arthur’s foster brother and wondered what to say next.

“There’s a separate tent for you, if you wish to rest.” He gestured to the camp on the hillside below us. “We can even stay over, if you would prefer to leave tomorrow morning.”

“No,” I said hastily. The last thing I wanted was to linger in this limbo where my two lives overlapped.

So we walked down to the encampment. I kept my eyes lowered, not wanting to meet the curious stare of warriors sent to bring a recalcitrant Queen back to the fold.

“I can’t imagine it’s easy for you,” Bedivere commented as he held open my tent flap. “But the world is unraveling around Arthur, and you’re the one source of stability he’s always trusted.”

“Does he still…trust me?”

“He still sees you as High Queen,” the one-handed lieutenant answered. A glance at the furnishing of the tent proved that. There was a bronze brazier to warm the space, several thick sheepskins to walk on, and a large wicker trunk at the foot of the bed. Bedivere undid the clasp on it with the hook of his gauntleted stump, and when he lifted the lid, a number of rich brocaded robes lay exposed.

“He had Enid pack them—wants the world to see that he holds no resentment…that you’re not coming back as a penitent.”

It was so like him, I had to smile. The fact I hated wearing them was beside the point; he would not make me grovel.

“How it will be between the two of you…” Bedivere’s voice trailed off uncertainly. “That I can’t presume to say. But I think, with any luck, you’ll find your way together. Ah, here’s Enid, herself.” His tone lifted as Geraint’s widow popped into the tent. She rushed forward to greet me with tears and hugs, telling me how everyone—including Arthur—was thankful that I had not died. She didn’t mention the new factions that had carried the day at my sentencing, or Mordred—and I didn’t ask. Perhaps, like Arthur, I didn’t want to know.

Bedivere went off to oversee the striking of camp, and when I was fully attired in the robes of state, he came back leading a fine white mare that looked very much like the one Arthur had given me as a wedding present.

“Moonlight, the filly from Etain and Palomides’s Arab stallion. Gwyn finished training her last summer,” the lieutenant explained. “Arthur thought you might like to ride her home.”

There were bells on her bridle and ribbons in her hair, and when she extended her nose to snuffle my hand, her small ears pricked forward and her big, dark eyes watched me intently. I had played with her when she was just a foal, but with so much else happening in the last three years, I had all but forgotten her. Now I ran my hand up along her jaw, scratched her behind the ears and down along the silken neck. It was the most magnificent peace-offering Arthur could have made, and one he was sure to know I would appreciate.

Thus I rode in splendor as our procession made its way down the Roman Road known as Dere Street. Both ahead and behind were a handful of scouts and guards, while in the middle Enid and I were surrounded by members of the houseguard, including Griflet, the Kennel Master. He had brought two of my Irish wolfhounds—the aging Brutus and his joyfully exuberant offspring, Augustus. Everyone smiled to see them greet me so affectionately, but once we were on the Road, they paced beside Moonlight with all the dignity of their kind, looking like two gray ghosts beside the white mare.

The Romans believed implicitly in engineering, and nothing reflects it as much as one of their Roads. Dere Street lies like a whip’s lash over the curves of the Cheviots, as straight and unyielding as the will of the men who designed it. Broad enough to carry eight legionnaires abreast, it now carried me inexorably back to Queenhood.

Queenhood, and danger, I thought glumly. Morgan had reached across years and miles to strike me down, and almost succeeded at Carlisle. How quickly, I wondered, would she strike again—and who would be her pawn next time?

Nor was that the only question I pondered. How would Arthur receive me? Was he angry? Hurt? Likely to present a polite public face and a cold personal rebuff? Or would we go back to our usual partnership, friends as well as spouses? I stumbled on the last word, wondering how he would feel about bed. Or how I would.

And then there was the matter of the people. Were they resentful that I had left them? Would those who had heard about the trial believe Morgan’s charge of treason and distrust me because of it? Or would they simply tolerate me, as the Cornish had tolerated Isolde for so long, grudgingly accepting her as the consort of their King? That was an idea that cut to the quick.

I was so wrapped in these concerns that I barely noticed the land had changed direction while Dere Street had not. The high, grassy uplands along which we had begun the journey gradually swung around until they became ridges cutting across the Road, forcing us to breast them broadside. Here, just as at the Wall, the Romans made no concession for the rugged terrain, and where the crests and troughs became too steep to ride comfortably, Bedivere had us get down and walk while the men led our mounts.

“Sorry about that, Gwen,” he said as I struggled up one of the sharp inclines.

“Not your fault,” I panted, holding the heavy skirts up and wishing desperately for a pair of breeches. “At least we don’t have the heat of summer!”

For a fleeting moment I remembered the curved and sinuous path Lance and I had traced last August—the green coolness of the North Tyne, and the open, wind-free joy of the Cheviot heights. The difference between that trip and this struck like a blow, and I thrust the memory aside immediately.

We were mounted again by the time we passed through the Wall at Portgate, and began the last long sweep into Corbridge, where the world rose up around me. Someone sounded a trumpet as we approached, and the whole town erupted. Sentries on the walls saluted while people crowded together in the streets, chanting my name and reaching toward me. “Hail the Queen, Hail Guinevere!” they cried, filling the sky with my name. I stared at them in amazement, and Bedivere gave me a quizzical look.

“You didn’t know they swore to revolt if Arthur didn’t bring you back?”

“No! We heard rumors of unrest in Rheged, but nothing like this. How long have they been this way?”

“Threatening to leave Arthur? Since the news of Carlisle reached them.”

Nor was it just in the north. In every city, and most hamlets, the refrain was the same. At York they danced in the streets when I stayed over, and at Lincoln they lined the steep hill to the fort. People from the Fens poled their shallow skiffs along the waterways to come as close to my route as possible, and when we reached London, a great delegation greeted me at the gate and escorted us to the Imperial Palace. No matter how I felt about coming back, the people saw it as a triumphant return.

While we rested in London, I asked Bedivere if we could go by Brigit’s convent in the Chiltern Hills.

“I don’t see why not,” came the reply. “I think she’d be more than pleased to see you again.”

So we made a detour into the ancient beechwoods, riding between the silvery trunks of the trees that rise, straight and elegant, like columns in a natural cathedral. The ground was carpeted with the last of the bluebells, and I thought it a lovely place for a convent, if you wanted to retreat from the world.

“Bless my soul,” Brigit cried as she ran across the courtyard to throw her arms around me. “Ever since I heard about the trouble at Carlisle, I’ve been waiting for you to come tapping on my door!” She stood back to examine me, concern furrowing her brow, then nodded in apparent satisfaction and looked up at Bedivere. “And it’s good to see you, too, sir…both of you safe, after a year of troubles.”

The lieutenant flushed under her praise, and then we were being directed to the guest quarters, and the quiet of the cloister settled around us.

That night Brigit and I talked for hours, catching up on everything. She was anxious to hear about the Grail Quest, and I was glad to know Father Baldwin often visited the holy house. But when all the worldly information had been exchanged, she leaned forward and studied my face closely.

“Most of all, I want to know how you are, Missy,” she announced, calling me by my childhood name.

“Tired. Confused. Worried about meeting Arthur again…”

“As I recall, you tried to run away rather than marry that young man, all those years ago in Rheged,” Brigit mused. “That turned out better than you thought; I’ll wager this will, too.”

“Perhaps.” I smiled ruefully at the memory of the redheaded Irish girl bullying me into compliance with the marriage agreement I had not wanted. “And I suppose we shall muddle through, one way or another—Arthur and I always have, somehow.”

There was a momentary silence, and Brigit’s green eyes searched my face. “You say the Mother told you to look for the Grail yourself but you’ve never done so? What sort of response is that?”

“A Queen’s,” I answered with a sigh. “When on earth have I had time to get involved with soul-searching?”

“Perhaps,” she said thoughtfully, “it isn’t so much a matter of time as of attention.”

“Ah, Brigit, you ought to sit down and talk with Palomides. The two of you would get on famously, exploring all manner of philosophical questions! Here I am, facing God knows what, and you want to talk about spiritual Quests.”

The Irish nun’s cheeks dimpled, and she laid a gentle hand on mine. “Just the same, keep it in mind. You might be closer to your Grail than you realize. Ah, there’s the bell for midnight prayers, so I must be off to chapel. Now, you just get into bed and don’t fret so much about things. What the White Christ doesn’t look out for, His Mother will.”

Lying on the simple pallet after she left, I thought how much Brigit had brought to my life and thanked all the Gods I could remember for her friendship. And next morning I was glad to learn that Father Baldwin would be joining our party on the way to Camelot.

We crossed the Thames at the Goring Gap, making for Silchester, with its fine old mansions and strong earthworks. Even here, in Arthur’s own kingdom of Logres, the people gathered at crossroads, lined the roadside, waved to me from their fields, all crying out their pleasure at having me home. I wondered, suddenly, if Arthur would be as glad to see me as our subjects were…or if he had invited me back out of political necessity rather than personal desire.

“He plans to meet us on the Road,” Bedivere announced the next morning as we left Silchester. I shot him a quick glance, wondering what that meant, but the lieutenant gave me a wry smile. “He’s never been one for patience when he knew what he wanted. As I recall, he came to meet you outside Sarum before the wedding as well.”

Riding proud and tall, wearing his Kingship like the laurels of an athlete! Perhaps that was when I knew how much I could love him…back then, when we came together with the hope of all our lives ahead, not yet tasting disappointment, never having known defeat. Now we were meeting at the other end of our union, and I had no idea what to expect…

I saw the Banner of the Red Dragon lifting against the sky before the horses came into view over the top of a ridge. It was a large party—probably everyone from Camelot and the nearby villages—and they came on at a brisk trot. Cei was in the van, resplendent in his best silk and brocade tunic, followed by Nimue and Cathbad, wearing their white robes of worship.

And then came Arthur, mounted on his black stallion. From a distance he was an immensely imposing figure—solid, powerful, still the consummate ruler—and my heart lifted at the sight.

Cei and Bedivere saluted each other, while the holy leaders fanned out around us as Arthur and I each moved slowly forward. The stallion tossed his head and nickered, but Arthur held him on a short rein, keeping the pace stately and majestic. Both Moonlight and I were trembling, and I drew her in sharply, following my husband’s lead. Slowly and precisely we closed the distance. Before me was the middle-aged monarch of power and justice, the aged King grown worn and wise, the proud young man who’d been my groom—even a fleeting shadow of the boy he must have been, lively and impetuous. The whole of our lives together shimmered like a bridge across the years. And out of the light, the flow of color, the substance of vision, emerged the present man.

His hair and mustaches were now completely gray; still long and thick, but gray nonetheless. And his face was furrowed with lines of worry and concern. I saw the toll the splintering of the Round Table had exacted, and ached for the part I had unwittingly played.

My gaze sought his, and as the two horses came to a stop, nose to nose, exchanging breaths as horses do, my husband and I slowly searched each other’s face. At last, with great solemnity, he raised his hand, and I realized he was holding Igraine’s golden torc aloft for everyone to see. “It seems to me,” he said softly, “you should be wearing this.”