Confused grumbling followed this outburst, and Queen Alyse laughed under her breath. “At least the child was paying attention.”
“This is beside the point,” Princess Morgan interjected. “We are not here for a history lesson. This Old One is a murderer. You have all heard the ward of Gwynedd confess it. Not only have the king and queen of Gwynedd not punished him for this egregious act, they have actually rewarded him for it! They have taken him into their service. It’s an outrage!”
Shouts of approval rang out above a hum of mutters.
Queen Alyse rose from her bench. “Guinevere, my dear, your courage is commendable, but it is my turn now. Ailsa, help her down.”
Guinevere looked at her anxiously. “But—”
“Yes, I know,” the queen said softly. “The battle is not yet won. You have done marvelously. You have driven a wedge into their flank, but it needs a more experienced hand to lead home the charge. Let me speak to them.”
Guinevere stepped down from the bench and sagged into Ailsa’s arms. All at once, she was more tired than she had ever been in her life.
“Besides,” added Queen Alyse, “Morgan has publicly attacked me, and I should like to have my revenge.”
“How?” Guinevere whispered.
“You have given them the generalities; I shall give them the particulars. They shall hear exactly how Llyr saved Elaine’s life, and how the Long Eyes helped me save Gwynedd.” She turned to her daughter. “Elaine, my dear, go back to the tent with Grannic, Ailsa, and Gwen. It will be easier for you not to hear the rest. I shall summon a guard to escort you.”
“Send Prince Trevor,” Guinevere suggested, meeting the queen’s eye.
Queen Alyse smiled. “An excellent idea.” She signaled Trevor, who rose and made his way toward them with the help of Merlin’s walking sticks.
Guinevere watched him come. In spite of the queen’s reassurance, she was worried. Her aunt might be able to win over the crowd, but words alone could not defeat Princess Morgan. And it was Princess Morgan who posed the greatest threat. If she failed to have Llyr convicted at the hearing, she would try more subtle means to destroy him. Something must be done to stop her.
Guinevere could think of only one thing to do. While Princess Morgan was trapped at the hearing, she must put her desperate plan into action. Trevor would keep Elaine occupied, and Ailsa and Grannic would obey orders. When she took the biggest gamble of her life, she would have to do it alone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Trespass
Guinevere made for the woods behind the horse lines. She had changed into her riding clothes and tucked her braided hair under Trevor’s borrowed cap. She hoped to pass for one of the young men trudging home late from the marshes, a dead goose slung over his shoulder. She had taken one of Gwarth’s leftovers from yesterday’s catch for the purpose.
It had not been easy to keep Trevor and Elaine from coming with her, but Trevor was hampered by his need for walking sticks, and common courtesy demanded that Elaine stay with him. Ailsa, pale with anxiety, had known from the beginning that it was useless to argue. “Wherever you’re going, don’t take needless chances,” she had begged.
Once in the woods, Guinevere made her way to the little coppice of rowan trees behind Princess Morgan’s tent. She paused beside the largest trunk to look around. There was no one in sight. Those few guards not at the hearing had taken up stations at the front of their respective tents in order to hear as much as they could of the big event. This left the perimeter of the encampment unguarded. The kings would be furious if they knew, but it was a lucky chance for her. No one stood between her and the back entrance to Princess Morgan’s tent.
She lowered the goose to the ground and pulled her cloak tighter around her. She was about to break a law. Once she crossed the threshold of that tent, she would be guilty of trespass. If she was caught, there could be no going back. Uttering silent prayers to every god she knew, she walked out of the woods across open ground, unfastened the ties that bound the tent flaps closed, and slipped inside.
Dark encased her. She knew from the dank, earthy odor that this was Morgan’s stillroom, a place of gloom and mysteries; a place, she was sure, that never knew a fire or a larger light than the flame of a single candle. There was not even candlelight now. She waited in perfect silence for her eyes to adjust to the impenetrable dark. No sounds came through the heavy cloth covering the doorway, no mutter of voices, no shuffle of feet, no swish of skirts. The small, close chamber seemed a world unto itself, cut off from normality of every kind.
A deep fear rose within Guinevere, less a fear of being caught than a rising terror of the place itself. She could barely control the urge to flee. Clenching her fists, she forced herself to concentrate on the lesser fear, the sane fear. Where was Marcia? She had not seen her at the hearing. Had she been left behind to guard the wedding gifts? She might be resting … or on patrol. If she heard anything in the still-room, would she come in herself, or would she call the guards?
Days seemed to pass and still Guinevere could see nothing. The darkness around her refused to let her through. Tentatively, she put out a hand and was reassured to feel the hard edge of a table beside her. The darkness might not be a normal darkness, but the table was real enough. Was it the table that held the witch’s black bowl? It was. Her hands slid lightly across the tabletop and met a round obstacle of hard, cold stone. Recoiling, she searched the shelf above, moving her fingers slowly and carefully among the little bags and jars she remembered seeing there. The bags contained the expected herbs and powders and were soft to the touch, and the jars, when shaken exceedingly gently, sloshed a bit but did not rattle.
She turned to the next shelf, but not slowly enough. Her elbow bumped something solid, and a moment later something thudded to the earthen floor. It was not a loud sound, but after the stillroom silence it was deafening. Guinevere froze, holding her breath. Nothing happened. No one came to investigate. In the grip of stillness, black terror began to rise again inside her. Resolutely, she bent to the floor and felt for the fallen object. A brass candlestick with the nub of a candle still in place! Her longing for light was terrible, but she dared not risk the noise of a flint strike even if she could find the flint. She replaced the candlestick carefully on the table and returned to the second shelf.
There were no containers on this shelf, only various kinds of objects. She was reminded of the blindfold game she and Elaine used to play, touch-and-guess, where one girl would blindfold the other and then place an object in her hand. The blindfolded girl had to guess by touch alone what the object was before her opponent could count to fifty. They had not been kind to each other. Guinevere remembered holding all sorts of loathsome creatures and things—slimes, spiderwebs, and other revolting oddities—but she never remembered such a horror of anticipation as this.
With a racing heart, she fingered the unknowns waiting on the shelf. In each one she imagined a poisoned barb; a slithering skin; a prickling of tiny, running legs or a pair of multifaceted eyes that were not as blind to her as she was to them. When the curtain moved behind her and light stabbed into the room, she jumped and screamed.
“Who’s there!” a sharp voice demanded. “Come out at once!”
Guinevere clapped a hand to her mouth and backed against the table.
Marcia pulled the curtain open and thrust her candle forward. “Who in heaven’s name are you, and what do you want? Are you ill, boy? You look pale enough. Who sent you?”
Tears sprang to Guinevere’s eyes. “No one sent me. I—I came on my own.”
“What for?”
“Oh, Marcia, I meant no harm, you must believe me!”
“You know my name, do you? I don’t know yours.”
Trembling, Guinevere pulled off Trevor’s cap.
“Well, I never … You came here once with Elaine of Gwynedd, didn’t you? Aren’t you Queen Alyse’s ward?”
Guinevere bowed her head. “Guinevere of Northgallis.”
“No, I … just came away.”
Marcia darted a hasty glance about the stillroom as if she half expected to see monsters in the shadows. She shuddered, beckoning Guinevere forward. “Come out of this nasty place and follow me.”
Obediently, Guinevere trailed behind her into a small space partially set off from Morgan’s bedchamber. It held a stool, a pallet, and an old oak chest. The small brazier in the corner warmed the tiny space and gave it a cozy feel. Marcia placed her candle on the chest and pointed to the stool. Guinevere sat down. Her knees shook, and her cloak seemed to hold no warmth at all.
“Shouldn’t wonder if you were frightened half to death,” Marcia muttered, stirring the coals to life. “Not even my lady goes into that stillroom without a light.” She pushed a cup of warmed wine into Guinevere’s hand. “Drink what’s left. It will help.”
“Thank you,” Guinevere whispered, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. “You’re very kind.”
Beside the candle Guinevere saw folded needlework, hastily set aside. This was where Marcia must have been sitting and working moments before. No wonder she had heard the small sound of the candlestick falling. She had been only an arm’s length away, on the other side of the tent cloth.
Gradually, as the wine warmed her from within, Guinevere’s shaking ceased and she was able to meet Marcia’s eyes. “Are you going to tell Princess Morgan that you found me in her stillroom?”
“Of course. It’s my duty. What were you looking for? The truth, now.”
Guinevere gazed down at her lap. “I came to steal a red stone, a jewel that Princess Morgan took from the sheath of Lord Riall’s dagger. I need it to save the life of my friend.”
Marcia sucked in her breath and, as Guinevere looked up, made the sign against enchantment. “How—how—?”
“You’ve seen it?” Guinevere breathed. “Is it here? Oh, please, God, let it be here!”
Marcia’s lips moved stiffly. “How can you—how can you possibly know? Are you a witch, too? Is that why she’s taken against you?”
Guinevere swallowed in a dry throat. So Elaine had been right about Princess Morgan’s animosity. “No, I’m not a witch. I saw the dagger before Lord Riall gave it to Princess Morgan, and it had its jewel then. I saw it next when Sir Bedwyr dug it up, and the jewel was gone.”
Marcia looked puzzled. “Dug it up?”
“Didn’t you know Sir Bedwyr found it buried in the forest?”
Marcia shook her head. “Lord Riall’s dagger? Such an unusual weapon. The creature must have buried it to hide it.”
Guinevere stiffened. “He isn’t a creature. Llyr is my friend. And he doesn’t steal.”
Marcia’s eyes widened. “The hillman who’s been spying on us all is your friend? How could he be?”
Briefly, Guinevere explained to Marcia what she hoped Queen Alyse was at that moment explaining to the gathering in more detail: how she had met Llyr and the crucial role he had played in all their lives last spring. Marcia’s astonishment was unfeigned.
“But if he is such a valued member of King Pellinore’s household, why is he living in the woods? Do the other men not want him in their tent?”
“It has nothing to do with the other men. Llyr is not a member of the household. He’s free to go where he wills. But Old Ones don’t like living so close to us. If they can’t live in a cave in the hills, they prefer the forest. They’re skilled at moving about unseen in the forest. A canopy of leaves is all the protection they need.”
“It’s difficult to credit,” Marcia said. “My lady has such a horror of Old Ones, as you call them. I assumed they were all of them rogues.”
“Are there no Old Ones in Cornwall, then?”
Marcia shook her head. “There are some strange creatures still surviving in the forest of Morois. We call them ogres. There are plenty of tales about them, but I don’t know anyone who’s actually seen one.”
Guinevere hesitated. “You’ve never seen one yourself? Or an Old One, either?”
“Oh, no.”
“At the hearing, Sir Bedwyr told everyone that you were the one who saw the supposed thief and identified him as an Old One. He could have heard that only from Princess Morgan. That’s why she accused Llyr by name. That’s why I’m here.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
A Kind Heart
Marcia blanched. She rose from the chest and, turning her back, began to stoke the fire. “I never was very good at deception.”
“Do you mean that you didn’t see an Old One? Or that you didn’t see a thief?”
Marcia sighed and put down the poker. Her thin, anxious face was seamed with tiny lines, and her eyes were dark with sadness. “Both. You see, my lady told me that the dagger had been stolen and that she had seen the thief, but that Sir Bedwyr would not believe her. She begged for my help. I agreed to say that I had also seen him. She was so sure, you see, and I was afraid of hillmen.”
“Why did she think Sir Bedwyr would not believe her?”
Marcia smiled bitterly. “Because he’s such a good friend of King Arthur’s. Don’t look so surprised, my dear. It’s not new. Morgan has always resented Arthur. For being male, for being firstborn, for being someone singled out by prophecy for greatness. For being who he is. I’m afraid she can’t help it. Sometimes I think if they had been raised together, like normal children, she might like him better now. She grew up as the only royal child, you see. She knew she had a brother, but he wasn’t there, and you know what they say: out of sight, out of mind. Ygraine rarely spoke of him, and never before Morgan. We didn’t know where he was or what he was doing, only that he was alive and safe. Ygraine did not see him again until King Uther’s funeral. Morgan can’t be blamed for thinking he didn’t count. That was a mistake we all made, until Caer Eden.” Light appeared through the tent cloth from Princess Morgan’s bedchamber, and Marcia jumped to her feet. Signaling Guinevere to stay silent, she hurried away. Guinevere heard voices in low conversation, but could not distinguish what they said.
“That was only Ralf, her page,” said Marcia upon her return. “Lighting the lamps. It will be dusk soon.”
“The hearing will be over,” Guinevere said, rising quickly.
Marcia waved her back to her seat. “Ralf will give us warning of Morgan’s coming. He says no one has yet returned. It must still be going on.” She settled herself on the chest. “Now, where was I?”
Guinevere sank reluctantly to the stool. It crossed her mind that Marcia was trying to keep her there, but she couldn’t guess why. Perhaps it was a ploy to make her face Morgan’s wrath on her own ground. Or to distract Guinevere from the ruby she had come to steal. She could not leave without it, and she dared not force the issue. All Marcia had to do to ensure her disgrace was to call a guard.
“At the battle of Caer Eden.”
Marcia sighed, her gaze far away. “Ah, yes. I remember. When Uther died and Arthur appeared from nowhere to take up his mantle. He was only fourteen, but no longer a boy. How long ago it seems now, when the children were born. I was the one who carried the infant Arthur from my lady’s bed, three days old, and gave him to Merlin the Enchanter. How I hated to do it! How my lady wept!”
“Then it’s true she gave him up?” Against her will, Guinevere found herself fascinated by this insight into the tales that clung to Arthur, tales that grew more fabulous every year until they verged on legend. But Marcia had been there. She had seen it happen.
“Uther persuaded her. She could never deny him anything. Those two shared a passion like none other I’ve ever seen. For Uther, my lady Ygraine relinquished her firstborn son.”
“Why didn’t King Uther want him?”
Marcia’s lips tightened. “King Uther had a guilty conscience. At his crowning, with all his nobles and their wives in attendance, Uther fell headlong in love with my lady Ygraine, who had then been married about eighteen months to old Gorlois of Cornwall. Old he might have been, but
he wasn’t blind. As soon as the ceremonies were over, he whisked Ygraine back to Tintagel and waited five leagues north with an armed force for the King’s approach. For he knew Uther would come for her. It was only the fear of open scandal that had held him in check at court.”
Marcia paused, eyes shining. “He was a man of rare passion, was Uther Pendragon. And Ygraine shared it…. Had it been otherwise, the nascent kingdom Ambrosius had fought for might well have split apart. As it was, the rift with Cornwall posed a danger Uther could not ignore. With Gorlois’s troops blocking the road to Tintagel, Uther’s men took up their battle stations late one afternoon and prepared to fight their way through, come morning. But the High King left his troops that night and, with Merlin’s help, sneaked into Tintagel disguised as Gorlois. I let him in myself at the postern gate and ushered him past the guards. I took him up the back way and into my lady’s chamber.”
Again she paused, amusement lighting her face. “Let it not be said that Ygraine, too, was deceived. Before the king took her to Uther’s crowning, she had never been out of Cornwall. She lost her heart to Uther the moment he smiled at her.” She laughed lightly. “She welcomed him with outstretched arms that night in Tintagel, and showered me with gifts and kisses the next day, she was so happy—until a messenger arrived with the news that the king, her husband, was dead. He had attacked the King’s forces at midnight and been slain in the skirmish. When King Uther married my lady three months later—after the shortest possible mourning—she was three months gone with the King’s child. Tongues began to wag. It mattered nothing to her, but King Uther was uneasy about the talk. He was afraid that if the child was a boy, he would never be accepted as a legitimate heir. He might even be taken for old Gorlois’s son. Yes, Uther’s conscience bothered him, as well it should, seeing that the king had been among his staunchest allies.
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