Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn (47 page)

It was a chancy trip, as we had no idea how far the insurrection had spread and whether the more integrated Federates of the Thames valley would give us shelter in Arthur’s name or take us captive in Mordred’s. We rode at night and slept in ruined villas or hidden thickets during the day. Cei stole bits of food, his years as a tax collector having sharpened his eye for what was or wasn’t available at every steading.

With luck and desperation we reached London before Mordred’s men found us. Lynette’s family let me stay with them in the Grounds Keeper’s quarters at the Imperial Palace until we could secure Caesar’s Tower. With its thick walls and square rooms set one on top of the other, it was the best defensive position around and would be a suitable headquarters from which to conduct Arthur’s business until he returned.

While Cei went about finding an adequate food supply and Lynette’s family rounded up a ragtag houseguard for my protection, I tried to determine how much Morgan was involved in this. That she wouldn’t scruple to use Mordred was clear, but if she had initiated this uprising, he would not have turned to me for help in bringing the northerners to his cause. For once I decided my sister-in-law had nothing to do with the present disaster.

On our first night in the Tower Cei and I held a council to consider what to do next. Sitting on camp stools around a fire built on the dirt floor on the ground level, we might as well have been in the field. That’s when I fully realized we were at war with Mordred.

“I must get word to Arthur,” I declared. “He has to know what’s happening.”

Cei had already spoken with the Harbor Master. “There’s a ship sailing on tomorrow’s tide. One of the Royal Messengers will be aboard when she pulls out.”

“What do you mean, Royal Messenger?” Surprise made my voice sharp. “You must go in person.”

“And who’s to take care of you in the meantime? That bunch of gangling boys?” He gestured toward the noisy group of youngsters playing dice just beyond the door. It was true that my houseguard was made up more of eager boys than seasoned warriors. “Well meaning, but not much for experience.”

“We’ll just have to chance it.” I shrugged.

“No, M’lady. Years back I took an oath to defend you with my life if necessary, and that’s not going to change now.” He bent to add another branch to the coals. The Tower was as chill as the cell in Carlisle had been, and the fire would be my only heat throughout the night.

“I appreciate the sentiment,” I said with a sigh, touched by his loyalty. “But truly, I’ll be fine.”

“I don’t think you understand.” The Seneschal continued to poke at the coals, not looking at me. “You asked why I’ve never married…let’s just say the lady I wanted was also my Queen—and my foster brother’s wife. So I kept to myself and concentrated on my duties. Not that it was easy, watching Lancelot become your Champion, seeing the Breton come and go, disappearing for months at a time and leaving you unprotected. The man didn’t half appreciate his position, in my opinion.” He frowned at the new flame licking along the bark of the branch and shook his head as though wishing he hadn’t said so much. “But now that it’s me you need, I intend to be here.”

I stared at him, speechless. It was the last thing in the world I expected to hear.

“Not that I would try to replace the Breton in your affections,” he went on hastily. “Nor do I ask any favors in return—just the chance to take care of you properly until Arthur gets back.” He lifted his head and looked at me worriedly, the firelight making his cheeks ruddy and his eyes shadowed. “I hope I haven’t spoken out of turn, Your Highness, but you should know my reasons for not going.”

“Well, um…” I stammered, unable to think of what to say. It was my turn to avert my eyes. “I deeply appreciate your…honesty. But it’s desperately important that Arthur have as much information as possible—the names of Mordred’s allies, a rough idea of their numbers, and the fact that he doesn’t think he can count on the men of the north without my support. Who knows what Uwain’s position will be. Now that I’ve given up Rheged, we’ve precious little leverage where he’s concerned. Those are details Arthur will need to know, and even if I commit them to writing, he’ll be wanting your assessment as well.”

I looked up then to find the Seneschal still watching me. Our eyes held for a long moment, and at last he smiled—a wry, lopsided smile such as I had never seen before.

“If that’s what you command, M’lady, that’s what I’ll do. We both know the risks of leaving you alone here, and I’d rather stay. But I’ve had my say, and having served both you and Arthur nigh on thirty years, I’m not about to go against you now.” He rose to his feet, gathering his dignity with him. “I’ll go pack some things for traveling while you write down those names…”

I stared into the fire for a long bit after he left the room, puzzling that a man could carry such a secret for so long, and that I had never guessed. All things considered, I was glad he’d never mentioned it before.

Cei left on the boat early the next morning, and later that afternoon both Lynette and Enid slipped into the Tower, having managed to depart from Camelot without arousing Mordred’s suspicions. He was, by all accounts, too busy raising his rebel army and scouring the nearby countryside for me to notice the departure of two widows and three children.

“The men of Devon
must
be loyal,” Enid declared when we gathered around the fire after the children were abed. “You should send a message to Petroc and Gwynlliw assuring them Arthur is returning.”

“The more allies we can muster before the High King arrives, the better the chances of winning,” I agreed, glad to have her help.

We spent the next two days sending out word to our allies. Messengers went everywhere, from Vortipor in Demetia to the Scottish chieftains in Strathclyde and Stirling; from Constantine in Cornwall—King Mark being far too old for battle—to Wuffa in East Anglia. I even sent word to London’s Bishop asking what help the church could provide, and to Cathbad in the hope that the Druids would come to the Pendragon’s aid.

And then we waited. During the day I paced the rooms in the Tower, climbing to the ruined parapet to stare out over the Thames and wonder where Arthur would land when he did come back. London was more secure, but the Channel at Dover was narrower, though it was possible the Federates who controlled the area had joined with Mordred. Then, too, he could make for the Wash to the north, where the Saxons might or might not prove loyal. Or he could swing around Cornwall and up the Bristol Channel, disembarking at Glastonbury and possibly taking Mordred from the rear. There was one consolation: if I could see so many possibilities, Mordred could also. It meant he would have to spread his forces thin.

In the evenings I took little Lora and Megan on my lap and told them stories. By one of those oddities of fate the pine knot carving Kimmins had given me was among my jewels, so I brought it out and showed the girls, delighting them with tales of how the invisible Hedley Kow used to plague poor Cook by overturning pots and upsetting churns before scampering away on his bandy legs, laughing his great horse laugh. I wove in stories of the heroes their father had known, and memories of our early days at Camelot. It helped to pass the time and raised our spirits as well.

And in the long, dark hours on my cot, I scrambled mentally from one corner of the realm to another, desperately dredging my memory for every political favor owed us, every small warlord and local chieftain who might come to our aid. My own men of Rheged were now under Uwain’s rule: how they and the other northerners would react, I had no idea. All I could do was pray.

The Bishop of London sent a terse note allowing that certain “irregularities” in my domestic arrangements had come to his attention, and he could not condone any actions I might seek to initiate. I saw the Latin letters on the wax tablet, but heard the voice of Gildas behind them, and cursing roundly, hurled the tablet against the stone wall.

Nor was the Druids’ answer any better. Since they avoid writing things down, their answer was delivered in person by one of their representatives. He was a little man who wouldn’t look me in the eye. “We notice that you are inhabiting the tower the Romans built over the sacred mound containing Bran’s head. First, your husband digs up the skull in an unconscionable fashion, and now you hold Court on the holy ground without even asking our permission. It does not seem that you or your husband have much use for us, except when you need our help to maintain your own status,” he concluded nervously.

I couldn’t throw him against the wall, but I stared at him coldly, and he scuttled out of sight without a backward glance.

Among the politicians who responded, there were some, such as Petroc of Devon and Constantine of Cornwall, who swore constant loyalty, and some, such as Vortipor, who wanted to hedge their bets, inquiring who else was aligned with us and asking various favors. Gwyn, however, promised to have whatever fresh horses Arthur needed available after he landed.

Wuffa’s answer was curt and belligerent. He sent a caustic note making it clear that the Britons need not look to the Swedish settlers for any sort of alliance. He also announced that his father’s name had been expunged from the tribal records because of his association with us, and in the future the tribe would be known as the Wuffings, not the Wehhings. I thought of the fierce old barbarian with the high pride and deep loyalty, and was sorry that the dynasty would not even carry his name.

I kept a tally as the replies came in, leaving a question mark beside those who didn’t bother to reply. Perhaps, I told myself, they had not received the message.

It was going on the second week when Nimue arrived, coming unannounced into the upper room as though materializing out of thin air.

“Thought you’d want to know,” the doire began as she slipped off her dark cloak. “Arthur is on his way. Lancelot finally agreed to do battle with Gawain, but then only defended himself—wouldn’t follow up with blows of his own. In the end I don’t know if Gawain dodged into it, or Lance simply lost his control, but the Breton felled him with a blow to the head.”

“Dead?” I asked, too numbed by recent events to be shocked.

“Not that I could see.” Merlin’s apprentice accepted a cup of valerian tea and, after taking a sip, continued. “There are times when my Sight is blurred—like watching the reflection in a mill pond where the mists are rising. Merlin said it was often this way—when even he didn’t know for sure what he looked on.”

“Have you seen anything of the future?” I asked, hoping for some kind of reassurance.

Nimue drained her cup, then put it down on the camp table with great deliberation. “I see much death and sorrow, Gwen—an agonizing battle between Mordred and Arthur, with awful bloodshed. Gore and screams and the death throes of all Britain, if it can’t be averted…at least until the stars are better. Another month, perhaps another outcome. If they do battle now…” She lifted her pale hands in despair.

“We need to find someone to talk to them…someone to mediate between them,” I announced, willing to clutch at any straw that floated by. “Arthur would listen to you. Who would Mordred take council from?”

“Maybe the High Priestess. She’s the most logical choice, being his aunt.”

The suggestion hit me in the pit of the stomach. The very idea of trusting Morgan in any way brought a bilious taste to my mouth. “How do we know she won’t try to kill Arthur during the negotiations?”

The doire got to her feet and walked over to the window, where she stood staring out over the Thames for a long time. At last she sighed and, coming back, sat down across from me.

“I can see nothing of her motives, or her hand in the matter—only the terrible destruction to come if we stand by and do nothing. How trustworthy she’ll be depends on what she stands to gain. The recognition and prestige she’d get by being a peacemaker might be enough, but you’d be wise to have something else to offer—something that only you can give her. What would that be?”

“Good Glory, you’re asking me? After all these years I still don’t know what Morgan wants, besides power!”

The doire tapped her finger against her teeth before replying. “Then that may be your solution. I know it’s hard for you, Gwen, but if there is a battle, she should be present for her healing talents alone.”

I groaned at the realization that one way or another, I needed to ask Morgan for help. “How can I get a message to her?”

“The Ancient Ones tell me she’s already left the Sanctuary at the Black Lake and seems to be heading for London. It’s possible she’ll seek you out with a bargain of her own.”

“At least if she comes looking for me, I’ll be in a stronger position than if I have to make the request of her,” I muttered. “And how do you plan to get Arthur to accept this, after all she’s done to him?”

The doire smiled softly. “I think he’ll listen to reason, Gwen. Negotiation, even through someone you don’t like, is still preferable to killing your own child.”

Caught up in my own fear and worry for my husband, I had not thought what it would mean for him to have to go to war against Mordred. Dismay knotted my stomach, and Nimue came over and put her arms around me.

“It’s not of your doing,” she said. “It is theirs…their moira, their choices. Has been since the day of the boy’s conception. The best we can do is try to keep it from ending in a bloodbath.” I stared up at her, and she gave me a gentle blessing and laid her fingertips on my eyelids. “Now, you just concentrate on Morgan. I’m off to join Arthur when he lands.” She moved away to the door, then turned and gave me a smile. “Pelleas wants you to know, he’ll be at Arthur’s side as well.”