He said no more. I wondered if he was thinking of his oath not to outlive the King, the oath that had made Arthur so angry.
“Well, then, it sounds like a successful journey, taken all in all,” I said. “Be not disheartened. It is a small step, but a step nevertheless. And if you had not been here to champion this cause, dear Mordred, I know well the High King would never have gone.” I paused, but he said nothing. Clearly, there was something on his mind. “And now, to more immediate matters. I assume Lancelot has told the King what passed with Agravaine.” His eyes flew to my face, but their expression was carefully guarded. “How does this place you, Mordred? You may not love him, but he is your half brother.”
He shifted uncomfortably and struggled with himself awhile. “Why do you always ask me such pointed questions?” he said at last. “Most women would skirt such unpleasant issues, but you always face them head-on. It’s as hard as answering the King.”
I put a hand on his arm and felt him tremble. “It is my way,” I replied gently. “I am unwomanly, perhaps, but then, I am Queen. How can I aid and advise my lord if know nothing of these things? I am chained to his castle, Mordred. I cannot go where you go; the King does not take me on his travels. When once he did—well, you know what happened. I am a danger to him outside these walls. So I have no way of knowing what passes within Britain, if the men I love will not speak to me.”
He slid to the flagstones at my feet and kissed my hand. “Oh, dearest Guinevere! I meant no disrespect, you must believe me! Unwomanly! How could you think it? I meant only—”
“Hush, Mordred,” I said, smiling and ruffling his hair. “I know what you meant. Do not be afraid to speak your mind. You are my son. I will keep your counsel.”
He collected himself then and met my eyes. “Well,” he said at last, “I condemn Agravaine, of course, for his base action. And I cannot deny that Sir Lancelot’s judgment was fair. But—”
“But?”
“But it would have been more politic to wait for the King’s return,” he said carefully. “There are those who object to the judgment because it was Lancelot who gave it. Had he waited for Arthur—”
“Ahhhh. He wished to. But I would not let him, for the maid’s sake. He knew well it would make him an enemy, but for my sake he went ahead. You cannot deny his courage, Mordred.”
“No, madam, I do not. But he has made more enemies than only Agravaine. There is a faction of young men growing . . . Agravaine has sway with them. Most of them think it no great crime to strike a woman. They think Lancelot a proud man who reaches too high. They also think—” He stopped and lowered his eyes.
“Yes,” I said sadly, “I know what they think.” Mordred still looked away, and I turned to face him. “And you, Mordred? What do you think?” He looked up then, and again I could not read his thoughts.
“I believe what you tell me, my lady,” he said quietly. “You have told me the rumors are not true. But that does not mean Lancelot has nothing to fear.”
“So he told me himself.”
Mordred’s eyes widened. “I am glad he knows it. There are those who would dislodge him from his place near the King. Please, my lady, guard yourself when you are with him, for the very walls have eyes.” He stood abruptly and bowed. “Forgive me if I have said too much.”
“No, Mordred, you have told me nothing I did not already know. Are there any—any men of Arthur’s age who feel the same?”
“Not to my knowledge,” he replied. “These are all young hotheads eager for action. This long peace does not suit them. And since they dare not speak against the King, they plot against his second-in-command.”
“And you?” I said softly. “You play a double role here, do you not? They think you are one of them. Is this hard for you?”
A bitter smile touched his lips. “Oh, I am used to that, my lady. I have played a double role for most of my life, it seems. They trust me because they know I have no love for Lancelot.”
He straightened suddenly and squared his shoulders. I turned to follow his gaze and saw the King coming out from the library.
“Say nothing to the King about Lancelot!” Mordred warned. “He will not hear it talked of!”
Mordred bowed to his father. I went to greet him, and as always, he took me in his arms and kissed me warmly.
I smiled up into his face. “Welcome home, my lord.”
“Thank you, Gwen. I am sorry you and Lancelot had trouble while I was gone.”
I glanced swiftly at Mordred, but his eyes were politely on the ground. “I am sorry, too, my lord. The timing was poor; but we did not choose it.”
He sighed and handed me back to my seat. He sat beside me, where Mordred had been, and Mordred moved back far enough to give us private speech.
“I have spoken with Agravaine,” he said, coming directly to the point. “I have told him that had I been here, his punishment would have been harsher, for the King cannot ever give the appearance of favoring his relations and still be considered just. I would have had him dismissed from my service, as well. There is no honor in hating women.”
“How did he take this?”
“Oh,” Arthur said, his mouth twisting in a grim smile, “he did not like it. But there was nothing he could say. I wanted to make him feel he had got off lightly, but he is determined to carry a grievance against Lancelot.” He paused. “Is the maid still here? I would have a word with her.”
I took his hand and kissed it fervently. “Oh, my lord, I bless you for this. Yes, she is here. As soon as the swelling has subsided, she will send for her father and go home. The physicians say she may not travel yet.”
“The poor girl,” he said sadly. “I will send her with a royal escort when the time comes. I will do her all the honor I can, seeing he is my nephew, and my responsibility.”
“Thank you, my gracious lord. It will mean much to her. It means much to me.”
He slid an arm about my waist, pulling me closer. “I know not what it is in their blood, that makes them treat women so. Perhaps they always hated Morgause and did not know it. I am thankful that Lancelot dealt with Agravaine so fairly. Even so . . .” He let it drift.
“Mordred and I have been talking about the Saxons,” I said, to change the direction of his thoughts. “Are you pleased with the mission, or do you think it was a mistake to go?”
“Oh, I am well satisfied. They fear us still; they know our power. My demands are reasonable. They will not break the peace.” He turned and beckoned Mordred forward to join us. “It will take time, but we will get their cooperation in a defense treaty.”
He talked for some while about the journey, including Mordred in the conversation, but it became slowly clear to me that he was keeping something back; that he was speaking optimistically for his son’s sake, or for mine, but hiding something dark behind his words. When at last Mordred begged to be excused, Arthur embraced him and let him go. I watched him out of earshot and turned immediately to the King.
“And now, my lord,” I said, laying a hand on him arm to prevent his going, “what is amiss? Tell me your true thoughts. Is there war ahead?”
He looked startled and then chagrined. “You would make life easier for me, Gwen, if you did not know me so well.”
But I would not be diverted. “Tell me, Arthur. I can see in your face, you do not believe we can ever deal with Saxons.”
He frowned and began his steady pacing, hands clasped behind his back. “All right, then. You are right. I do not trust them. As long as I live, they will be our buffer. They have no choice in that. But what you and Mordred dream of, that they should become part of us one day, whether through trade or any other means—no, this I do not believe will happen.”
“Why not?”
“They are savages,” he said shortly. “Cerdic is a gentleman by their standards, yet you would certainly call him a savage. The differences between us are too great. What you dream of will take more time than we have.” He spoke fiercely and with conviction. �
�Cerdic talked of tribes in the far eastern lands, more primitive and savage than even the Saxons. They are on the move. They are leaving their grasslands and crossing the mountains in the hope of plunder. They destroy everything in their path. These are the people who are pushing the Saxons out of their homeland, who are pushing the Burgundians westward and northward, who are pushing the Franks. Eventually, we, too, will be pushed. While I live, if Merlin is to be believed, we can hold them.” He stopped suddenly and turned to me. His eyes were dark. “But after I am gone, will we be strong enough to stop them? They will come across the border like the storm tide over a sea wall.”
“Then you must live, my lord! Live until we have civilized the Saxons!”
He laughed, but there was no mirth in it. “Then must I live five hundred years!” He shook his head. “No, Guinevere. They will never be like us. We are so far beyond them, you would find it difficult to imagine. When they come across the border, they will kill everyone in their path. They know not mercy, nor honor, as we see it. They will kill for the sheer joy of taking life. Their axes thirst for blood. It will not be like the Romans. The Saxons will destroy us, or drive us into the hills and starve us. Either way, we will be gone. They are our fate.”
“My lord Arthur!” I cried, falling to the ground in tears, wringing my hands. “Oh, no! God would not allow such things to happen! All this that you have built cannot go for naught! You have made Britain! We were tribes ourselves, and now we are a nation! Please do not think we ever could go back! What has happened to you to drive you to such black thoughts?”
He came to me, raised me gently, and held me close. “I’m so sorry, Guinevere. Do forgive me. It was thoughtless of me to distress you so.”
“No, my lord, I asked for your true thoughts. If these are they—I brought them upon myself, and I thank you for your honesty. But do you really think these things?”
He shrugged and kissed the tears from my face. “Sometimes. I had bad dreams there. Perhaps it was the unaccustomed food.”
“Can we speak with Niniane? Could she not dispel these fears?”
“I have asked her this before. She sees no further than my death.” I shuddered, and he pressed me closer. “Let it be, Gwen. If it comes, it comes. In the meantime, we will do what we can to avert it. That is why I went, after all. In case there is some possibility of preventing annihilation.”
“Is that why you went, my lord? I cannot believe that such a primitive people could destroy a civilized land. If we are so far advanced, how can they conquer us?”
“The example lies everywhere before us,” he replied. “Even Rome herself is not immune, if some of the strange tales that have reached this shore are true. When men rise above the level of killing for joy, like Bedwyr, Lancelot, myself—we leave ourselves vulnerable to those who still have savage instincts, like Agravaine, Gaheris, Gawaine.”
“You must be stronger than they.”
“Yes. As long as we are stronger, we shall hold them.” He said no more, and my thoughts cowered before the vision of Britain without Arthur. But he was in his prime—surely, we could look ahead to thirty or more years of peace! And who knew what the Saxons would be like in thirty years?
“Tell me of Gawaine,” I said, to change the subject. “Does he back a treaty with the Saxons? Does he feel his brother unjustly punished?”
Arthur sighed and, taking my arm, began walking. “For once, Gawaine is holding his own counsel. I have told him clearly what I expect from him. I fear he thinks Agravaine’s punishment too severe—if he is willing to forgive Gaheris the killing of their mother, he is not likely to see a mere beating as much of a crime, although it was base. But I have told him I abhor it and, as his King and uncle, will hold Agravaine to Lancelot’s judgment. If Gawaine wants to rule in Orkney, he will see things my way or keep quiet. It is as much as his future is worth to oppose Lancelot. In anything.” His voice was cold.
“It seems,” I said slowly, “that Gawaine is learning some hard lessons rather fast.”
“Let us hope it makes a man of him.” He came to a halt and, drawing a deep breath, took both my hands and faced me. “Oh, yes, and Gwen”—he hesitated for a fraction—“I am to let you know that Lancelot leaves for Lanascol tomorrow.”
This was news to me, and I am afraid my face gave that away. “But why, my lord? He is not in danger?”
Arthur smiled. “When did he ever turn his face from danger? No, he asked permission to go home to see his wife’s grave. He will be back before winter and will bring his eldest son with him.” The laughter lines deepened at the corners of his eyes. “And you will have another boy to raise.”
“Oh, Arthur, that would be wonderful, if Lancelot is willing.” But I was thinking, Why had he not told me this himself? Why send Arthur? Then Arthur lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it, and held it against his smooth, shaved cheek. His eyes were deep with some great grief.
“What is it, Arthur?” I whispered. “Does he not have your blessing?”
He started three times to speak, but could not bring himself to it. I began to fear he had some dreadful news to tell me.
“Arthur, what is it? Will aught happen to him while he is away? Has Niniane seen anything?”
“No,” he said gently, “not that. Be easy, Gwen.”
“What then?”
He drew a deep breath and spoke. “You both have heard the rumors. I want you to know that it is my wish that he bring his son to Camelot, and that you and Lancelot raise him together. It would give you both great joy to be as parents to the boy. I would like to see it. He has had so little joy in his life.”
I dared not breathe. He had himself broached the forbidden subject! While he struggled to find the words, I held hard to his hand.
“What joy he has found, Gwen, he has found with you. I bless you for that.”
“Arthur!”
“I know it cannot be helped. But it grieves me that I should be the cause of his suffering. His is such a noble heart!”
“My dearest lord!” I cried, blinking back tears and taking him in my arms. “It is not your fault! He loves you better than his own self, and his joy is to serve you!” I felt how he trembled, and I laid my head against his chest.
“There is nothing to be done. I will not give you up,” he said.
“I would not go.”
“It is God’s will, I suppose. But it is cruel. I would ease his pain by any means in my power. But you are the means, Gwen.”
I raised my face to his. “My sweet lord, I will with pleasure raise his son, if he wills. But it is because of you that he brings him here. You are the lodestone that draws us all to your side. Arthur, do not pretend it is me! We are none of us anything without you.”
He kissed me with sudden feeling, right there in the garden, and I heard the quick, soft steps and gentle rustling of courtiers, knights, and servants fading swiftly into the castle depths, leaving the King alone.
43 THE HEIR
From the first, Galahad foiled the King’s plans. Although the boy was an eager student of Bedwyr and Valerius, he would learn nothing from me. He was always polite, at times overly so, but his heart was closed to me. He was only five years old when he first came to Camelot, yet already Elaine had trained his thoughts against me. And against Lancelot. I was shocked to find that so young a lad disliked his father. His boyhood hero had been his uncle Galahantyn, whom he worshipped. As time went by, and Galahantyn spent more time in Lanascol, holding Lancelot’s lands and caring for his younger sons, this worship Galahad transferred to Arthur. Bedwyr encouraged this, hoping that as he grew older, and saw how Arthur loved Lancelot, he might in time be softened toward him. But this did not happen.
Galahad was a strange boy. Like Mordred, he was quiet and held his tongue. One never caught him in a hasty speech or careless act. Even at five, he was serious and thoughtful. But while Mordred loved life and could laugh at himself, Galahad rarely smiled and had no sense of humor. When he was not at lessons, or learning
riding or swordplay, he was in the chapel praying. He thirsted for a glory unattainable even in Arthur’s Kingdom.
He had a great disdain for beauty, whether in man or woman; he thought it a temptation to do evil. This was odd, for he himself promised to outdo both his father and uncle in physical beauty. He preferred plain clothing, wore no decoration, and shunned all forms of ceremonial trappings. Had he been ugly, it would have pleased him better. He sought holiness in squalor, Lancelot said. It was the only unkind thing I ever heard him say of his son. But it was true. I sometimes wondered if his young life was a burden to him, the way he bore it so solemnly.
As time went by, I saw clearly that his dislike of me and his disapproval of his father were grounded in our love for one another. This was perfectly understandable. If the boy had loved his mother dearly, he must have seen that his father did not. And when he came to Camelot, he must have discovered, as everyone else had, it was I who had Lancelot’s heart. Naturally, then, he despised me. I tried every way I could think of to reach him and make him think better of me, but to no avail. Lancelot and I both grieved for him. Had he been blessed with a more loving, open nature, he might have given us such joy. But he was not that kind of child.
His censure of us hurt his father deeply and put a strain upon the affection between us. Lancelot was careful never to be with me alone, and when we were with others he forebore to touch me. Even the ceremonial kiss of greeting he denied himself, when his son was watching. Since we were no longer easy with one another, we began to long for each other more and miss the companionship we had shared for so many years. Some nights I could not sleep, wishing only for the touch of his hand in mine. Thus, on the rare occasions when circumstance threw us together unobserved, and this long smoldering passion found vent, we were driven close to the edges of control and left quaking with fear at the strength of our feelings. I began to see how wise Arthur had been to let us be; with freedom, this other long love had not endangered that I felt for the King. But now, this maddening pattern of long restraint and brief, fierce release looked to drive us both toward some disastrous conclusion.
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