They reached Caerleon all too soon for Lancelot. He knew by the look the guard gave them that the tale had preceded their arrival. There was a feel of thick dust in his throat as he set out for Arthur’s rooms. He hurried, dreading the interview but longing to have it done.
Arthur was alone except for Merlin when Lancelot entered. Arthur’s face shone with delight at seeing him again. He jumped up to greet him and offer a chair.
“Lancelot! It’s about time you got here. Briacu was telling me just this morning that the mare he bred to your Clades is due to foal soon. It’s late in the year for a birth, but Briacu is sure that the colt will be strong. He’ll want to get your permission to try again. Sit down. Are you hungry? Merlin, we can finish this later. How was your visit to Cornwall, Lancelot? We heard a rather bizarre story from King Pellas about you. I can’t think what they’ve been putting in his wine.”
Lancelot cringed. “I know all about it, Arthur. It wasn’t his cup that was tampered with.”
Merlin leaned back in his chair. He thought so. The whole story had been too improbable to be a complete fabrication. Pellas had neither the talent nor the imagination for such a thing.
“Where was that witch, Morgause, while you were being drugged?” he asked.
Lancelot gaped at him. He had heard the man could read minds. He wondered how much more he could discover. “She was at Tintagel, visiting Queen Morgan.”
Arthur brought the ale jug from under the table, brushed some papers aside, and poured himself a cup. “Do you think that my sisters had something to do with this?” he asked.
Merlin threw him a look of disgust. “You know very well that they did and why. Don’t deny it. I’ve warned you about them over and over, but you ignore me. The only question is, did they do this to hurt Lancelot, Elaine, or you?”
“Me!” Arthur thumped his cup on the table, spilling ale on the papers. He absently mopped it up with his sleeve. “What could any of this have to do with me?”
Merlin tipped his chair back again. He regarded Lancelot for a moment. “Look at him, Arthur. He is your model, isn’t he? The prototypic knight. Think of what has happened to him in the last year. How many times do you think he can be made a fool of before it makes you seem foolish, too?”
Lancelot groaned and sat down, his face buried in his hands. Merlin went on remorselessly.
“Do you really think that Meleagant had the idea of kidnapping Guinevere all by himself? Have you ever wondered why your sister Morgause has never bothered to come here? Do you have any promise of allegiance from either sister? When are you going to understand that these women hate you—not just your father, you! You stole their mother away as much as he did. They would rejoice to see you mocked and destroyed as their father was. The only thing that puzzles me about them is that they could not pass on their hatred to your nephews.”
“I’m sorry, Arthur.” Lancelot raised his head. “I let them trick me. I should have suspected something immediately. Gawain tried to warn me. I should not have returned here. It’s useless. I am only an embarrassment to you. Every time I try to behave like a proper knight, I end up looking like a clown.”
“There was nothing amusing about the way you fought Aelle at the Fords.” Arthur grabbed Lancelot’s shoulder and shook it. “I need you, Lancelot. I need you here, with me, no matter what people say. I will not allow anyone to make my decisions for me or drive my best knight away. Now Pellas wants us to believe that you came into a house full of men-at-arms, guards, and fosterlings, all armed; greeted them pleasantly; and then dragged Elaine off to the bedroom while they all sat around, quietly drinking your health.”
“But, Arthur, I never dragged—”
“I know that. Soon everyone else will, too. I’ve found out that, until a month ago, Elaine was living in the household of my sister, Morgause. Suddenly she was sent home to her father. I think she was seduced by a guard or potboy or someone Morgause would not wish to produce if Pellas found out. Just by chance, you happen to be at Tintagel with Gawain. Your pedigree and current station are both better than anything Pellas could arrange himself. They know you wouldn’t be interested, but something might be arranged. So, you see, Merlin. They weren’t trying to hurt anyone, they were trying to protect the girl. I’d be willing to bet that in about six or seven months Elaine just happens to have a premature, but very healthy, baby. Don’t worry, Lancelot. You won’t be the one who looks foolish then.”
Lancelot started to explain further, but Merlin silenced him. Guinevere’s name had not been mentioned. Without bothering to get a careful explanation, Arthur had devised his own. Arthur watched them now, daring them to add a word.
Poor Arthur! Merlin regretted fleetingly that he would be leaving so soon. Arthur would need someone to help ease the pain when it came. And it would. Even without a prophet’s eyes, he could see that. But Arthur would have to face it alone. When Nimuë came for him, Merlin knew he must go.
Chapter Twenty
Arthur’s prediction was not completely correct. It was not seven months, but nine, almost to the day, and the baby was small and sickly because Elaine had spent most of the pregnancy miserably longing for Lancelot to return and marry her. At least, that was what Morgause wrote to Arthur in a letter full of moral outrage. She insisted that Lancelot admit his actions, claim the child, and take on the responsibility of its support. Arthur snorted at that, in spite of Lancelot’s obvious misery and confusion.
Gawain tried to reassure him. “Listen to me, Lancelot. No one here believes for a minute that you are that boy’s father. It has nothing to do with you at all. Let my aunt rumble and fume as long as she likes. Then forget the whole thing.”
There was a lot of humor about the matter, especially at meals. All of it was at Elaine’s expense. The story had gone out that Lancelot had been drugged senseless and left in Elaine’s bed for a practical joke. Although it embarrassed Lancelot, he found, to his surprise, that it made him much more popular with the other knights. Even the ladies laughed at Elaine, although more than one felt a sneaking sympathy with her tactics. Imagine anyone trying to dupe Lancelot into a marriage!
Arthur gave Guinevere his version of the story and no one contradicted him. It made her angry that anyone would play such a cruel trick, but she was satisfied that Lancelot was completely innocent. She did not discuss it with him, though. For most of that year she had little chance to discuss anything with him.
Camelot was glorious that summer. Everything should have been perfect. Even the weather seemed to behave better under Arthur’s rule. The place was gaudy with all variety of dress and trappings. When people came to Camelot, they wanted to show off their best attire. Often, when they got there, their best looked drab. To remedy that problem, a flourishing trade had built up. There was now a ragtag village just outside the walls, made up almost totally of tailors, cloth merchants, hair stylists, and jewelry smiths. Two inns had also been built, and tents sprang up again to handle the overflow.
But what last year had been excitement and grandeur now grated on Guinevere’s nerves. It was all wrong, too bright, too loud, too much in the way. In the way. . . . Lancelot was at Camelot, but he might as well have stayed in Cornwall and married Elaine for all she saw of him. He did not avoid her. He was at dinner every night. But if he asked her to go riding with him, twenty others decided to go with them. If she suggested a game of chess, Gawain or Gareth always wanted to watch and comment on the moves. If, for a miracle, they happened to meet in an empty hallway, they would no more than say hello before someone appeared. And that someone always wanted one of them. Lancelot was never anything but calm and polite, but sometimes she would see a hunger in his eyes and wonder if it were reflected in her own. On hot afternoons when the music and laughter swelled beneath her windows and the odor of roast meat and damp flesh permeated the courtyard, Guinevere wondered if she could last much longer. One morning she would wake up and commence screaming and she would not be able to stop.
In spite of
Gawain’s advice, Lancelot could not keep his mind off the child Elaine said was his. Gawain found him in the anteroom to Guinevere and Arthur’s quarters one morning, sitting.
“Are you still brooding?” he asked. There was a world of scorn in his voice.
Lancelot bit his lip. “She has named the boy Galahad. How did she know it was one of my names?”
“Who knows? Maybe she didn’t. She may just like it. Even if she named him after you, what difference would it make? He is still not your responsibility.”
Lancelot shook his head. “How are you so sure?”
“Damn it! Lancelot, how many times do we have to go through it?”
Lancelot rose and glared at him. They were almost of a height and stood nose to nose as if preparing to fight. Lancelot shouted practically down Gawain’s throat.
“You can go on yelling at me until you’re hoarse, but it won’t be settled until you can prove to me that there is no way that boy could be mine!”
“What?”
Both men jumped at the sound as if jabbed by hot pokers. Guinevere stood in the doorway, the flowers she had been carrying spilled around her. They crushed under her feet as she crossed the room and their perfume floated through the warm air. Gawain tried to smile at her as if nothing had happened.
“Hello, Guinevere! We were just leaving—going to check on those new colts. Coming, Lancelot?” He waited.
Lancelot closed his eyes, inhaled, and opened them again. “No, Gawain, you go. I know what you have tried to do all summer, but it’s time I explained the truth to Guinevere. Alone.”
“Don’t be an ass!” Gawain muttered.
“I will meet you later, Gawain,” Lancelot spoke firmly. “This is my affair.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Gawain hissed in his face. But he saw that there would be no more discussion. There was an authority about Lancelot at that moment that intimidated him. He laid a hand on Lancelot’s shoulder.
“You are my friend,” he pleaded. “But Arthur is my uncle and my King. Please don’t make me choose between you!”
Lancelot gave him a twisted smile. “You will never have to do that, Gawain. Now go.”
Guinevere had been watching them in a state of frozen anticipation. As Gawain left, he gave her a gentle kiss in passing.
“Lancelot?” She tried to keep her voice steady, but failed. “What did you mean? I thought . . . everyone says Elaine made up the story about you and her, didn’t she?”
It was amazing how calm he felt. This moment had walked with him for almost a year. He had dreaded it awake and asleep. But when he was at last faced with telling her, it became simple. He had not wanted to hurt her, but he knew she would be hurt. He took a deep breath and set about doing it as carefully as possible.
“Most of what she said was a lie. I never saw her face until I woke that morning.”
Guinevere stopped fidgeting with the tassels on her belt. “Then why are you so. . . .”
“Because I was there with her all night and I think that, in the condition I was in, I may have done what she said.”
The corners of her mouth trembled. “Even so,” she tried to speak. “Even so, Gawain is right. It was her doing; you were not responsible. Whatever happened, it was against your will.”
He held up his hands. “That is it, Guinevere! Don’t you see? Gawain will not understand it. You must! If I were sure that what happened was really against my will, that I could not have resisted, then I might not feel this guilt.”
That was the blow. He watched her eyes widen and her hands clench as she absorbed it. If she knew it all and hated him for it, it was just as well. But if he could make her understand. . . . All that was rational in him said he should never try. It was like walking naked into a roaring bonfire. It would deny the principles he had based his life on: frugality, temperance, and chastity. His love for her was a profligate whirlwind that swept away altruism and self-abnegation. It cut through the image of Lancelot the savior and left only the man. Whether she knew it or not, he had damned himself in his own eyes for her sake. It was too late to repent. All he wanted to know was if she would be willing to accompany him to Hell.
“Guinevere, you heard that they got me to Corbyne by saying that you were there and needed me. There is no other way I would have entered that room. Do you think that any other woman on earth but you could have lured me into bed with her?”
She stiffened with fury. “You slept with her and then blame me for it? You are trying to tell me you thought this Elaine was me? I have heard that she is small and dark and rather plump! Do I look like that to you? And what ever gave you the idea I might want to lure you anywhere? Have I ever done anything that would suggest to you that I would ride three hundred miles alone and feed you love potions to get you into my bed?”
“No, Guinevere,” he answered. “You would not have needed to.” Suddenly he realized what her anger meant, and his face lit with joy. “But I wanted to believe it. Would you have?”
His smile undid her. All the fight and anger went out of her. She looked up at him, blinking away tears of bewilderment and shame. “Yes, if I had thought of it, yes, I would.”
He stopped smiling as he took her in his arms. He held her tightly against his chest, his hand entwined in her hair. “Oh, Guinevere, I wish it had been you. If we had been together only that once, I might be able to endure this.”
Her only answer was to lift her face to his. He bent his head, then jerked it up suddenly. There were voices at the bottom of the stairs. Arthur’s seemed especially loud. Quickly he released Guinevere, who hurried to her room. At the doorway, she paused and turned back to him, trying to smile.
“Now we both must learn to endure,” she whispered.
Arthur seemed unnaturally boisterous as he entered. Behind him were Cei, Cador, Constantine, and Lydia, who had just arrived. His eyes flitted from Lancelot to the closed door.
“Guinevere!” he called. “Bring out that wine from Marseilles that your father gave us. We have to toast Cei and Lydia. The chapel was finished today.”
The door opened and Guinevere rushed out to embrace Lydia warmly. “You sent no word. How did you know the right day to be here? When will the wedding be?”
“As soon as the bishops get here,” Cei said firmly, “and not a day later. The bishop of York will consecrate the chapel and ten minutes later the bishop of London will marry us.”
Cador laughed. “I never thought I would see a man so eager to join my family. It must be your doing, Lydia.”
Arthur joined in the teasing. “It is amazing how he has changed since he met her. I can remember when he was interested in nothing but horses and fighting. Now he is the only person in all of Britain I would trust to manage both Caerleon and Camelot and the only man who could. I certainly hope Lydia doesn’t distract him too much from that work or I may have to forbid the marriage for the good of Britain.”
Cei bowed to him in mock subservience. “You try it and you’ll rule this country with a broken jaw.” He smiled.
“None of that, darling,” Lydia insisted. “I want to get along with your family and it won’t help if you start by beating up your milk-brother on my account.”
Cei sighed and ruefully opened his fist. “You see, we may as well have the ceremony soon. I’m a married man already.”
Lancelot excused himself in the laughter that followed. Gawain was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. His relief in seeing him was clear.
“I tried to think of a way to warn you. I hoped you would hear them. Did you?”
“They were hard to ignore. From the way Arthur was shouting, I guess they must have started on the wine in the Hall and only later decided to move on to something better.”
Gawain looked puzzled. “Really? He seemed sober enough to me. Well? What did you tell her?”
“Everything.”
“Wonderful. You couldn’t have forgotten anything, could you? What did she say?”
“She was an
gry at first, but I don’t think she is anymore.”
They were walking across the courtyard in the bright sunlight. Gawain whistled and hit his forehead with vexation. He recoiled quickly. In his annoyance he had forgotten his own strength.
“I don’t want you to even hint to me how you convinced her. So. What are you going to do now?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing at all?” His skepticism was evident. “If that is true, Lancelot, and I hope it is, you’ve got more love of self- torture than any ascetic in Ireland.”
• • •
“Look, Guinevere, my hands are shaking!” Lydia exclaimed. “Do you think I can get them steady enough for Cei to put the ring on?”
“I could give you a bit of mead to calm you down,” Risa offered as she helped arrange the layers of silk in Lydia’s wedding gown.
“Don’t you dare!” Guinevere admonished. “A bit of mead on an empty stomach and she’ll go to the chapel singing her own prothalamion. I don’t know why you’re so nervous, Lydia. It isn’t as if you were marrying a stranger.”
“I’m not nervous! Not about Cei, anyway. It’s all this ceremony. Risa, does that have to be so long in the back? If I turn around, I’m going to get wound up in it and trip myself.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be right behind you to smooth it out before you enter the chapel.”
“You’re lucky, Lydia,” Guinevere offered. “When Arthur and I were married, the procession went from where I was staying to the church, to the house where we spent our wedding night. It was the middle of winter and it seemed miles to walk in those thin silks. It didn’t snow, but I was freezing. My teeth were chattering so, it’s a wonder I could make the responses.”
“You froze, but I may suffocate. That veil is so thick I can hardly breathe through it, let alone see.”
The Chessboard Queen Page 29