Queen of Camelot

by Nancy McKenzie

  “He isn’t coming back?” I jumped to my feet, and he gripped my arms.

  “No, he cannot. He must be at his palace to receive the King.” I cried out, and he held me tighter. “What? Did you not know Arthur is back? His ships were sighted in the estuary three hours past. The light you saw must have been a signal to Melwas from some confederate on the Tor.”

  “The lady Seulte!” I whimpered, fighting rising panic.

  “Truly?” He shook me gently. “Then both of them shall pay for this. Arthur will see to it. Hurry and dress, and I will take you to him. He will stay on Ynys Witrin tonight, with Melwas as his host.”

  “Dear God, no!” I cried. “So soon? Lancelot, no! I cannot do it! I cannot bear to face him!”

  “Have you heard me, Gwen? Be still. No one knows what happened but Merlin and me. There will be no scandal. Your honor is unstained. And even so, you have nothing to fear from Arthur.”

  “What of his own honor? Have you thought of that? He will put me away.”

  “You do him an injustice.”

  “But I must tell him the truth. About what happened here.”

  “Yes.”

  “And after that? Oh, Lancelot, the—the monster touched me. He—he put his hands and lips on me. I am unclean.”

  Ever so gently, Lancelot kissed my lips and said, “I have done that, too.” All at once it was more than I could stand, and I pressed against his wet and bleeding body and kissed him with passion. A sigh escaped him as his strong arms came around me and held me close. He bent my head back to kiss my neck, my throat, my breasts; his hands roamed my body with a deft and knowing touch, trailing fire. I clung to him, alive with excitement and desire.

  “Lancelot! Oh, Lancelot!” I gasped. “Where is Merlin?”

  He laughed shortly and pulled away from me, his face flushed, his gray eyes aflame. “My God, I had forgotten all about him.” He passed a trembling hand across his face. “Take your clothes, Gwen, and dress in the other chamber.”

  “My dearest—”

  “Hurry. We must both be there when Arthur hears Ferron’s report.”

  One look at the bedchamber revealed how Lancelot had entered. The iron bars outside the window were bent wide, and the bedsheets all messed and bloody where he had fallen on them. It looked for all the world like the scene of a rape.

  I felt much better back in my own clothing. Lancelot led me down a narrow path behind the hut toward the water.

  “Is this how you came?” I asked him. “Over the land bridge?”

  He grunted. “Over the bridge of swords, you mean? It is indeed.”

  “Swords! What swords?”

  “Oh, he has set a neat trap in the middle of the bog. I was nearly caught, and I was expecting something of the sort. As it is, I got a blade in the leg. But there are bones about of others who were less nimble.”

  So that was Melwas’ sharp surprise! “How then will we get back across?”

  “Nestor will take us, if his training holds good.”

  At the water’s edge he whistled for the stallion. We stood forty paces from the land bridge, now a bog in rising water. Within minutes we saw his dark head arrowing through the black water, swimming in a straight line toward us, safely past danger. He swam us both back, clinging to his mane. I was amazed at how little strength I had; twice my grip gave way. If Lancelot had not been holding me, I should have drowned.

  Merlin sat on the bank, unmoving, on an old black horse. He nodded to me and spoke to Lancelot. “We have an hour, at most. Go quickly, and I will follow. Take her to Niniane.”

  I shivered. Lancelot bowed, holding me against his body with one firm arm.

  “Sir,” he said to Merlin, “on behalf of the High King, I thank you for the Queen’s life.”

  I could see nothing of Merlin’s face but black eyes glinting in moonlight.

  “It is to Arthur she owes it,” he said.

  17 AVALON

  I did not, in fact, face Arthur that night. The day’s exposure to damp and the aftereffects of terror took their toll, and I fell into a fever. Lancelot delivered me to the Lady’s shrine, where I was washed and put to bed, already delirious. They tell me Arthur came to see me the next morning and stayed at my bedside half a day before returning to Camelot, but in my fever I knew him not. I do not remember it.

  After a week I was strong enough to sit in the garden and take short walks in the lovely orchards the women cultivate. I was well tended. Of the Lady of the Lake who had allowed the High King entrance to the shrine, I saw nothing until ten days had passed. I had said very little to anyone, since we were a stone’s throw from Melwas’ castle, and I did not know what had transpired between him and the King. But I was treated with respect, so I deduced that I must still be Queen.

  Then on the tenth day the Lady came to me as I sat in the orchard, sunning. She wore the white robe of the Goddess’ servant, but when she pushed back her hood to show her face, I found I knew her. It was Niniane, Merlin’s pupil!

  “Queen Guinevere.” She made no obeisance, as I was not her sovereign. The Lady’s shrine was under neither Arthur’s protection nor Melwas’, but belonged to itself, being an ancient sacred place. I inclined my head to her, for she was ruler here, and I her guest.

  “Lady Niniane.”

  Her black eyes flickered. “You know me.”

  “I remember you.”

  “We have not met.”

  “No. But when I was a bride, I saw you once in Caerleon. With Merlin.”

  She looked down at me and paused. I could read no expression in her clear features. She was dark haired and light skinned, as slender as I was and a little older, but what distinguished her from ordinary beauty was an indefinable poise, a certainty, a wholeness. Arthur possessed it, and until now I had thought him to be the only one.

  Because of this quality, the opening parry and thrust of our conversation filled me with dread. She did not like me, and she had power.

  “Ahhhh, Merlin. My master and teacher. He has taught me everything he knows. And like every good pupil at training’s end, I took flight. As you see.” She glanced coolly about her. It occurred to me that in the year since she had become Lady of the Lake, we had not seen much of Merlin. “I do not recall seeing you in Caerleon. You have a good memory.”

  “I had occasion to remember it. You frightened me.”

  If I was not mistaken, the shadow of a smile touched her lips. “Did I? I beg forgiveness. It was not intentional.”

  “The fault was mine, Lady Niniane. I was very young.”

  She sat gracefully beside me on the bench. Introductions were over.

  “You are recovered,” she began. “In three days you will have your strength back.”

  “Thanks to the excellent care of your women,” I murmured.

  She accepted the thanks. “Yes. What do you wish to do when you are well?”

  My eyes opened wide at that. What was she about? What had been going on? “I wish to go home, Lady, if it is permitted.”

  “To Camelot?”

  “Of course. If—” The fear of it set me trembling. “—if it is still my home.” There was no softening in her stern face. She accused me of some crime, yet I did not know what it was.

  “Arthur is there.”

  I met her eyes. Here was the battleground. “I am glad to hear it. I wish to see him.”

  “He knows what happened.”

  “I should hope he does. It was not a small thing and affects him nearly. Please tell me, for I have heard nothing, what has become of Melwas?”

  She regarded me closely, and I felt my thoughts probed by careful fingers. I was reminded of Merlin’s visit in my sleep, years ago. That a woman could hold such power! On the thought, she spoke.

  “Nothing yet.”

  “What! Is he not taken? Am I not believed?” I shook with fear and saw the first sign of compassion in her.

  She placed her hand upon my arm. “No one has formally accused him yet but Lancelot, and he was
largely incoherent with pain and fever.”

  I grew instantly still, and she noted it. Compassion fled, she withdrew her hand, and when she next spoke her voice was remote. “You do not ask after Lancelot?”

  “How fares my rescuer?” I asked obediently. But it had been a week since he had ridden in with me, and if he still could not accuse Melwas it meant he was very ill indeed—or worse. That was instantly clear to me. My eyes were lowered, and I waited, barely breathing, for the blow.

  “He lies gravely ill in our house of healing. The wound he received in his knee has festered. It might be necessary to remove the leg to save him.”

  “Dear God!” I covered my face with my hands.

  “The King is held at Camelot by visitors of state, and he has asked—commanded—me to make a difficult request.”

  I steadied myself and looked up. Something was coming. Niniane looked strained.

  “Difficult for me to make, I should have said. I doubt you will find it difficult to obey. The King commands me to ask you to go to Lancelot and stay by him through his illness, to whatever end comes.”

  I stared at her. It was all I could do to keep my seat. She sat there looking hard at me, and I barely kept myself from commanding her to take me to him that instant. She read the flow of my thoughts, and her expression grew cold. It was intolerable. Even Arthur did not judge me so.

  “Lady Niniane!” I reached out and clasped her hand between my own. “Do not set traps for me, I pray. I know you see the truth. Why try to catch me in a falsehood? Merlin was there. I can hide nothing and do not wish to. I will tell my lord the truth. He needs to know it.”

  “The whole truth?” she asked.

  “Ah,” I said sadly, “he knows already. Can you doubt it? He has known it a long time.” I paused, and Niniane said nothing, but looked sorrowful herself. “Have you led such a blameless life, Niniane, that you cannot conceive of being rent in twain by love?”

  She gasped, and to my amazement I saw her disconcerted. I did not know, then, that as her old master neared his end, she had lost her heart to a handsome king in Arthur’s service, one Pelleas, Alissa’s brother. I knew none of this, yet God guided my arrow and sent it home.

  She blushed faintly. “I love and honor Merlin,” she whispered.

  “Yes,” I said calmly, meeting her eyes directly, “and I love the King.”

  She nearly protested, then looked at me a long time, searching, and finally nodded. “I did not know it.”

  “Know it now. His honor is safe with me.”

  The corners of her mouth twitched into a smile. “So he has told me many times.”

  “Why is he sending me to Lancelot? Is this some test you have devised?”

  “No, my lady. He fears for Lancelot’s life. He only hopes that your presence there may strengthen his will to live.”

  “I will go, then. Let us pray he is right.”

  “I advised him against it,” she confessed.

  “He is wiser than you,” I said gently. “And I do not care who talks. Lancelot saved me, and I owe him this.”

  She shook her head. “The gods saved you, Guinevere, God, if you like, who sent the fair wind that blew Arthur’s ships into the estuary two days early.”

  “As you say. But it was Lancelot who got me off that island. Whatever happens now, I am forever in his debt.”

  She turned away and gazed across the orchard to the distant shimmer of the Lake. I fidgeted impatiently, thinking of Lancelot, who lay near death for my sake.

  “Will he live, Niniane?” The question escaped me against my will, and I bit my lip, afraid of her answer.

  “Lancelot’s fate I have not seen,” she said apologetically. “The stars do not foretell everyone’s destiny.”

  “Wait!” I cried, although she had made no move to go. “One thing more I would know. I—I am afraid of it. If it concerns Arthur, you will know it, will you not?” At the mention of his name her attention focused on me sharply, and my voice wavered. “Everyone thinks—he will put me away. God knows he has cause. I know it better than anyone. Will he do it, Niniane? Oh, please, tell me if you know!”

  Her eyes grew cold once more and although she did not move, I felt her withdraw. “Should you care overmuch? You would be free. And Lancelot is still unwed.”

  I cried out and covered my face with trembling hands.

  “I would rather die,” I whispered brokenly. “I will kill myself first—I don’t care if it means eternal damnation, I could not live with that shame, I could not, I could not. Oh, dear God, why must I bear this trial? Why can I not conceive the son he wants? What have I done to bring such shame upon him? I cannot bear it—”

  At this point Niniane pressed her cool fingers against my temples and said some words in a low, calm monotone. My eyelids grew heavy and closed against my will.

  “Rest, Queen Guinevere. I would help you if I could, but I do not know the answer to your question. Merlin has seen your end, but I have not. It is in Arthur’s hands, and to him you shall go.”

  “May God have mercy upon my soul,” I whispered.

  “The gods have chosen you,” she said quietly. “There is a reason. Perhaps you would do well to accept what life brings you.”

  “Take what comes and live without complaint,” I said slowly. “What will be, will be.”

  “Life is a woman’s gift; death is God’s,” she finished. “So you have heard Merlin’s litany before.”

  I smiled and touched her hand. “Arthur says it to me every six months,” I told her. “Thank you, Niniane. I feel better for your visit.”

  We rose together, and at last her smile was warm.

  “You have great charm, Guinevere. All the world knows it, of course, but I thought—Arthur warned me I should not be proof against it. He was right.”

  I took her arm in mine. “Arthur is a very wise man.”

  I sat with Lancelot four days before the fever abated and he opened his eyes. As a nurse I was useless, except for applying cold compresses and fluffing pillows. I sat at his bedside holding his hand, and remembering my childhood role in the hospital of Gwynedd, I sang to him. I sang when the leeches were applied, I sang when they lanced an abscess and as it drained. I sang to keep myself from being sick and to ease my terror of the physician’s art. I left his side only to eat and to sleep, and only then because Niniane insisted on it. A small service she would do Arthur, she said, if she allowed me to fall ill again. I obeyed her every command, and she seemed pleased with Lancelot’s progress, although to me he looked deathly pale whenever he was not hot with fever.

  That he was alive at all was something of a miracle. The night he brought me in, they told me, he had no sooner given me into the Lady’s care than he had staggered into Melwas’ fortress intent upon revenge. Hot with fever and so lame he could barely stand, he had burst in upon the kings at supper, sword drawn, and thrown himself at Melwas while the whole court sat frozen. Shouting accusations and half delirious, he had slipped in a pool of his own blood and missed his target, hit his head against the table and fallen senseless to the floor. Only Arthur’s restraining hand on Melwas’ arm had kept the two-faced coward from killing him then and there. While I had Arthur to thank that Lancelot lay struggling for life in the Lady’s pavilion, Arthur was not there now.

  On the fourth day Lancelot opened his eyes and knew me.

  “Gwen!” he whispered.

  “Hush!” I cried, and then, “Nurse!” The attendant lifted water to his lips, and he took it eagerly.

  “Gwen, my beloved,” he said, and slipped back into sleep. I pressed his hand to my cheek and cried for joy.

  For two more weeks I stayed with him, and each day he improved. As he gained strength, he talked to me, and talked and talked, as if words could take the place of sweet caresses. He told me of his Breton boyhood, his harsh father, his loneliness, his dreams of honor and glory, and his finding in Arthur the answer to his prayers. I held his hand throughout and touched his brow, and wept and l
aughed as he moved me to it. It was as if his illness had dissolved the reserve that had always been between us, and he shared his thoughts freely with me. We were always attended and observed, but it mattered not to us. In the world we inhabited only we two existed. He did not mention Melwas, and neither did I. We grew so close during that time, and shared such happiness, that often we did not need to speak at all, but only touch. The memory of his brief passion burned in my thoughts, and in his, also. He would lay his hand upon my arm, and look at me with hot gray eyes, and we were back there in the cabin, alive and ready for surrender. Then one of us would look away and break the spell. It had happened; we could not deny it; but it was past.

  At last, when Lancelot was on his feet and could put weight on his leg with the help of a stout staff, Niniane brought me news that the King desired my return and was sending an escort the following day to take me back.

  I looked at her anxiously. “Is it a bad sign, Niniane, that he does not come himself?”

  “I think rather it is a test for Melwas, who must give the escort passage,” she replied kindly. “You are in no danger, Guinevere. Should Melwas try to prevent your going, the King’s Companions would be down upon him within the hour.” She smiled lightly. “I hear that many of them are beside themselves with eagerness for war, to avenge your honor. The King gives Melwas a chance to save his life.”

  I broke the news to Lancelot that evening, and he looked puzzled at my distress.

  “I shall hate to lose your company, Guinevere, but you belong in Camelot with Arthur. When I am well enough to ride I will follow.”

  “It’s—it’s not so much leaving as arriving that I fear.”

  “Fear arriving? Whatever for?”

  I paced the room nervously. The servant, flattened against the wall with wooden face, slipped out at my signal.

  “I fear Arthur may—may see things as the world sees them and put me away. No one could blame him. Not even I. And now he has a perfect excuse.”

  “Guinevere.” He spoke tenderly. I came to his bedside, and he took my hand. “Since I have known you, you have been afraid of Arthur. Has he ever given you cause?”