The Hallowed Isle Book Three (16 page)

After the stink and smoke of the hut, to be out in the fresh air was heaven. When the grasslands began to slope upward, they dismounted, and Guendivar wandered over the meadow searching for useful herbs while Cau followed with a basket and the other men sat their horses, grinning in their beards.

Guendivar made sure she found enough herbs among the grasses to justify the expedition. She picked the five-lobed leaves of Lady's Mantle and Self-heal with its clustered purple trumpets, both good for cleansing wounds. As they wandered farther, she glimpsed the creamy flowers and tooth-shaped leaves of Traveller's Joy, whose bark made an effective infusion for reducing fever, and Centaury, also good for fever, and for soothing the stomach and toning the system as well. Purging Flax went into the basket, and wild Marjoram to bathe sore muscles and reduce bruises.

It was a hard land, whipped by the sea winds, and nowhere did the useful plants grow in abundance, but by midafternoon they had nearly filled the basket. Her men had earned a rest, and Guendivar led them towards the musical trickle of water that came from a small ravine. The stream itself was hidden by a fringe of hazel and thorn, with a few straggling birch trees, but after all the running about she had been doing, its moist breath was welcome.

She had opened her mouth to tell Cau to bring the bread and cheese from her saddlebags when a wild shriek and a crashing in the bushes brought her whirling around. From out of the brush men came leaping, brandishing spears. There must have been fifty of them, against the dozen men of the queen's guard. Her escort spurred their mounts forward to meet them, but the ground was steep and broken; two horses went down and the others plunged as men ran towards them.

“Selenn! Run! Get help—” cried Cau. The last of the riders pulled up as the attackers surrounded the others, stabbing with their spears. In another moment he had hauled his mount's head around and was galloping down the slope.

Cau grabbed Guendivar's arm and thrust her down, standing over her with drawn sword. One enemy got too close and a sweeping swordstroke felled him, but a word from the leader directed the others towards the rest of her escort, and in minutes they were dead or captive, and the queen and her protector surrounded by leveled spears. Guendivar got to her feet, chin held up defiantly.

“You will be putting down your blade now, and none will harm you—” said the leader. An Irish accent, of course—but she had guessed that from the jackets and breeches of padded leather they wore.

“Artor will kill me . . .” muttered Cau, lowering his sword.

Guendivar shook her head. “It was my will, my responsibility—”

The enemy leader made a swift step forward, took the weapon and handed it to one of his men. He drew two lengths of thong from his belt and tied first Cau's and then Guendivar's hands.

“Come now, for we have far to go.”

“You are mad,” said the queen. “Release us, and perhaps Artor will not hunt you down.”

“Lady, would you be refusing our hospitality?” He eyed her appreciatively. “I'm thinking that your king will pay well to have you back again.”

One of the spears swung purposefully towards Cau's back. The warrior's grin told her he would not hesitate to spear his captive, and Guendivar started forward, knowing that Cau must follow her.

“It is myself, Melguas son of Ciaran, that has the honor to be your captor,” he said over his shoulder, teeth flashing in his russet beard. His hair was more blond than red, confined in many small braids bound and ornamented with bits of silver and gold. He led the way at a swift trot and it took all Guendivar's breath to keep up with him.

“It is Guendivar daughter of Leodagranus who has the misfortune to be your captive, and lord Cau, who commands my guards,” she said when they paused for a moment at the top of the slope. The ravine deepened here, and in the shelter of the trees ponies were waiting, surefooted native beasts that could go swiftly on the rough terrain.

“And do you think we did not know it? For many and many a day we have been watching you.” Melguas tipped back his head, laughing, and she saw the torque of silver that gleamed beneath the beard.

“A damned cheerful villain,” murmured Cau, but Guendivar closed her eyes in pain. This had been no evil chance, but the enemy's careful plan, waiting only on her foolishness. She thought of the three men of her escort whom the Irish had left dead on the field and knew their blood was on her hands.

Darkness had fallen by the time they stopped at last, and they had covered many miles. Sick at heart and aching from the pony's jolting, Guendivar allowed Melguas to pull her off the horse and thrust her into a brush hut without protest. They left Cau to lie beside the fire, still bound, with a blanket thrown over him. It did no good to tell herself that Artor would be as wounded by the loss of any of his companions as by her capture—none of
them
could have been taken so easily.

That night she huddled in the odorous blankets in silent misery. How long, she wondered, before Selenn reached the rearguard and told his tale? How long for another messenger to get to Artor? By the time he could send men to her rescue, the rain she heard pattering on the brush would have wiped out their trail.
Perhaps he will think himself well rid of me.. . 
. She contemplated the prospect of an endless captivity with sour satisfaction. She was glad now that Julia had been left behind in Camalot, so that she was not weighted by the burden of the sister's grief as well.

In the morning she was given a bowl of gruel and made to mount the pony once more. For most of the day they moved steadily, following the hidden paths through the hills. Here in the high country, the wind blew cold and pure, as if it had never passed through mortal lungs; an eagle, hanging in the air halfway between the earth and the sun, was the only living thing they saw. When Guendivar expressed surprise that the Irish should know these paths, Melguas laughed.

“My father is a prince in the land of Laigin, but 'tis here I was born and I am on speaking terms with every peak and valley.”

As I am in the Summer Country
, Guendivar thought then, wishing she were there now. “Are you taking me to King Illan?” she asked aloud.

“Surely—better than a wall of stone to protect us is the lovely body of Artor's queen.”

“Do not be so certain,” Guendivar said grimly.

“How not?” Melguas looked at her in surprise. “Are you not the White Lady, with the fertility of the land between your round thighs and its sovereignty shining from your brow?”

Not for Artor
, thought Guendivar, but she would not betray him by saying so. These Irish seemed so confident of her value—what magic did queens have, there in Eriu, that these exiled sons should hold them in such reverence? Melguas had forced her obedience, but neither he nor his men had dared to offer her either insult or familiarity.
This is what Merlin was trying to tell me
, she thought then,
but I must be a fraud as well as a failure, for there is something missing within me that prevents me from becoming truly Artor's queen!

* * *

That night they slept wrapped in cloaks beneath rude brush shelters. In the middle of the night, Guendivar felt the need to relieve herself and crawled out from the shelter, shivering as the chill touched her skin. The privy trench had been dug a little down the slope. When she was finished, she stood, gazing at the black shapes of the mountains humped against the stars. If this had been her own country, she would have tried to slip away in the darkness, but she did not know this land, and besides, Melguas was a careful commander, and though she could not see them, there would be guards.

She turned, and as if the thought had summoned him, saw a dark man-shape rising out of the rocks.

“Ah, lady, you are cold—let me make you warm—”

It was Melguas, but something within her had already known it. With a sense of inevitability, she felt his hands close on her shoulders, the scent of male sweat as he pulled her against him and kissed her mouth.

“I am a queen—” she whispered when he released her at last. “Is this how you respect me?” But her heart was thumping in her breast, and she had not wanted him to let her go.

“It is—as I would serve the land herself, had she a body I could worship . . .” The soft Irish voice was trembling, but his grip was firm.

I must stop this
, Guendivar told herself as he pulled her close once more, his hands reverent on her skin. But if she cried out, no one would help her—there would only be more witnesses to her shame. His hand moved to her breast, and she swayed, all her frustrated sensuality asserting its claim. He laughed then, sensing her body yielding, and bore her to the shelter of a stony outcrop and on the soft grass laid her down.

Pressed against the earth by the weight of Melguas' body, the queen had no power of resistance. And at the moment of fulfillment, it seemed to her as if she
was
the earth, opening ecstatically to receive his love.

Guendivar woke, shamed and aching, to a soft drizzle that continued throughout the day. She drew her shawl over her head, peering at the faces of the warriors. But there were no sly looks or secret smiles, and if Melguas looked triumphant, her capture was excuse enough. Perhaps her secret was secure. She wondered if Cau suspected. Their captors had left him bound all night, and he must be feeling even worse than she was. He sat his pony without complaining, but he no longer smiled.

The cloud cover was beginning to darken when Melguas drew rein.

“Illan's camp lies yonder—” He gestured towards the next fold in the hills, and it seemed to Guendivar, accustomed after two days to the cold silences of the heights, that she could hear a distant murmur like a river in flood. “If you wish it, we will be stopping for a moment so that you may dress your hair and brush your garments and appear before my lord as a queen.” There was a familiar warmth in his gaze.

Guendivar stared at him. Riding with Artor's men, she had packed away her royal ornaments so that they would think of her as a sister and comrade. After two days in the saddle, she must look like one of the women who followed the army, her face grimed and bits of brush tangled in her hair.
If all my jewels cannot make me a real queen, how will it serve if I tidy my hair?

Melguas was waiting. Guendivar's mother had been constantly carping at her to at least
pretend
she was a lady. Why should this be any different? For three years now she had been pretending to be a queen. What had happened to her last night should have destroyed even the pretense of legitimacy, but her captor's belief compelled her. She took the comb the Irishman held out to her and began to untangle her braids.

Through the veil of her hair she could see the light in Melguas' eyes become a flame of adoration. As the red-gold strands blew out upon the wind the other men stared, even Cau had straightened in the saddle, watching with some of his old worship in his eyes. Their faces were mirrors in which she saw the reflection of a queen. She slowed, drawing out each stroke of the comb with intention, drawing from the men who watched her the power to become what they needed her to be.

And in that moment, when the attention of her captors was focused on her beauty, riders burst suddenly over the rim of the hill and the warcry of the Pendragon echoed against the sky.

Gualchmai was in the lead, as big and barbaric as any of the Irishmen. Melguas made a grab for Guendivar's rein, but she recovered from the first shock of recognition in time to boot her pony into motion. She dropped the comb and grabbed for its mane as the beast leaped into a jolting canter, managing to collect the reins herself in time to stop the animal before it ran away with her.

By this time Melguas and Gualchmai were trading blows, the clangor of steel assaulting the trembling air. She glimpsed Betiver and Cai and Gualchmai's brothers—Christ! Artor had sent all his Companions! And then she realized that he had not sent but led them, that the big man in silver mail and the spangenhelm that hid his features was Artor himself, charging into battle like the Great Bear.

She had never before seen Artor in combat. Gualchmai fought with more gleeful ferocity, Betiver with more precision, but Artor faced his foes with a grim intensity she had not observed in any other man, the Chalybe blade falling like the stroke of doom on any fighter who dared to face him.

Is this for me
, wondered Guendivar,
or for his honor? Or for the sake of that imaginary being, the High Queen?

Just as the Irishmen had overmatched her escort, they were overwhelmed by Artor's Companions, even though they outnumbered them. In a few moments, it seemed, her captors were dead or fleeing, except for Melguas himself, who was still holding off Betiver and Aggarban, laughing. But they fell back when Artor finished off his last opponent and strode towards them, his bloody sword poised.

“Not worthy of her—” Melguas said breathlessly, “but I see . . . you are an honorable man!”

Silently, Artor settled into a fighter's crouch, every line in his body expressing deadly purpose. Melguas' eyes narrowed, as if he had only now begun to appreciate the caliber of his enemy, and he braced his feet, lifting his sword. For a long moment, neither man stirred. Then, as if at some unspoken signal, both fighters blurred into action. The swords moved too swiftly for her eye to follow, but when the two figures separated, Artor was still upright, and Melguas was falling, a red gash opening like a flower across his belly and breast.

Guendivar let out a breath she had not known she was holding in a long sigh. Melguas lay where he had fallen, chest heaving in loud gasps as blood spread over his leather armor and began to drip onto the ground. She took a step forward, and then another, staring in appalled fascination at the wreck of the man who had made her captive.

“End it—” whispered Melguas. “You . . . have the best of me.. . .”