Queen of Camelot

by Nancy McKenzie

  “Willing! Oh, yes, indeed I am willing! God knows I have had my fill of such responsibility; how he has borne it all these years, I cannot guess. I have aged a decade since his going!”

  “Well,” Mordred said, grinning, “you do not look it. You look but twenty, if you look a day.”

  I squeezed his hand, glad to feel laughter again. “Thank you, my lord. I will believe every word you tell me from now on!”

  “I must send a report to Arthur tonight, for he is beside himself with worry. Only half his mind will be on Rome until he knows that you are safe.”

  “And how does my lord?” I asked him anxiously. “How do they treat him? Is he honored? Is his health good? Are they ready?”

  “He is well and he is honored,” Mordred said with pride. “He is a King among kings. He has become the arbiter of all their disputes; their battle leader; their judge. The Franks have a name for him: Riothamus. Beloved judge. It began among their soldiers, when he settled some impossible dispute to all their liking. They know his fairness now. His own troops have the hardest chores; it is seen he favors no one.”

  Kay and Ferron asked about the Romans and their dispositions. Mordred told them what he knew, although clearly he had left them before their final plans were set. Hiberius demanded the tribute by the first of June. The Franks and Britons proposed to send a party to treat with him and negotiate the demand; also, to get a look at his numbers and their equipment. Mordred was to have been the leader of this party, until my letter changed Arthur’s plans.

  “Who went in your stead?” Kay asked. “Bedwyr?”

  “No,” Mordred said slowly, frowning, “he was the obvious choice, of course. But Arthur wanted someone of royal blood. He sent Gawaine.”

  “Gawaine?” I gasped. “Send a hothead to negotiate with Romans? Is he mad?”

  Mordred shifted and schooled his face. “He believes Gawaine has steadied and matured. He gave, as evidence for this, his treatment of Lancelot.”

  “What of Lancelot?” I whispered in panic. “Arthur said Gawaine had promised not to harm him!”

  “So he has, my lady. That is what I mean—”

  “He has forgiven him for Gareth?”

  “No,” Mordred said patiently, “but he has stood before Lancelot and promised not to kill him while they are both in the High King’s service.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked blankly.

  “It means Lancelot is safe while Arthur lives. To do him honor for that promise, the King sent him with the party to the Romans.”

  “But surely,” I protested, “Gawaine could see that if he did not promise, Arthur could not keep him in Brittany!”

  Mordred shrugged. “If he errs,” he said quietly, “it is on the side of mercy.”

  I rose, clasping my hands in distress. “He knows himself he has always been blind to Morgause’s wiles and has never seen her sons for what they are!” I gasped as I realized what I had said. “I beg your pardon, Mordred!”

  He shook his head. “I do not,” Mordred said solemnly, “think of myself as Morgause’s son. No offense is taken.”

  I reached out a hand to him. “Thank you, Mordred. You are Arthur’s son, indeed.” He touched his lips to my fingers.

  “How long have you been gone, Sir Mordred?” Ferron asked. “When was this mission to the Romans? Who else was in the party?”

  “I have been traveling six days. They left soon after I did. They should have come to some conclusion by now.” He named the knights who had accompanied Gawaine: Bedwyr and Gereint from Britain, Hoel’s two sons, Galahantyn and Bors from Lanascol, and three of Childebert’s best men. But to Gawaine of Orkney had gone the honor of leading them all.

  I fell silent and worried over this while he talked awhile with Ferron and with Kay. They sent a message of reassurance to Arthur and made plans for the disposition of the troops he had brought home. But I fretted over Arthur. What was he about, trusting Gawaine? We should have war, for certain, if anything happened to spark Gawaine’s quick temper.

  At length Kay and Ferron left us, and Mordred and I sat alone in the dark garden, with a single cresset burning by the door.

  “And how is Lancelot?” I asked quietly. When he did not reply, I placed my hand upon his arm and searched his face. “Do not begrudge me this, dear Mordred. Your father does not.”

  He opened his mouth to speak and then changed his mind. “He is well,” he said at last. “He looks about the same. He had not been with the King five minutes before he asked ‘How does the Queen?’ ”

  I smiled. “And I will wager any amount that Arthur answered him without hesitation. Come, Mordred, you are a man now. Have you never loved a woman?” I knew he had two bastard sons; I had heard him speak of them to Arthur. But I did not know who their mother was, or if he loved her.

  He lowered his eyes. “Oh, yes, madam. I have, indeed.”

  “Then you know its power; such a passion cannot be trifled with.”

  “I know it.”

  “A wise man recognizes this and accepts it.”

  He lifted his chin. “Are you asking me to condone it?”

  “No. Just to accept it and forgive me for it.”

  Mordred remained very still. After a long while, he nodded. “Very well. But someday, Guinevere, I will remind you of these words.”

  I took his hand between my own; in shape and size and feel, his hand was so like Arthur’s, even down to the calluses made by his stallion’s reins. “So be it. Now tell me what I want to know— did he seem happy? Was he downcast? Do his sons delight him? Does Galahantyn’s wife care for him well enough? Does he still miss Camelot? How did he greet Galahad?”

  Mordred withdrew his hand and rose. He walked away some distance, staring up at the sky, then returned and stood before me. “Guinevere, I do not see him with your eyes. I cannot tell you everything you want to know. I am sure he would rather be back here in his old place than rule in Lanascol. But he seems content enough. I have not seen his younger sons. He greeted Arthur like a brother. There is nothing changed between them.”

  “Ahhhh. I am glad of that. And Galahad?”

  Mordred began to pace back and forth. He had his father’s stride.

  “I would rather you did not ask me,” he said finally.

  “Why?” I cried. “What has happened?”

  “They have had a falling out. It is not serious—I mean, not to Britain. For Arthur’s sake, they have put their words behind them and are united in his service. But it was a close thing.”

  “Oh, Mordred, you distress me! How did this come about?”

  “Must you ask me? Really, you would rather not know.”

  I rose, and he stopped his pacing to face me. “Mordred. You have gone too far not to go on. If you will not tell me, I must ask Arthur. Which of you can tell me with less distress?”

  “I can,” he said at once, and handed me back into my seat. “Very well, then. You know that Galahad has commissioned himself the High King’s personal guard, ever since he first accompanied the King as a page, years ago? Well, he sleeps outside his tent at night—yes, right outside on the very ground, whatever the weather. He rejoices in personal discomfort. He follows the King everywhere; Arthur can go nowhere without him. How he bears it, I don’t know. I could not.”

  “Does he not fight for the King? I thought he was skilled as a swordsman.”

  “Oh, yes, very skilled. He has Lancelot’s quickness. But—I know this is hard to remember, because he is so tall and solemn—he is only fourteen and not old enough for the army. Even if he were”—and I heard a smile in his voice—“I don’t know a single commander who would want him in his company. No one is good enough for Galahad, and he lets everyone know it.”

  “Mordred,” I said suddenly, “do not take him lightly. I believe he is dangerous, and he bears you no love.”

  “I know that,” he said. “And I know why. Don’t worry. I watch him.”

  “He is feared by many, because he speaks with God.�
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  “Or he says he does,” Mordred replied with a smile. “That’s a claim that cannot be disproved, and so has no value. Don’t distress yourself with fear about Galahad; his vision is so single, he is blind to everything outside it. I have a plan for him. Arthur is going to send him on a quest.”

  “A quest for what?”

  “For the grail and spear that lie hidden somewhere in Wales. The rest of Maximus’ treasure, that his captain brought home to his wife. Excalibur she could not bear to keep, believing it the cause of her husband’s death, and so sent it north to Caer Eden with the captain, but the grail and spear she kept. No doubt she buried them somewhere. We will tell Galahad it is holy and send him after the grail.”

  “Mordred,” I whispered, shaken, “you are blaspheming!”

  “No, my lady,” he said gently. “I would not mock your Christian God. Merlin himself thought them sacred, saying they lay protected by the god, away from the eyes of men. And he should know.” But then he smiled. “Galahad will dedicate his life to this if he thinks that only he is pure enough in heart to find it. It is a fit punishment for hubris, is it not?”

  But I shivered with foreboding. “Only God punishes hubris.”

  “And so it will be. If his God loves him, he may find this treasure. I will not stand in his way. Only the lady Niniane knows where it is.” He grinned. “And because she is a pagan, he will never ask her.”

  “Has Arthur agreed to this plan? It does not sound like him.”

  Mordred sobered instantly. “He was against it at first, but after what happened with Lancelot, he has changed his mind.”

  “Well, now you must tell me! Clearly, this is of importance. Tell me now.”

  He came reluctantly and sat beside me. “Remember that you asked twice for this.”

  “Go on, Mordred.”

  “When we first came across to Kerrec, we found old King Hoel in a terrible fury. His niece had been kidnapped by outlaws in the Perilous Forest. She was sixteen and was on her way home with her nurse and an escort of Hoel’s men after a visit to Kerrec. She never arrived. Her father sent a message to Hoel asking what had become of his daughter, and Hoel was beside himself with rage. Arthur suggested that he and Lancelot gather a small force and find the girl, while they waited for the rest of the army to come across the Narrow Sea. You can imagine how readily Hoel assented to this offer!”

  “With such powerful men for adversaries, I am almost sorry for the outlaws.”

  “Ahhh,” Mordred said sadly, “you will not be. Only a handful of us went—Arthur, Lancelot, Bedwyr, Galahantyn, Gereint, Bors, and myself. And Galahad.”

  “Why did he go, if so many others did not?”

  “You may find this difficult to credit, but it is like him. No one asked him to go. He just came. He showed up, mounted and ready, at the King’s side as we set off, and because he was not in the army, Arthur felt sorry for him and let him come. We traveled the route the girl had taken and found clear signs of an ambush. These outlaws were not clever men, they left a trail a child could follow. We came to a lake, and in the center was an island. From the island came the sound of weeping.”

  I looked down in sorrow, remembering Melwas, a cold knot in my stomach. I had thought that terror was behind me, after all these years.

  There was but one boat beached on the shore. As Mordred, the Orkney man, was the only seaman, he rowed them all across. When they came ashore they found the old nurse, dressed in torn scraps of clothing, covered with bleeding scratches and dirt and sand.

  The tale the woman told horrified them all. Five outlaws had ambushed them and slaughtered their escort. The women were dragged to this place and raped by all five outlaws. The princess Elen had not lasted past the second day; they had stripped her and thrown her into a shallow pit and burned her bloodstained clothes. The old nurse was nearly out of her wits with terror; her age had been no protection. When the monsters had finally gone, the day before, she had used what remained of her strength to drag rocks and dirt over the pit to bury the poor girl. In Arthur’s arms, the poor old woman died. They had buried them both well and placed crosses over the graves and said prayers over them.

  Then they had gone in search of the murderers. The outlaws had divided, fearing pursuit, so the party divided as well, following the various trails. Arthur and Mordred had gone together, Bedwyr with Gereint, Galahantyn with Bors, and Lancelot had collared Galahad and led him away from the King. They each found their man and killed him. But Lancelot and Galahadhad found the last two together.

  “When we gathered at the appointed meeting place,” Mordred said slowly, staring hard at the garden walk, “Galahad’s face was bruised and swollen, his lips were cut and crusted with blood, and he had lost two teeth. Everyone assumed he had been injured in the fight and so said nothing. But I noted that Lancelot was stiff with fury and that Galahad glowed with the joy of righteous suffering. He held his head high and was too proud to reply to anyone’s solicitous remarks. When we got to Kerrec, neither father nor son could speak a word to each other; after ten days of this, Arthur finally summoned them to a meeting, and so discovered what had happened.”

  He stopped suddenly and passed his hand across his brow in a gesture so familiar I felt a stab of acute loneliness.

  “Were you in the room?” I asked softly.

  In the dark I saw his eyes flash. “At Arthur’s request.” He sighed. “Well, delaying the tale makes it no easier to tell. Here is what happened. They met the two outlaws; one of them, an old soldier gone to seed, drew his sword; the other, half his age and better armed, ran. Lancelot went in pursuit of the second and left Galahad to dispatch the first. When Lancelot had killed his man, he heard screams of terror coming from the spot where he had left Galahad. Racing back to rescue his son, he found—he found Galahad standing above the ruffian, unharmed, and with a bloody sword.” Mordred stopped again. My hands twisted in my lap and I swallowed. My dear Lancelot!

  “What had he done?” I whispered.

  Mordred shrugged. “He had stripped the man and cut off his genitals and thrown them to the kites.”

  I pressed my fist against my mouth. Mordred went on in a flat voice devoid of feeling. “Galahad was raving. He would not kill the man, but shouted verses from the Scriptures about an eye for an eye, or some such thing. The outlaw, who had been a soldier once, begged Lancelot for death. Lancelot dispatched him with a stroke and gave him peace. But then—Galahad began shouting about the whore of Babylon, and the defilement of women—the rape had turned his wits, Guinevere, you must believe this. He had been unable to take his eyes from the naked body of the princess when we found her. It is time he lay with a woman.” He paused and then said slowly, “The filth that came from his mouth made Lancelot ill. It was some minutes before he realized that when Galahad spoke of a whore who castrated men and stripped them of virtue, he was referring to you.”

  “To me?”

  Mordred went on as if he had not heard me. “Lancelot strode up to him and struck him across the face with all the strength he had. And told him if your name ever passed his lips again, he would kill him and delight in doing so.”

  “Dear God!” I cried. “Oh, Lancelot! My poor Lancelot!” Weeping, I looked up at Mordred and found him watching me. “He said these things to Arthur? To his face?”

  Mordred nodded. “What was worse, Galahad showed no regret. He admitted all this freely. He did not beg the King for forgiveness, although he knew Arthur has called men out to combat for smaller insults than that.”

  “Indeed!”

  “Clearly the boy is mad. There is no question now of his ever serving Arthur with his sword. He can’t be trusted. Arthur demanded that father and son swear their peace in his presence, and he will bring Galahad home when he returns, but something must be done with him to keep him out of the way. Hence the quest. That very night, Arthur assented to it.”

  “Oh, Mordred!” I whispered, covering my face with my hands. “How they are both wounded on ac
count of me! In that, Galahad is right—I am a curse to both of them!”

  He put his arm around me and comforted me while I wept upon his shoulder. “If it is indeed a curse, it is one neither of them would live without. You are not to blame for this, Guinevere. The boy has lost his wits.”

  “I am not thinking of Galahad,” I cried. “But of Lancelot, who will never forgive himself for the fact that his own son spoke those words and wounded Arthur. And of Arthur, who will forgive it but will be unable to forget it. They cannot be as brothers now!”

  “Their friendship is deep, and of long standing,” Mordred said quietly. “They have weathered storms as bad as this. And they have a war to fight together. As time passes, these wounds will heal.”

  I fought to collect myself and be calm. What he said was true of Arthur, but I knew well that the wound Galahad had given Lancelot would never heal.

  “Will there be war, then, do you think?”

  “Of a certainty,” he replied.

  I searched his face in the scented darkness. “Are you sorry to have had to come home, and miss it?”

  He faced me, but I could not read his expression.

  “No, indeed,” he said calmly. “I am well content to let Arthur, duke of battles, lead Britain’s troops to war. I would rather be here at home, ruling as regent.”

  A pain struck my chest and I shivered, but I did not know why. I drew the regent’s seal from my pouch and placed it in his hand. “Take this, then, and relieve me of my duties. I am glad it was you he sent, Mordred. Will you keep me informed of all that passes?”

  He stood and raised me, and then bowed low. “I will treat you, dear Guinevere, with all the respect and honor my father pays you. Indeed, I will endeavor to make the difference between us, King and regent, as small as it may be.”

  48 THE KING

  Mordred was an excellent administrator. Under his hand, the Kingdom ran smoothly. He carried all the details of daily routine in his head and knew how to get his plans accomplished. He knew which men had power and how they stood with others and who was jealous or nursed a grievance, and who was loyal. He dealt deftly with the Council; never had their meetings been over so quickly and with so much decided. He seemed to know everything that was happening in every corner of Britain; he daily received and sent messengers, and I believe he had spies, as well. He knew how to treat men and he had their respect, if not their love.