THE WARRIOR QUEEN (The Guinevere Trilogy Book 1) (17 page)

As I was just brushing the straw from the back of my dress and Arthur was rubbing the stalks of straw from his hair, Kay rode in and jumped from his horse.
How did he get everywhere?
Arthur and he exchanged an easy smile and Arthur, excusing himself to meet in council with Nimue and Gawain, gave him a brotherly pat on the shoulder as he walked by.

“Kay...” I began, uneasily. I wasn’t sure, really, how sorry I was, because he had been unkind about Gareth, and I knew his well-meaning taunts really upset the boy, so I shied away from apologising directly. He gave a forgiving nod.

“Christine told me you weren’t well. I shouldn’t have teased you when you were short of patience.” His reply was also not quite an apology.
Christine told me
. Hmmm. What had Christine told him? But then I realised he must have ridden out looking for me. He had been worried to see me go. I forgave him a little more, then.

Suddenly he laughed, and leapt towards me. I instinctively jumped back, but I did not have far to go, and he caught me against the wall. I gave a little unconscious laugh in response, but I did not know
why
he was laughing. Then he reached over and pulled a piece of straw from my hair. He gave an arch smile, and lifted an eyebrow at me, still close.

“Hmmmm.” He made a little noise – I could not tell whether it was mocking or approving. I batted his hand, holding the stalk of straw, away, but I was smiling. It was a deep and secret smile.

Chapter Twenty One

I passed the days as I waited for my little book of Ovid to return to me in a kind of luxurious trance. Spring turned to summer around me, and every day seemed full of the promise of news. At first I had hoped it would be soon, but then I thought I would be glad of him sending for me on his return, when this ‘giant’ was dead, and he was safe and when I had all of these days of tingling anticipation building up around me. And yet, though I dreamed of Lancelot day and night, I went to bed with Arthur, and the excitement of waiting filled me with a fire for him as well. And those nights when I was alone, when Arthur was with his knights, or perhaps with some other woman, in the darkness I would slide my hand between my legs, and think of Lancelot, of his lithe sensuality, his lips soft yet urgent on mine, the moment he had given his will to mine in the garden; and sometimes I thought of Arthur, the feel of his strength around me, the rough urgency of his love.

But word did not come. As summer ripened to its fullness and the big orange sun hung fat and hot in the sky, I still lacked my little book of Ovid. It was a particularly hot summer, and it felt oppressive. I lay in my garden day after day in the shade of my little rose-tree that was drying out, miserably, in the heat, and listened to little Marie read in Breton in her chirping little voice, or Christine in her gentle, motherly voice, or sometimes Kay or Gareth reading in English. I did not like the English so much, but I liked it when the garden was full of people. The noise and the laughter distracted me from my thoughts, which were turning from giddy anticipation to a nervous fear. It went on so long that Marie noticed that my little French Ovid was missing and told Arthur. Arthur had suggested I send to Morgan and ask her to teach me Latin, so that I could read it properly anyway. She had grown up in a convent and, he assured me, would be able to teach me well. I didn’t want to let her unsettling presence into my little enchanted summer, and I told him I did not want to. I went, as often as I could, to lie on the Round Table and wish for the return of my book of Ovid, but it did not come.

He had not returned without it, and no word had come of his death. I did not know what it could mean, this awful silence. Arthur, too, missed him and began to complain of his absence. The company of knights was not the same, he said, if one was missing.

“He must have killed that dragon by now,” Arthur grumbled.

“Giant,” I corrected.

Arthur shrugged his shoulders. “Whatever Mark thinks he saw.”

Then the news came. But it did not come to me. It came to Arthur. It had come to him in the morning, and evidently he had been waiting with excitement to announce it when we were gathered to eat in the evening. It was a day when we all eating at the high table in the great hall. It must have been one of the Feasts of the Hanged Christ, but I never paid attention in chapel, which Arthur only asked me to accompany him to once a week. Often, I just stared up at the sad face of Christ, drooping before me on his cross and wondered why people would worship such a miserable god. Also, they kept calling the cross a
tree
, and if it really was meant to be a
tree
then I did not see how Arthur’s Christ was any different from my Hanged God in the slightest.

We had eaten a wonderful dinner of fresh fish, and green vegetables, and little soft potatoes in butter that melted in the mouth. I felt happy, festive almost. I remembered that moment clearly. Kay had just handed me a lovely ripe peach and I was just about to lift it to my lips when Arthur lifted a hand for silence. He smiled around at the group of knights, and Nimue and me. I could see he was excited.

“I’ve had word from Lancelot. He is returning. Tonight.” The men all cheered, and Nimue gave a demure little smile. I smiled too, but I knew mine was unsteady. I didn’t know how I felt about this. I wanted to see him again, but if he was returning without sending for me with the book, had he rejected me? I had been so sure that he would not. “Wait – there’s more.” He looked as though he was straining not to shout it out across the room. “He is bringing a woman with him –
a woman who is carrying his child
.”

I heard a roaring silence in my ears. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. And on top of it all
a child
. Whoever that woman was she had what was rightfully mine, twice over. I felt a heavy core of rage grow inside me. I felt something dripping down my arm and looked to see that I had dug my fingers into the peach I was holding, ripping it to pieces.

I stood up slowly, shaking with anger, and held up a hand, automatic, to pat my hair, to check it was in place. I didn’t care, but something about the gesture was comforting. Oh, I would go like a queen to this. I thought, perhaps, that I might kill him. I breathed in deeply, and felt the rage inside me cool to a dangerous, heavy calm. Kay reached for my hand, but I excused myself. I felt Arthur’s gaze follow me from the room. I could sense his concern. He knew I would be upset about the child, of course. That still hurt. Unconsciously, I pressed a hand to my stomach, feeling what was gone, and holding myself together.

When I was out in the night air I stopped for a moment, to check that I had on me the dagger I always carried. It was there, cool and comforting to the touch. I looked over to the stables. They were dark and quiet. Perhaps he was not back yet. I walked slowly up to my room. Each step was an effort, each moment that I was holding myself under steely control. I would not stand for this. I would not wait and hope and
dream
and be betrayed. That was the worst. The feeling foolish. I had no intention of being taken for a fool.

I hoped to be alone when I got back to my chamber, but when I opened the door it was onto Lancelot, standing framed in the open window, the night sky clear with a moon yawning full beside him. I had not been prepared to see him, I had not had time to gather myself. It all rushed at me. The sight of him, moonlight in the dark hair that I had felt between my fingers, as soft as a kiss, the way he stood, lithe and ready. It made it all rush back to me, unbearably potent, as though his lips had just been on my neck, as though his body had just been pressed against mine, and his voice at my ear, and suddenly I was gasping for breath, my head swimming with the memories. Seeing me like this, Lancelot stepped forward, towards me. The anger of betrayal flared within me, and, slamming the door shut behind me with one hand, drawing the dagger with the other, I jumped back from him.

“
Don’t touch me
,” I shouted.

“Guinevere –” He held his arms out towards me in helpless appeal.

“I should never have trusted you. You’re a man without honour. It wasn’t so very hard for you to break your oaths to Arthur, was it? And you treated me just the same. What is a coward knight with no honour worth? No,
don’t touch me
.” He had stepped forward again, only slightly, but I was not going to give my ground. He looked defeated, drained. But I would not melt before his sadness. He had lied to me.

“Please, Guinevere, let me explain.”

I did not answer, nor did I move, or lower the dagger, though I did not doubt that if he were serious about defending himself from me he could. He still had his sword at his side, and even if he did not, he could have taken the dagger from me as easily as from a child. Still, shaking with my anger though I was, I felt better with it in my hand.

“Guinevere,
I thought it was you
. Your book. I sent you your book, and I waited for you in my pavilion in the forest. You came to me – or, I thought it was you. It was dark, it was night, and I was
sure
it was you. But, when I woke in the morning, it wasn’t. It was once, only once.” The distress, the confusion, the utter loss of control he had suffered showed on his face, and my resolve was weakening. I lowered the dagger slightly.

“Why did you have to bring her here?” I demanded, hearing the petulance in my own voice, but I felt I had a right to it.

He shook his head in defeat.

“Her father is one of Arthur’s vassal lords. She said she was a
virgin
, before. I didn’t have a choice. It was bring her here or start a war. I hoped I would get to you before his messengers, to tell you. Guinevere, I’m so sorry.”

“Are you going to marry her?” I asked in a very small voice.

“No, no, of course not.” He drew me into his arms and I did not resist, though I still held myself wary. He kissed me, once, lightly on the neck, and I closed my eyes, feeling my resistance slip away. “I only thought of you the whole time I was away. I dreamed of you. I am so sorry, so sorry.”

He kissed me again, and I melted into it, feeling again what I had dreamed of so long. He held me close against him, kissing my neck, up, coming to kiss me on the lips, slow and delicious. After a moment, I pushed him gently away.

“No, not now. Come to me tomorrow, and I will make sure we are safe.”

Arthur was, I was sure, close behind me, ready to offer me the only kind of comfort he knew.

“Tomorrow?” He sounded shocked, but did not disagree. I suddenly felt that time was short, and if we did not come together soon, then I would miss the chance forever. Already too much had come between us, and my patience was too thin now for prudence.

“Tomorrow,” I replied.

Chapter Twenty Two

The next day I woke as soon as I felt the tickle of the morning sun against my eyelids. I woke with my heart racing with almost unbearable anticipation. I did not know how I would wait until night. Arthur had come to me the night before, full of concern, and himself reminded of the loss of our child. We had fallen together, as we always did, but it had given more comfort to him than to me, and I had lain awake half the night, staring into the thick darkness, my head full of thoughts that would not be still.

I got up while he was still sleeping and sat by the window, looking down at the little garden below. Before tonight would be today, and today Lancelot was bringing Isolde of Cornwall and this Elaine into the city. I had a cold dread lingering in my stomach despite the warmth of the day. Through the open window I could smell the lovely roses and little honeysuckles down in the garden. I could hear the chatter down there, soft and bubbling like a little stream over pebbles, of Marie, Margery and Christine. I wished I was down there with them, not waiting up here for one of them to bring me whatever dress I would have to wear to greet Isolde like a proper queen. The proper
Breton
queens would have greeted others dressed in leathers and armed, like the vassal kings of Britain came before Arthur, but if I did that here, they would know me for a barbarian, a savage. It was more savage and strange, I thought, all those heavy layers of damask and samite, all the strange ceremonial bowing and waving. But Isolde was born in Ireland. Maybe she, too, was the blood of Maev. Maybe there was someone coming into the heart of Camelot who would be like the women I remembered from home. Christine and Marie, too, had changed themselves for Camelot and I often missed the sights of home.

At last, it seemed, though perhaps it had not been so long, because the sun was still fresh and pale in the sky, not yet climbing up towards noon and the midday heat, Arthur woke, and left me with a glancing kiss to make himself ready for the arrival. Marie and Christine hurried in then with some lovely, sweet fruits for me to eat, and clothes for me to wear. The dress was, mercifully, thin summer silk in a light sky-blue and embroidered all over in little silver thread flowers, close down to the wrists and across the bodice, and cut low and square at the neck. The skirt parted in the centre to show the white silk underskirt beneath, and little peeps of it glimpsed through the lacing of the bodice at the front. Marie tied up my hair and wrapped it in the little gold net, pinning it into place. The crown they brought was the crown of snakes and I waved it away. I did not want to look at it again; it seemed like bad luck. I took instead the little circlet of ivy leaves I had come with. Perhaps if Isolde were as I hoped, she would recognise it. In any case, it was the only one I had that was not too heavy.

I squinted into the silver mirror Christine held up before me. I had no idea if I looked right, if I looked queenly enough. I had never really seen another British queen, except Morgawse, and I knew from what people said that the northlands were considered rough and barbaric. Oh, and Morgan, while her old husband had lived; but she had always been dressed like a druid, and I did not think I too ought to paint myself with woad. Besides, there was no right way to look before Elaine. I would rather have come before
her
in my leathers and armed. Meeting her, I was ready to meet an enemy.

When trumpets sounded the arrival of the visitors, I walked down the stairs with Marie and Christine, dressed in the finest dresses they owned, and Margery came to join us from my little public room, still missing its little book of Ovid. She had a little white silk cloth wrapped around her hair, and I wondered if we should do the same. I was dimly annoyed that Margery, who was the one who knew the customs of Logrys as her own, had not come that morning.

At the bottom of the stairs, Kay and Gareth were waiting. Kay took my hand and kissed it lightly. I smiled to see him. At the least, he was always cheerful, and somehow having him by my side made me feel better. It was the comforting sense of the Otherworld about him, which was my feeling, partly, of home, of my father’s study and the table. I somehow felt that he would be an ally to me against this woman who came bearing Lancelot’s child. I could not have said why. He did a little bow, which was only half-sincere.

“You look lovely, my queen.”

Gareth bowed as well and said the same. I laughed.

“You don’t have to do that in here, where no one is watching,” I replied.

We went out into the courtyard, where Arthur was standing with Gawain, Lamerocke and Dinadan. Percival would be in the chapel, where he was almost every day. When that man was not fighting, he was praying. I did not think I had ever seen him smile.

I went over to Arthur with the others and he took my hand with a little incline of the head. He was learning fast this new role of a grand king, though I was sure he would not lose the part of him that was a warrior. He knew peace was good, and ceremony and power, but I was sure that something inside him would always yearn for battle.

I turned towards the gates, where I could hear the sound of horses from outside. I felt the nervous flutter in my stomach. I would see, now, the woman who had taken my place. The sun was hot against my face, rising towards its zenith, and I could feel in the heat, sweat gathering in at the base of my back, on my brow. The knights in armour around us shifted uncomfortably, and I suspected Arthur would for once be glad of his ceremonial brocade surcoat, red with his father’s dragon sewn in gold, rather than the iron of platemail.

At last the gates came apart. At first I saw only Lancelot, who had slipped away back to his camp last night, so as to arrive with the women he brought, riding on a huge armoured warhorse. Behind him, I could see two lovely white ponies, and flashes of coloured silk on top of them, the two women. He rode without his helm, though he was armoured, and the sight of him again was a wonderful relief to the part of me that felt I had dreamed him in my room last night. He slid from his horse, giving it to Gareth to take to the stables, and came before Arthur and me. Arthur pulled him into a rough embrace and slapped him heartily on the back. They kissed each other on each cheek and embraced again.

“You have been too long away,” Arthur told him, and he nodded and smiled.

He turned to me, and kissed my hand with a little bow and a soft, “My lady.”

The touch of his hand on mine sent a shock through me that I did not expect. I felt my face flush and my head spin for a moment. He moved away without meeting my eyes, but I felt, as though it was burned into my skin, the touch of his lips on the back of my hand. It was not long, not long now. It would be easier when longing was transformed to secrecy, I felt sure of it. And I needed only to wait until tonight.

He returned to the women on the horses. One of them was already sliding off hers, but awkwardly, one foot caught in a stirrup, making her pony stumble a little. All I could see of her was a flash of pale blonde hair from her bent head, with a little golden coronet on top, and her slender figure dressed in a gauzy dress of light pink silk. She must have been Isolde. The other woman Lancelot went to first and lifted down from her horse. I felt the ugly prickle of jealousy within me, and I knew I could not look on her without hating her. Seeing his hands around her little waist lifting her down from the saddle made me feel sick, feel raw with an anger that was beyond words, and I knew there was nothing I could do. She was small and doe-eyed with soft brown hair wound up at the nape of her neck. She was dressed simply in a green silk dress, and under the hand that rested on her stomach was the unmistakable early swell of a child. Where my features were strong and proud, hers were ladylike and delicate, and where I was lean and lightly muscled I could see the demure little frame of her body move with a perfect grace.
Perfect lady she may be
, I thought,
but she does not look as though she would win if it came to a fight
. This gave me a wicked little thrill.

Isolde came forward towards us first and I was sorry to see nothing of Maev in the girl. She was beautiful, for sure, with big blue eyes like pools, and full pink lips, and soft, full breasts that the draping fabric of her dress made obvious, but it seemed that Kay was right in his estimation of the girl as
simple
. She seemed sweet enough and kind, and curtseyed to Arthur and me, graciously accepting his avowal of her beauty and a kiss on her cheek with a decorous little blush. I was disappointed that the sight of Isolde was not a little glimpse of home, but I was resolved to be kind and I took her hand in both of mine and bid her welcome. Her smile was warm and trusting, her kiss of my cheek dry and papery. I was not sure if her seeming simpleness was just the result of innocence, because up close I could see that despite her shape she was many years younger than I was, perhaps younger even than when I had married Arthur. I was pleased to have her stand beside me. It made me feel stronger as Lancelot approached with Elaine. I could hear people whispering. I could hear Marie and Christine whispering in Breton. I should have liked to have been whispering with them. I heard Marie use the Breton word for ‘witch’.

Arthur took Elaine’s hand and kissed her on the cheek.

“Camelot is lucky to receive two such rare beauties today,” he told her. So Arthur thought her beautiful, too. He grinned past her at Lancelot, and I knew he was not just being courteous. She slipped her hand from Lancelot’s and walked over to me, as Lancelot talked with Arthur. I imagined Arthur would soon want to lead him away, and hear all of the stories he had longed to hear, of the fighting and the adventuring, and perhaps also the story of Elaine, though I doubted it was one that Lancelot would be willing to tell. He was not, I suspected, a very good liar.

I took Elaine’s hand with a smile I was sure must have seemed brittle and cold, but when I met her eyes – lovely, dark and gentle – I had a sickening sense in the pit of my stomach that I did not think had anything to do with jealousy.
Witch
. It only lasted a moment, but it was an almost unbearable sensation of the darkest place of the Otherworld. It was the smell of death that hung around the barrow-lands. It passed in a moment, the acuteness of the sensation, but the sense of it lingered about me. Surely I could not have imagined it out of irrational hate? The girl seemed benign enough, with her big eyes and sweet little mouth. She was, though, almost a head shorter than me, and tiny as bird, like Marie, so I did not know how Lancelot had mistaken her for me. I was beginning, looking at her, to doubt his excuse. She was nothing like me, and any man would have desired her for her own charms.

I kissed her on the cheek, and she did the same. I moved through the courtesies, detached, my mind elsewhere, as she did the same; we commended each other on our beauty and curtseyed.

I was glad when I could suggest the ladies repair to my little walled garden. Servants had laid out silk rugs and little cushions, and there was already a minstrel with a lute. I would have preferred to lie on the grass and feel its little stalks against my skin, smell its light, fresh smell, and read my Breton books with Christine and Marie, but the greatest ceremony must be given for Isolde of Cornwall I supposed. We did not want to appear rustic or simple.

I invited her to sit beside me, patting the little pink cushion I had reclined beside and she came. I was happy to let Margery chatter with Elaine on the other side of the garden, where I could watch her out of the corner of my eye. I suddenly wished that Kay was with us. He would know. He would be able to feel it, too, and tell me if I had imagined it. I did not know why, if it were truly so, that she was a creature from the depths of the Otherworld, and I had felt it only for a moment.

The lute player began a tune, and a song that I knew well enough about Brutus driving the giants from Britain and giving it his name, and I lay back with a sigh against the cushions, closing my eyes against the bright heat of the sun. I wished I was with the men. I wanted to be hearing about giant-killing and adventure, or hunting in the forest. I did
not
want to be sat in my little walled garden avoiding being polite to Elaine.

I put a hand over my eyes to shield them from the sun, and peered at Isolde. She was watching the lute-player with rapture. Cornwall must have been rich, because her golden coronet was studded with sapphires from the far east, and lots of lovely shimmering pearls, and around her neck hung a long sapphire pendant. She
was
young. Fifteen, sixteen perhaps? Even younger than I had thought her at first. Her skin was pure white and perfect as marble, her light blonde hair glowed in its thick glossy plait that trailed down past her shoulder and rested on one breast in the midday sun. She was lovely, there was no denying that.

“Was your journey pleasant?” I asked her.

She turned to me as though she had been jolted from her thoughts and a slow smile spread across her face. She leaned in close to me, and whispered.

“Very pleasant my lady. And you should know, they say there are but four great lovers in this world, Sir Tristan and myself, and Sir Lancelot and Queen Guinevere.”

I pushed myself up onto my elbows, the nerves jangling within me.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I replied, coolly.
What had Lancelot said?
What she was saying was dangerous. I knew Sir Tristan as her own husband’s nephew. So what Lamerocke had said had been true. And what Kay said. The girl
was
simple.