But the terror persisted—just beyond memory, diffuse and ugly and having something to do with my cousin.
“Where’s Maelgwn?” My voice was weak and frightened and as hushed as Lance’s own.
“Posting back to Degannwy. His party almost ran me over at the gate, riding as though the Hounds of the Wild Hunt were on his trail. Must be awfully important to have drawn him out at midnight in such a rush.”
Probably his wife’s death, I thought fuzzily, then wondered how I knew she was dying. Horrible half memories floated up to consciousness; disjointed bits of detail paraded behind my closed eyelids like a grotesque pageant until the physical pain in my body blotted them all out.
I was shivering so hard my teeth chattered. Lance drew his cloak around us both and began rocking gently as I snuggled in against his warmth. For the moment there was safety, there was protection, there was a kindred soul willing to stand beside me and help ward off my pain. The very idea was unbelievable.
“We must leave soon,” he whispered. “My horse is in the copse of birches where I hid when Maelgwn’s entourage thundered over the bridge. There’s a coracle beached by the side of the lodge; we can take it back across the water. Just stay down and quiet under my cape, and let me do the talking if anyone challenges us.”
“But there’s a guard at my door.”
Both mind and vision were blurring in and out of focus, and I wondered how Lance had gotten in without seeing him. More and more things were getting tangled in this weird delirium.
Arthur’s lieutenant swallowed hard and turned his head away.
“Some deaths can’t be helped,” he answered. “I only wish it had been Maelgwn himself.”
The outrage of his tone left no room for reply, so I gritted my teeth and struggled to my feet. My body was stiff and sore, but no bones seemed broken except perhaps the ribs, judging from the constant pain in my chest.
With the Breton’s help I made it slowly to the door.
A torch flickered in its bracket, casting shadows across the main room of a hunting lodge where the walls were hung with horns and antlers and a pair of bearskins flanked the door. I saw the sentry’s feet as we crept past the place where Lance had dragged the body and mentally made the sign against evil.
There was no moon, so we slipped the coracle into the stream without even casting a shadow and made for a clump of rushes beyond sight of the guards on the bridge.
The cold lapping of the water sharpened my senses, though my mind still moved with the languid calm of one in a trance. The undefined nightmare was following us even across the water, and I shied from thinking of it. It was enough to concentrate on escape.
Our luck held and Lance’s horse remained silent as we approached through the trees. Lifting me to the saddle, Lance swung up behind and gathered me in his arms. Within minutes we were well away from the hunting lodge and heading for the Road.
“How did you know where I was?” I asked numbly as we left the trees behind and the horse lengthened out into a long trot beside open fields.
“I was going south to join Arthur, and met Uwain posting back to Penrith with the news. He led me to where the ambush took place; from there the trail of flowers showed where you’d entered the forest, and there were enough in your party to make the tracking easy.”
I nodded, only half understanding what he said, though a shower of hawthorn blossoms seemed to be falling around us. My mind reeled when I tried to make more sense of it, and my teeth began to chatter again.
“There, now, you just relax,” Lance murmured, settling me back against his chest. He started to croon the little melodies one sings to a frightened bairn, and I moved closer in the shelter of his embrace, suddenly very, very tired and glad to give over control to someone else.
The tears began without my even knowing, starting in little runnels that brimmed silently from a pool of sorrow welling up in my heart. Nestling my head against the Breton’s shoulder, I let the flood of anguish pour out while the stars glimmered around us and the horse moved as smoothly as though gliding over glass.
I cried for the loss of my father, of Kaethi, of the child at Stirling and Igraine in the convent; for those I had known and loved, and those, like the guard at the hunting lodge, whom I had cause to fear or hate. There were even tears for Mama, now so long gone, and for the Irish boy who had once carried me through a starlit night himself, oh so many years ago.
Gone and lost, every one, and only I left to mourn them, here in the magical safety of Lancelot’s care. Their faces rose before me, floating in the starlight like the stuff of dandelions wafting on a summer breeze. They lifted and fell while Lance’s voice spun out around us, keeping fear and remembrance beyond that web of sound. Sometimes he sang, but more often he talked as Kevin had talked, proclaiming his love and promising to take me to Tara to be his Queen. Even in my fever state it seemed an odd thing for the Breton to do, and I pulled back slightly, trying to see his expression.
It was then, searching the face that was silhouetted against the light of the stars, that I found my young love had come back to claim me after all.
A rush of sweetness, of hope and surprise and unimaginable joy, flooded through me, wakening the bright high happiness that had been so long asleep. I was a girl again, and free, riding on the clean wild wind of the northern fells even as I was held safe and protected within his arms.
He looked down at me with a depth of tenderness that flowed over me without words. And when the flash of his smile filled the night, my heart leapt in wonder that he, too, cherished the love that had never been spoken aloud. The world began to spin wildly.
***
With his free hand he pressed my head back against his shoulder, kissing my hair and crooning softly. It was a gesture of infinite gentleness and care, and my soul was dazzled with rapture as I drifted out of consciousness for good.
Chapter XXIII
The Convent
The next fortnight was spent wandering in a delirium of terrifying nightmares and poignantly beautiful dreams.
Everyone I knew gathered in that twilight: Mama and Kevin, Brigit and Nonny, and the spinning mistress Vida. There were people from the Court as well; Arthur himself came and went in my delusions, though it was Lance who was at my bedside whenever I awoke.
Once I lay and watched the Breton through half-opened eyes when he didn’t know I had returned to consciousness. He was reading from a scroll, head bent in concentration, dark hair falling forward. He had shaved his beard, revealing again the rich sensual mouth, fascinating in its fullness. After a bit he raised his head to stare off into space, pensive, mysterious, seeking something of the spirit no one else was privy to.
Fragmented memories of riding through the night glimmered at the edge of consciousness, evanescent as any dream, without beginning or end—but I had no idea whether they were scraps of fantasy or based on a real event. Still, somewhere inside me beauty and amazement stirred like a splendid bird that starts in its sleep, then fluffs up its feathers and becomes quiet again. I drifted back to my fever-world with a smile.
Another time I asked where Arthur was, and the lieutenant frowned and said something about a terrible battle. I tried to stay awake—tried to learn where and against whom—but the world dissolved around me, and I was lost in delirium again.
After that the nightmares turned murderous, full of danger and despair. Powerless against the force of them, I fled from scene to scene, stumbling at last upon a broad, flat plain where two full armies stand ready for combat. In the space between them a pair of ghostly Champions struggle, one with sword, the other with spear. Though they stalk each other with deadly determination, neither makes a sound.
Horror crept through me as I watched, unable to sway the outcome, incapable of turning away. Finally, in a spurt of blood and gore, I see the one skewered through the belly by the other’s spear—feel the searing pain, hear the death rattle as blood and entrails and life pour from him. Convulsing in his last throes, his
back arches and he twists slowly into the light. The hope and visions that once filled his eyes now flickered out and his mouth fell open in a silent scream as he reached across the void to me.
“Arthur! Arthur!” I came to shrieking, sitting bolt upright as a cold, clammy sweat enveloped me.
“Shh, shh now…it’s all right…it’s only a bad dream.” Lance was at my bedside immediately and I flung my arms around him, sobbing uncontrollably.
“Arthur’s safe, Gwen. Safe. Do you hear me?…He’s no longer in danger.”
“Then where is he?” I wailed, clinging to the lieutenant. “Why isn’t he here?”
“Because he’s rounding up Saxons in the south.” Lance’s voice was firm and reasonable, giving solid credence to his words. “The battle of Mt. Badon was a crucial victory, and he dares not leave the final cleaning-up half-done.”
It sounded logical enough and the pounding of my heart began to slow. I peered cautiously at the world that was coming into focus beyond the safety of the Breton’s arms.
It was a small, sparsely furnished room, much like Igraine’s at the convent. Sunlight poured through the open window and spilled down the whitewashed walls. Sparrows were rustling in the thatch, and the murmur of doves cooing in a nearby courtyard drifted through the casement. Compared with the shadowy realms I had been wandering in, this was light and life itself.
The presence of the Breton was also reassuring; he would not be here if Arthur was in danger somewhere else. I ran my hand along his arm experimentally, feeling the strength of the muscle, the fine fur of hair. It was very real to the touch and didn’t evaporate the way things in dreams do. With a sigh I leaned my head against his chest, then groaned aloud as a stabbing pain shot through my back.
“Brigit says you must stay quiet,” Lance admonished, easing me down among the pillows. “She says the infection may still be present.”
“Brigit? Where are we?”
“In her convent. I brought you here because of her skill as a healer. Lavinia should be arriving soon, and Nimue, too.”
He paused, and I smiled weakly, glad to have so many dear friends near. It did not occur to me to ask why there was a need for healing.
“I promised to tell Brigit when you woke up,” Lance went on. “She’ll be no end of pleased.”
I watched the Breton leave, feeling that light, free headi-ness that comes after a long illness, when you know you are going to live but have not yet taken up the daily struggle. Still, my buoyancy of spirit was tempered by something…something dreadful and sickening that lurked beyond my ken and threatened to overwhelm me. Turning my face to the wall, I prayed for Brigit’s quick arrival, for I did not want to face that something by myself.
Sleep must have reclaimed me, for when I next opened my eyes Brigit was there, sitting in the glow of an oil lamp, silently saying her evening prayers. I watched her quietly, marveling at the air of composure and gentle contentment that radiated from her. For all that I would have liked to see her marry Bedivere and raise a family, I couldn’t deny that she looked happy and fulfilled here.
“It really was the right decision for you, wasn’t it?” I asked when she glanced over at me.
“Aye.” She gave me a fond smile and tucking a wayward strand of hair under her veil, came to sit on the bed. “To accept your moira is half the battle won. Now, tell me how you feel.”
We slid into the old ways of banter and shared confidences as though we’d never been apart. She pulled back the covers, and when I rolled over on my side she poked around my back, asking if it hurt.
“A little sore, but not really painful. What happened, Brigit? Why am I here? I can’t sort out the memories…”
“You’ve been terribly sick…so sick we thought we’d lose you. Sometimes that happens after rape.”
The word clove the air in two, quivering like an arrow just struck home. I froze as half-remembered fears became a certainty.
“Maelgwn…that bastard Maelgwn.” I groaned, feeling my gorge rise as memory flooded in. “Oh, heavens, what happened to Griflet? Is he alive? And my women?”
Brigit hastily put her hand on my arm. “Lance says Griflet didn’t die, nor were the other women hurt. It was you they wanted.”
“Griflet warned me…dear Gods, he didn’t want to take us on that outing.” A dreadful, cold numbness settled over me as pictures of the abduction and rape marched relentlessly through my head. My voice went hollow, and the words came forth without any feeling at all—like a distant, detached report of something that had nothing to do with me. “I should never have tried to outbluff Maelgwn. If only I’d been more…more sensible. Less arrogant. I should have watched my tongue…”
Every moment of contact with my cousin loomed before me, each full of ghastly portent, each blindly ignored. I recounted them while Brigit sat silent, perhaps knowing that I had to be cleansed of the memory before I could begin to live again.
The bells for chapel rang somewhere in the night, but she stayed beside me, listening, talking, sometimes just holding me while I stared bleakly into the past. By the time dawn was breaking I lay exhausted, wrung out with remembering and ready for sleep. The work of healing was only just begun, but at least it was a start.
The next day Vinnie arrived in grand style, having been carried from the villa at Cunetio in Igraine’s litter. The plump little widow swept into my cubicle insisting that she be given the room next to mine. Lance, who had occupied it until then, graciously gave over, and my old governess set about “putting things to rights” as though I were a child in her charge again.
Nothing escaped her notice: a novice was sent off to a local farm to make arrangements for a daily pot of chicken soup with which to augment the convent’s simple fare; there were muttered prayers and imprecations as the bundle of herbs someone had tied to my bedpost was replaced by a bowl of holy water which Vinnie sprinkled on me three times daily. And she fussed over me like a robin trying to feed a cuckoo chick.
Nimue’s arrival was as quiet as Vinnie’s had been noisy; she simply walked into my cell one morning while the nuns were at Mass. Lance greeted her kindly enough, then excused himself in order to leave us alone.
“Like old times,” I noted, gingerly sitting up to give her a hug of welcome. “Remember the days at Sarum, before the wedding?”
The doire smiled but hastened to explain that she couldn’t stay long. “Arthur sent me to make sure you’re fully healed before asking you to travel. And I wanted to see for myself how badly you’ve been hurt. Judging from what Brigit tells me, you’ve had excellent care and are making a strong recovery.”
I nodded, relieved that Arthur was so fully apprised of the situation and touched by his concern.
Nimue examined me thoroughly and sat down on the bed while I readjusted my clothes. She pronounced me essentially cured—the bleeding and discharge had stopped, the pain had gone. That was no more than I could have deduced, and when she continued to stare at me, I faced her calmly and demanded to know what else there might be.
The doire took both my hands in her own and looked fully into my eyes as she spoke. “Gwen, if infections like this don’t kill her, they leave a woman barren. It’s unlikely you’ll ever get pregnant again.”
The words hit like a blunted sword, bruising deeply without breaking the surface. My eyes skittered from one corner of the room to another, not even registering what they looked on, and my voice seemed to have deserted me entirely.
“Are you certain?” I whispered.
“No,” she answered, looking down at our hands, “With this sort of thing, one is never certain. I can only tell you what has happened before.”
For a long minute the numbness that had imprisoned me of late began to waver, then suddenly gave way to a sea-surge howl of fear and anger—fear of Maelgwn, anger at the irony that now, when the hope of motherhood had grown strong again, it should be dealt this final blow. There are reasons why people grow bitter toward the Gods.
“Does Arthur kn
ow?” I asked when my sobbing subsided.
Nimue shook her head. “I wasn’t sure, not having spoken with Brigit. Besides, I thought you would prefer to tell him yourself.”
I bit my lip and looked away. At least I was luckier than some, for Arthur was unlikely to berate me for this failure. He’d made it very clear he had no dreams of raising sons or any desire to watch daughters grow and bloom. But I winced at the thought of our coming together again. The idea of bed left me feeling numb and chilled, and while I had no doubt he’d continue to recognize me as his Queen, an inner, nagging voice whispered that he’d see me as unclean, defiled, unworthy. Perhaps that was why he had not come after me himself.
Nimue’s voice cut across my thoughts. “Arthur received word of your abduction the day after he learned the barbarians were preparing a coordinated assault—Saxons from both the north and south, coming together under Cerdic’s leadership. There was no way the High King could rescue you and stand firm against them at the same time.” She smiled at me gently. “If it’s any consolation, the victory at Mt. Badon was final and complete; Cerdic is dead, and the might of the barbarians is broken. Right now Arthur is rounding up Federates and invaders alike—finishing the job once and for all. It’s a tremendous relief to him to know the Queen’s Champion is at your side; with Lance to look after you, he knows you’re safe.”
The doire’s explanation allayed some of my fears; one doesn’t ask history to pause while you attend to personal matters. But there was still the question of how my people would view me—how much did they know of the rape, and how would they react to my return?
“The news of your abduction spread rapidly, Gwen…after all, you are their Queen. Many of them are outraged, and all worry for you, pray for you, demand revenge for you. Arthur himself has been racing around like a madman, popping up in the most unexpected places and riding like a fiend all along the Saxon Shore. That wild-man, Gwyn, keeps up with him, and even manages to calm him down a bit, but many of the people say they are both in danger of becoming demons.
Queen of the Summer Stars: Book Two of the Guinevere Trilogy Page 26