Queen of Camelot

by Nancy McKenzie

  He cleared his throat, frowning. “There is a way in, through the postern gate, into the ladies’ garden. It is known in the barracks as the Gate of Heaven.”

  “Who dares to call it so!” I cried indignantly. Of course I knew of the gate; Lancelot himself had come that way once. On the thought, I felt my face flush with color, then grew angry at my own reaction. I was innocent; he had come to me for private talk, not for love. I lifted my chin and faced him. “I take responsibility for that. Henceforward the gate shall be sealed. And while we are speaking of garden gates, does my lord still have the key to the gate of my private garden, which Sir Kay gave you many years ago? If so, I should be glad to have it returned.” I held out my upturned palm.

  Linet and Ailsa gasped aloud; but Lancelot’s composure never wavered. I saw from the flicker in his eyes that he guessed at Agravaine’s accusation.

  “It is in my possession, my lady, but not upon my person. I will have my chamberlain bring it to you, immediately I return to my apartments. I beg your pardon for keeping it so long; it had slipped my mind I had it.”

  I nodded. He had said before witnesses what I had given him the opportunity to say.

  “I accept your apology. Until this matter arose, I had forgotten, also. Clearly, I must guard my women more closely than before. I am beholden to you for your advice.”

  He bowed, and after promising to call me in the morning before Agravaine was brought before the Council, he left. The physician left close on his heels, and we women were alone.

  I turned to Linet. “Is this true, what Sir Lancelot tells me? Have many men gained entrance by the postern gate? Speak, Linet, and do not fear me. But I must know the truth.”

  “Since I have been here, my lady, Agravaine and Gaheris are the only ones I know of. But it is rumored that over the years—” She stopped, seeing my face. I had been a fool not to suspect it, as several of the maids who served me had got pregnant first and husbands later.

  “Has Gareth been here? Or Mordred?”

  “No, no!” Linet cried, weeping. “Oh, no! Don’t think it! Gareth would not, my lady! And Sir Mordred—what would he want with your waiting women?” She clapped her hand over her mouth and turned away, sobbing. I gave it up. There was nothing to be done now but deal with Agravaine. But my heart was heavy that night, for I felt myself partly to blame, through negligence, of what had happened to poor little Claire.

  Had the full Court been assembled, Agravaine would have been called to the Round Hall to be accused before his fellow knights. But most of the Companions had gone with the King; others were traveling the Kingdom as knights errant. Only a few remained in Camelot. These, Lancelot assembled in the King’s library, before he had Agravaine brought in. I sat on his right hand, as Agravaine’s accuser in Claire’s place.

  Gareth came with him. It was clear from his bewilderment that he had not spoken to Linet and did not know why his brother was summoned before the Council. But I saw that Agravaine knew. He stood somewhat defiantly before the assembled knights, and his smile, when he bowed to me, was nothing short of insolent.

  “Agravaine of Orkney, son of Lot,” Lancelot began, “there is a formal charge laid against you which I call you to defend.”

  “Who brings this charge?” he asked boldly, looking about him at the gathered warriors.

  “I bring it,” I said slowly. “I bring it on behalf of a maiden in my service, whom you have beaten and maimed.”

  I saw Gareth pale and look swiftly at his brother. It was a mean offense and beneath him, but he saw the truth of it in his brother’s face, and it sickened him.

  “Last night,” Lancelot continued, “you secretly entered the apartments of the Queen’s ladies and beat a girl named Claire of Swiftwater, whose father serves King Pelleas. There is a witness to the beating; one Linet, daughter of Lucius of York.” Here Gareth flushed and then began to anger. At least, I thought irrelevantly, her affection for him was returned. But Agravaine seemed unaffected. He just stood there and looked at Lancelot with hate.

  “I witnessed the harm you did the girl, as did the King’s physician and the Queen. She will never speak again, nor chew. Her jaw is broken.” The knights looked astonished and murmured among themselves. They were gentlemen all, and such behavior had been beneath them, even as boys. “What have you to say in your defense?” Lancelot asked.

  Agravaine sneered. “Since when is it a crime to strike a woman? The wench contradicted me. She deserved it.”

  I shot to my feet, trembling in fury, so angry I could find no words to speak. He did not even bother to deny it! Lancelot took me gently by the wrist and held tight. Gareth pulled futilely at Agravaine’s elbow. Lancelot rose and forced me slowly back into my chair.

  “It has been a crime in Britain,” he said to Agravaine in cold rage, “since the day that Arthur wed Guinevere. This is not Orkney; this is a civilized land. The King respects women, and so do all those who enjoy his favor. You are a coward, boy, to raise your hand to one who has no defense against you. I am ashamed of you; so is your own brother. Where is your honor?”

  “You dare to call me coward! If you think,” Agravaine sputtered furiously, “that I am going to stand here and listen to you speak of honor! You, of all men! You, you snake in the grass! We all know what goes on whenever the King’s back is turned! Your lust is infamous! We know you lie with the—”

  “Agravaine!” Gareth cried in horror. “Be still, I pray you! If you force his hand, and he calls you out, you are a dead man. Think twice, I beg you! For our dead mother’s sake; for the sake of our exiled brother; Gaheris needs you living. Curb your tongue!”

  The anguished words got through to him, and Agravaine stood silent, flushed with anger. Lancelot himself was barely in control of his temper. But he did not want to have to kill Arthur’s nephew and begin a blood feud. If he killed one of them, he would have to kill them all.

  Into the strained silence, I spoke. “The girl has been permanently maimed. She will never be able to speak; she will never marry. You have robbed her of her future. Unless you make her restoration, her father will be after your head.”

  But Agravaine was not ready to admit defeat. “I demand a hearing of the full court. I will not be judged by this—this conspiracy of intimates. I will go to my uncle the High King—”

  “Yes,” I cut in softly, “why don’t you do that? Go tell Arthur how you violated my protection, how you insulted the Queen’s privacy and tarnished her name.” Agravaine went white. He knew well that Arthur had, more than once, risked personal combat against better men then Agravaine, to save my name. “You dare not do it. It is as much as your life is worth.” He swallowed, and Gareth took him aside, speaking to him softly and furiously. They argued for several minutes, while Lancelot canvassed the other knights and found, as he expected, that they were unanimous in their condemnation of his act.

  At last Agravaine shrugged Gareth off and turned back to Lancelot, looking sullen.

  “If I am in the wrong, I beg your pardon,” he said gruffly. “I lost my temper with the girl. I did not mean to harm her.”

  “That’s as it may be,” Lancelot said flatly, “but harm you have done. And restoration you shall make, as much as is in your power. Her future is in her own hands. If she chooses to retire to a religious house, you will pay her upkeep, you and your heirs, for her lifetime. If she chooses to return to her father, you will pay what ransom he deems fit.”

  Agravaine was aghast. “And if I cannot pay it?”

  “What you cannot pay in coin, you must pay with service, by the sweat of your brow. The Earl of Swiftwater will have work that needs doing. Every religious house has the need of strong man’s labor. One way or the other, you are responsible for her.”

  Agravaine shifted from one foot to the other, while Gareth continued to urge him to accept this judgment. I could see that he was debating whether he might not do better if he brought the case to Arthur, but he did not wish to risk the power of my pleading with the King
. At last he gave way and shrugged gracelessly. “As my lord wills.”

  Lancelot inclined his head. “So is this judgment given and accepted. Take care, Agravaine, that you do it. I myself shall hold you to it.”

  Unbelievably, Agravaine smiled slowly. “As long as you have power, you can try.” Gareth grabbed his arm and, bowing quickly to me and to Lancelot, dragged him away, still whispering furiously.

  The nearest of the Companions turned to Lancelot. “My lord, you have made an enemy this day.”

  Lancelot sighed wearily. “I have indeed. But I saw no way around it.”

  “There was no other way,” I assured him. “You have done the right thing; if he despises you, it is to your credit. Think no more upon him.”

  “On the contrary,” Lancelot said. “When we go on maneuvers, I shall keep him in my own company, where I can keep an eye on him. I want no foment at home while the King is on such a delicate mission.”

  “Can you not take Gareth, as a page? He seems able to influence him for the good.”

  Lancelot’s expression softened, and he looked at me gratefully. “An excellent idea. Gareth will be a comfort to us both. I thank you, my gracious Queen, for the suggestion.”

  “Anything,” I replied lightly, meeting his eyes, “to bring you ease.”

  Lancelot took the army out the next morning, and they stayed on maneuvers within half a day’s ride of Cerdic’s stronghold until Arthur and his cavalry left the Saxon Shore and rode into their camp to join them. They all returned to Camelot together on a hot, dusty day in August. I stood on the castle steps with Kay and Ailsa and several other of my women who had husbands among the returning knights. They were a weary group when they arrived, hot and covered with grime. By my order, Varric had prepared the King a hot bath, and I sent him to it as soon as the greetings were over. He looked tired, but not unhappy, so although he said nothing of what had passed, I knew the meetings had gone well.

  Mordred and Lancelot came up the steps together behind the King, followed by Bedwyr and Gawaine. Their faces were set, and except when they greeted me, none of them smiled. This, I thought, was Morgause’s legacy: The seed of discord was sown in Arthur’s Court and had taken root. Agravaine himself I did not see. He must have kept well out of sight among the soldiers.

  I went in to wait in the library garden. When he had washed the dust of travel off and changed his clothes, Mordred came to me there. We sat by the fountain, where the splash of water cooled the air and hid the sound of our words from other ears. He was eager to tell me all about the journey and about the strange sights he had seen. They had been well treated, he assured me, royally so. Cerdic himself was an old man now, and attended by his son Cynewulf, who was just short of Arthur’s age. This man had the look of a warrior, fierce and stern, but Cerdic was still the leader. He was a legend among his own people. It seemed, Mordred said, that each village had its own king, and until Cerdic had united the West Saxons, one village had had little in common with its neighbor. Even now, the West Saxons felt themselves a people apart from the East Saxons and South Saxons. They spoke of these tribes as if they were separate peoples, and not all from the same homeland.

  “It sounds like Britain, before Arthur,” I said.

  Mordred nodded. “Cerdic is no Arthur, though. He has united the West Saxons, but so far as I could tell, looks no further. But as reverently as Cerdic was treated, it was nothing to how they treated Arthur. They never stopped staring at him. He was a legend come to life. The servants shook as they served him, afraid to touch even his cloak. He was served first, even before Cerdic, and given the best of everything. Nothing was too good for him.”

  I smiled. “And rightly so. They can never defeat him.”

  “Well,” Mordred said, “Cerdic at least knows that. I don’t know about Cynewulf. And truly, my lady, I doubt it would be possible to push them into the sea. They are too many, and have been there too long. Cerdic himself was born there, and his father before him.”

  “Yes. Which is why we must deal with them. Tell me how it was and what agreement you came to.”

  Mordred hesitated, then chose his words with care. “I think perhaps it will take more time than I had envisioned, my lady. You see, they are not, well, not really civilized, at least by our standards.” I could see he was disappointed, but did not want to disappoint me. “They govern by council. All the thegns have a voice; Cerdic is war leader, that is the role of the king.”

  “And when there is not war?” I asked him.

  “Then his role is diminished. In Cerdic’s case, his reputation as leader is well established, and no one questions his authority, but this is unusual. When Cynewulf becomes leader, he will have to prove himself. This much I gathered from Cynewulf himself, for we had some time for private speech. He of course talked about wars with the South Saxons, but that was probably no more than a diplomatic choice. They very clearly want more land and are looking westward.”

  “So you think we will have peace only until Cerdic dies?”

  Mordred shrugged, looking down. “That is what the King thinks.”

  “And you, Mordred? What is your assessment?”

  He looked up, and the eagerness was back in his face. “I think we have no time to waste. If there is war ahead, we will be ready to fight it. But if we can establish trade links with the West Saxons, then they might have something to lose by attacking us; at the same time, if we send them goods from a civilized culture, dressed stone, bricks, iron plows, wool garments, imported silks and tapestries, jewelry—why, everything that we can do that they cannot, then perhaps we may raise the level of their living and make them more like us.”

  “What, have they not these things now?”

  “Well, they have jewelry. It is of beaten gold or copper, all in the shapes of animals. The workmanship is skilled, but the design is primitive. Why, when the queen saw what you had sent her, the whole tribe was amazed. They could not believe that human hands had made that sapphire net or worked that necklace. They thought it was from our gods.” He grinned. “And you were right, my lady. When Cerdic’s queen was told the net was for her hair, she had it redressed on the spot and wore it.”

  I laughed. “All women are alike in their vanity.”

  “You have her thanks.” His black eyes twinkled. “They have heard of you there, of your great beauty, your white-gold hair and your dark-blue eyes and your ageless skin. They have a song about you, which they sang for us on our first night there.” I blushed to hear this and lowered my eyes, but Mordred continued. “They picture you as a warrior queen, riding a war stallion and holding aloft a jeweled sword.” I gasped in dismay, and Mordred laughed. “Don’t worry, I think the image is patterned after one of their warrior goddesses. It is a great mark of respect.”

  I rose and paced before the fountain, wringing my hands. “You don’t know how much I regret ever having touched the Sword! I wish I had not done it!”

  Mordred rose and stood awkwardly. “Be easy, my lady. The King does not regret it, this I know. So why should you? He says you saved the Kingdom that day. He recalls it with fondness.”

  I stilled myself and smiled at him. “He is a good man, and generous with his praise. But I was wrong to do it, and this every one of his soldiers knows. But about the Saxons, Mordred, I am amazed at what you have told me. What do you mean they have no bricks or stone? Can this be true?”

  “Oh, yes. They build entirely with wood. None of the buildings is very big, and the roofs are all of thatch. The walls of most are only sticks and branches, bound together and cemented with wattle. They dig pits, and have their floors below the level of the earth, to keep out drafts. In the larger dwellings, these are boarded over and serve as storage places beneath the floor. The only dwelling we saw that looked like it took more than a day to construct was Cerdic’s own meeting hall. A single room only, but very long, with a hole in the middle of the roof, above the hearth, for the firesmoke. This is where all of Arthur’s party slept, and where we m
et and dined, for it was the only place big enough to hold us all. I tell you, my lady, such a place as this”—and he spread his arms wide to indicate the whole of the castle—“this would surpass Cerdic’s power of imagination. They would not believe it unless they saw it.” He smiled again. “I know, because I tried to describe it, but Cynewulf thought I was boasting.”

  I stood amazed. How could such primitive peoples wield such power? How could they ever have threatened to destroy us?

  “What are their horses like?” I asked, knowing they had them, although they did not use them for war.

  Mordred grinned again and shook his head. “You would laugh to see them. They are more like ponies than horses, thick-bodied and short-legged, dun-colored, with stripes down their backs. And small eyes.”

  I thought of the animals in Lancelot’s care, those tall, fleet, graceful steeds with large, dark eyes that spoke of their foreign blood. No wonder neither Lancelot nor Mordred doubted the Saxon grooms!

  “Do they use iron at all?” I wondered.

  “Yes,” Mordred replied. “In their weapons. I make no disparaging comparisons there. They don’t use swords much—I saw some, but I did wonder if they were taken from our dead in battle. But their spears are full seven feet long and tipped with cold iron. And their two-headed axes.” He shuddered. “They tie feathers to them for each man the ax eats—they think of them as live things, needing sacrifice. I saw many of them. Cerdic’s own was so covered with feathers it could be taken for a bird. And each one stood for the life of a Briton.” His voice went cold and low and deadly; I stared openly at him. I had never seen this hard anger in him until now. But he was Pendragon, and speaking of Saxons. Perhaps it ran in the blood.

  “And did you, Mordred, have a sense of whether the thegns are more interested in war than peace?”

  He shrugged. “They want more land. They live by farming. The soil thereabout is rich and fertile but their numbers press upon them. They are excellent boatmen; their craft are shallow and they prefer to navigate waterways and settle by them. They don’t build roads. They want territory inland from Rutupiae, on the river Thames. They would prefer not to fight for it, if they can bargain for it instead. This is what Arthur holds out to them, to bind them as a buffer state between the Alemans, the Burgundians, the Franks, and us. At the moment, they are pleased at the prospect of more talk. I do not think they will try war. At least”— and here he gulped—“not while Arthur lives.”