“Would you be, I wonder, in his boots?”
“Probably not,” he said, musing. “But Arthur would. In that they are different.”
“Well, it is a beginning.”
Until the court moved to Caerleon for Christmas, all five boys came every day. Between the three of us we taught them their letters, their numbers, and some elementary history of Britain. It was amazing how ignorant they were. They seemed to have learned nothing on Orkney but fighting, court gossip, curses, and the ways of the sea. They knew who Maximus was only because their mother descended from him. They were amazed to learn I descended from him, as well. After that, Gawaine forgot to say “my lady” less often. I thought Valerius would faint when he found they did not know where Rome was. To them, the civilized world ended at Britain’s border.
But it was Bedwyr who truly astounded them. One day, he brought out his lap harp, tuned it, and gave them the Lay of Arthur in his clear tenor voice. They had never heard the whole of Arthur’s story, which was known to every British child, and yes, Saxon, too, in those days, but that was not the only source of their astonishment. They simply could not believe that a grown man, a king, no less, would take up a harp and sing of his own will. This was bard’s work and not the proper pastime for a soldier. But Bedwyr only smiled and sang with pride.
They sat with their mouths open when it was over, and then Bedwyr informed them he would give it to them again and expected them to have it by heart by week’s end, certainly before they left to see the King. They stared aghast. Only Mordred listened with shining eyes and a stillness that went to his very soul.
On most days, I enjoyed these sessions and enjoyed watching Mordred, who learned quickly and took great pleasure in it. But oftentimes, in the evening, I would find myself in unexpected tears and weep against my will. I argued with myself and told myself I was behaving like a foolish, weak-willed woman, but this great grief, like love, seemed beyond my control. Sometimes the light would catch his cheek just so, and I would see Arthur, as he sat upon his horse in a sunlit clearing. Or suddenly, by the movement of a hand, I would see Arthur as he sat at table, toasting his Companions. It was a torture to me, to see the King reflected in this child; and yet it gave me joy, as well. Only when I looked into his eyes, black and secret, did I see the boy himself, and not the King. Thus I took to sitting near him, where I could see those eyes, and gradually, as time passed, was better able to bear his presence. He was not a shy child, but very reserved, and seldom spoke to me on his own. But he seemed to like it when I sat near, and slowly we grew easier with one another.
One day, I was in the library alone when the princes arrived. Bedwyr was at council in the Round Hall, and Valerius lay abed with a cold. I knelt in a recess by the window, looking in the chest for a scroll, and they did not see me. After the first words, I was afraid to show myself.
Gawaine went over to the fire and pushed Cabal out of his way, not gently. “Well, it looks like the bitch has forgotten us. The cat’s away, let’s have some fun.”
“Hold your tongue, Gawaine! Are you mad?” It was Mordred, quickly.
Gawaine laughed. “Why should it offend you, bastard brother? You’re no kin of hers. Come on, let’s see who’s strongest. Give me your hand, Gaheris.”
“I know why,” Agravaine crowed. “He’s fallen in love, has Mordred. Can’t you see it when he looks at her? Always fawning and bending his knee. Not content with a kitchen maid, he must have the High King’s wife!”
The hackles rose on the back of my neck, as if some phantom breathed upon it. I would not have moved for the world.
“Ha-ha!” Gaheris taunted. “Lord Mordred, is that what you’re after? King Mordred perhaps?”
There came a strangled cry from Mordred. “Shut up, all of you! I don’t care what you say of me! But leave the Queen alone! Call me what you like. Call me landless bastard, that’s your favorite. It’s true enough. Well, I pity you heartily. Here you are at last on the mainland, in a civilized country, in the very heart of Arthur’s Kingdom, where you have wanted to be since you first drew breath, and all you can do is moan about how hard it is to be a good knight, and make fun of his Queen because she cares about you. And I don’t for the life of me understand why she bothers! Our upbringing is no concern of hers. As you so rightly pointed out, we are not her kin. Yet here she is, every afternoon, trying to make us fit to meet the King. Why can’t you see that you are being done honor?”
There was a general grumbling. None of them had Mordred’s power of fluid speaking. But Gawaine finally voiced his predictable objection. “I’m the boss here, Mordred. Just because Bedwyr treats you specially. That’s because you like his music. He’s just the Queen’s fancy boy, anyone can see it.”
“Gawaine.” Mordred’s voice was exasperated and tightly controlled. “She is grooming us. Patiently. Carefully. Think of what that means. In two weeks we go to Caerleon. Why is such care being taken over us? Can’t you understand? Can’t you tell how different we are? Everyone else you have met since you came to Camelot speaks politely, wears plain clothes and keeps them clean, eats a meal without spraying it over his neighbor, washes his hands and face daily and cleans his fingers after eating, goes about his work without complaint, and is never rude to a woman. Is it any wonder we stand out? If the Queen works hard at refining our behavior, have you wondered why? Could it possibly be”—he paused, having their attention—“could it possibly be because the King will not receive us else?”
There was a stunned silence as the boys watched their futures go up in smoke.
“He’s our uncle!” Agravaine cried. “He may not receive you, Mordred, you fatherless bastard. Why, you could be the son of a wandering harper, for all we know. But we’re the sons of a king. He brought us here. He’ll receive us.”
“Are you so certain? Where is our mother, then? His own sister?” Silence followed. “If he so valued bonds of kinship, he’d have sent for her, as well. Yet you heard the orders. She stays in exile. And we don’t even know why.”
“She’s a witch!” Gaheris stated proudly. “He fears her power!”
“Are you jesting? Why should King Arthur fear a witch, when he’s been a friend of Merlin the Enchanter all his life? She’s no threat to him.”
“She is, though,” Agravaine asserted. “She hates him. Doesn’t she, Gawaine? We’ve all heard her say so, often enough.”
“Bah!” Gawaine said gruffly. “She’ll say anything in a temper. She’s jealous of his power, is all. Even she is afraid of it.”
“She is not!” Gaheris screamed on a rising note.
“Then why isn’t she here, of her own will?” Mordred’s quiet voice cut through the panic. “She feared even the King’s commander, who led our escort. And what she fears, she hates.”
“Let her come,” Gawaine declared, “if she dares. I, for one, would welcome her, but as a King’s man, not as a witch’s son.”
“She will come!” bleated Gaheris. “You wait and see! She will!”
“She’d better not,” Mordred warned.
“Arthur will not harm her if she does,” Agravaine replied with defiance. “After all, she is his blood kin, the daughter of his father. And he would not dare, with us here—”
“Would not dare?” Mordred cried, aghast. “Would not dare what? Do you imagine Arthur fears you? Listen to yourselves! What are you, Agravaine, and you, Gaheris, against even one of the High King’s knights? They are trained men, with real swords, and fine horses. My lord Bedwyr, whom you dare to call a fancy boy, has killed more men in battle than you have even seen! Don’t make me laugh. What possible threat could you pose? You have not even reached manhood.”
There was much shouting and some fisticuffs, but they recognized the truth of Mordred’s argument and changed the subject. But I, huddled in my corner, I wished Arthur had heard it; if there was ever a boy ready and eager and worthy of the challenge before him, it was Mordred.
They talked about Morgause awhile, and what she was d
oing all alone on Orkney, and whether they could ever persuade their uncle to ask her south.
“At least she acts like a queen,” Gaheris said finally. “Not like this Queen of Arthur’s, who looks like a woman but acts like a man.”
“Just because she can ride as well as you can walk!” Mordred returned hotly.
“See! I told you he is soft on her!” crowed Agravaine.
“I like her,” Gareth piped up. “She smells good. Not like Mother.”
Here they all laughed, and I hoped they would let it rest. The Queen of Orkney was known for her use of perfumes and aging creams.
“Don’t forget what Mother warned us about her—”
“Do you mean about poison and—”
“Perhaps she is evil, in spite of the way she looks—”
“Evil!” Mordred cried, beside himself. “How can you think it? There is not a wicked hair on her head! What has she done to you but paid you honor? And this is how you speak of her behind her back?”
“He has a point,” Gawaine granted. “Mother might have been jealous and told us that to make us keep our distance. I don’t think the High Queen means us ill. But even so, Gaheris is right, she is too—straightforward.”
“Too bold,” Gaheris said.
“Too forthcoming,” Agravaine said.
“By the Light!” swore Mordred, and I smiled, hearing by the way he said it that the oath was new to him, something recently picked up from the soldiers’ barracks. “Is it not refreshing to deal straight with a woman, and not always be wondering what she really meant, where things are as they are, and have no double meaning? Speak for yourselves, of course, but it’s a relief to me.”
“But she orders Bedwyr around,” Gawaine complained, coming to the rub. “He’s the Queen’s Protector. He’s in command here. But she leads in everything and he follows.”
“She doesn’t lead the soldiers,” Mordred said patiently.
“But I heard that she drew the High King’s Sword Excalibur!” Agravaine hissed. “And the High King nearly slew her for it!”
“I heard he kissed her for it!” laughed Gareth. I put my hand over my mouth to cover a giggle.
“And guess what else I heard?” Gaheris whispered. “You know this Lancelot they keep telling us all about? They say he is her lover.” He paused, having their attention. “And King Melwas, too, who took her and kept her on his island!”
“Well, and what of that?” countered Agravaine. “Mother’s had plenty of lovers, and some of them kings.”
“Shut up!” Gaheris cried, weeping. “She has not!”
“She has so! How do you think Mordred got here?”
“You fools!” Gawaine spoke with contempt. “A queen without a husband has a right to take a man to her bed. But if Queen Guinevere takes a man to her bed, it is betrayal to the High King. He would kill her.”
At last Mordred spoke. “I think you had better not repeat palace gossip until you know more about it. Do you think the High King would have spared Melwas’ life if he’d lain with the Queen? These are rumors. How do we know there is truth in them? Men will say anything that sounds interesting in their cups. Wait until you have seen the King and Queen together, and until you have met Sir Lancelot, before repeating such gossip. You might regret it.”
“Very wise words,” came a cold voice from the doorway. It was Bedwyr, come at last from council. I turned my head a little. The boys all faced him, their backs to me.
“My lord Bedwyr,” Gawaine said boldly, “is this Sir Lancelot everyone talks about the High Queen’s lover? Has she betrayed our uncle behind his back?”
Then I rose, and then Bedwyr saw me. He never blinked an eye.
“Why don’t you ask her yourself, if you dare?” And he bowed low in my direction.
They turned and gasped, all except little Gareth, who ran to me and hugged my skirts.
I looked at them, huddling together in fear, Mordred alone blushing for the shame of his brothers. He went down on one knee, bowing his head, and after a moment, the others followed.
“I am ashamed of you,” I whispered.
The slither of metal lifted their heads. Bedwyr had drawn his sword and held it level with their throats.
“King’s nephews or not,” he said evenly, “I will slay the first man that so much as whispers aught against the Queen. I am the Queen’s Protector. Never did I think to have to protect her honor from the likes of you! Uncouth outlanders all! Be gone! Out of my sight before I lose my temper!”
They went white and edged toward the door. Gaheris grabbed Gareth’s hand and dragged him away.
“Prince Mordred,” I said quickly, “stay a moment. I want a word with you.”
Relieved, the others gladly left Mordred to his fate.
Mordred fell to his knees. “Please forgive us, my lady! I know it was unforgivable to say such things in the King’s house. It is barracks talk only. We—we are not ready yet to live among you here. I—”
“Prince Mordred.” I extended a hand and raised him. He stood facing me, shaking. “I wish to thank you. Not only for your defense of me, but more, for your defense of the High King and the way he has ordered life here. I know it must seem strange to you and your brothers, and it is hard to learn new ways, but your efforts will be rewarded. The King shall receive you. You will have a place here.”
His eyes were shining with hope and excitement. “If that could only be possible, my lady—it is what I have wished for! Will we really get to see the King?”
“Yes. At Christmas. In Caerleon.”
“And is he really—what they say of him?”
I smiled, looking into the image of Arthur’s face, eager and bright and quick. “He is all that. And more. You will see.”
He touched my hand very lightly to his lips. “Thank you, my lady.”
They all gave me a good apology the next day, with downcast eyes and bent knees and humble demeanors, even little Gareth, who did not know what it was all about. After that, we were easier with one another, but it was never a pleasure to me to be with Gawaine, Agravaine, and Gaheris. The words they had said could not be unspoken. I knew, of course, as Arthur did, that rumors about Lancelot were as plentiful as daisies in summer, but no one had ever voiced them in my hearing.
And what was worse, I knew the three middle boys believed them, for I would catch them staring at me furtively from time to time, whenever Lancelot’s name was mentioned, as if hoping to catch me out in a blush or a fever, like some village maiden with a crush upon her lord. It angered me, but there was naught that I could do. They had no sense bred in them. They were hot for one idea at a time, and that idea changed as quickly as the wind. Only Mordred was steady and cool.
As time for our departure neared I found myself growing anxious, and I did not know why. Bedwyr asked me thrice what ailed me, and I could not tell him. I would have shared it with him if I had known myself. I needed Mordred’s company; I would seek him out and then when I was with him, I wished myself away. I did not know what drove me. As always, I sought solace riding and spent more and more of my days galloping over the downs at breakneck speeds. One day, I was out so long I made my escort late for the soldiers’ mess; my apology made little difference; they would have to get what they could from the kitchens. Myself, I was not hungry, but stayed in the stable to tend my horse and be alone with my tormented thoughts.
Bedwyr found me in Pallas’ stall, weeping mindlessly. He put a hand on my arm. “Better my shoulder, sweet, than the horse’s mane.” He held me in silence until at last the storm abated, and I could draw breath without sobbing.
“Forgive me, Bedwyr.”
“My dear Guinevere, what is there to forgive? Tell me only why you weep, that I may know how I can help.”
I shook my head.
“It is Mordred, is it not?” I made no answer, and he laid a hand against my cheek. “I know it’s Mordred. I’ve seen the way you look at him. Tell me, Gwen, what it is that hurts you so.”
�
��Don’t mistake me, I—I love the boy, Bedwyr.”
“Yes,” he said. “I know.”
“If only—if only he did not look so like Arthur!”
“He is very like. Even Kay is beginning to wonder.”
“I don’t want Arthur to see me like this.”
“He would understand it.”
“But he would take it upon himself. And it is not his doing, it is mine.”
“Yours?” He sounded surprised. “How so?”
I drew a long breath and steadied my shaking voice. “In a moment of . . . tenderness, I asked him to send for the boy. I wanted—I wanted to give him a son. It was the only way I could.”
“Ahhhhh.” His face warmed, and he lifted my hand to his lips. “What a gift, Gwen! I did not know it.”
I shrugged. “So you see, I brought it upon myself. But now I find—and it is too late. We cannot send him back!”
“Is that what you would like to do, if you could?”
“No,” I whispered, “no. He will bring Arthur such joy. And—and I do not wish to part with him myself, now that I have got to know him. But I weep at nights. It comes upon me of a sudden, like a fainting fit. I don’t know why.”
“I know why.” Gently Bedwyr took my arm and drew me out of the stall. We walked in silence to the small room where the saddles were kept, and there he sat me on a bench. I had not realized, until I sat, how weak my knees were. Bedwyr closed the door behind us and lit the lamp. He sat beside me and took my hands in his. “My wife’s sister cannot bear, so I know the signs of that grief. She grieves because she thinks she cannot be a woman without children,” he said softly. I gasped; the blow hit me squarely and took my breath. “She is not a fool,” he went on, “but she is wrong.”
“She is right!” I cried, trembling. “All the world thinks so! If you do not believe it, you have not seen their faces or heard their whispers! Ask Kay! Ask anyone!”
“Ask Lancelot,” he responded. “Ask Arthur. Ask me.”
“No, you are kind and wish to ease my pain. But truly, Bedwyr. Why did the High King marry a second time? He did not wish to. He married to get himself an heir. Do not deny it.”
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