The first was a girl from Astolat, who died in a boating accident. But the other, Elaine of Carbonek, was very much alive, and if she was only a thorn in my side then, she was shortly to become a dagger at my heart.
Chapter VI
Discovery
On a ripe, golden day in late summer, Lance and I rode over to Glastonbury to see if the people at the apple orchard needed more kegs for the cider they would be pressing for us. Already the harvesting was under way, with farmers and neighbors and villagers all working together to gather the grain. At the end of one field a group of rowdy rooks rose flapping into the sky above an elm spinney, as cheerful and noisy as the workers below. I watched the children scrambling among the weeds at the edge of the tilled land, cutting the stout green grasses and twisting them into bindings with which to tie the sheaves, and when they saw me, they waved merrily and called out my name.
I smiled and waved back. Autumn is my favorite season and with the harvest under way, the time of crisping morns and frosty nights could not be far away.
Beneath me my filly tossed her head and nickered. The foal of the beautiful but flighty mare Arthur had given me as a wedding present, she was a rich copper chestnut with flaxen mane and tail, and I’d named her Etain for her beauty. Gwyn had bred and trained her at his stable near Glastonbury and swore she was more reliable than her high-strung mother.
This was the first time we’d been out on the Road together, and she was full of energy, pulling against the bit and prancing sideways with excitement. I suspected she loved to run free as much as I did, and before long I challenged Lance to a race.
“Best wait till you’re more familiar with your animal,” he cautioned.
“Can’t think of a better way to get acquainted,” I countered, bridling at his reasonableness. But his point was well taken, so I dropped the subject.
“Palomides has been telling me about his trip,” the Breton said as we trotted along side-by-side. “He met the most extraordinary people—fire-worshiping Zoroastrians and eunuch priests of the Goddess Cybele, as well as Jews and Egyptians and the Bedouin shamans. But the ones he found most impressive were the Christians. On the street corners of Arles they were arguing Pelagius’s concepts of free will against Bishop Augustine’s doctrine of divine grace! And they have monasteries devoted to translating the philosophers of all ages: libraries full of ideas, Gwen, not just chronicles of conquests and wars. Of course, not all monasteries are devoted to learning. He stayed at one in the Syrian desert that had grown up beside a pillar sixty feet tall, built by a Christian who was seeking God.”
I cocked one eyebrow skeptically, wondering why on earth anyone would make such a thing, and was promptly told he was a hermit named Simon who wanted to discipline his flesh and get away from people at the same time, so he lived his life on the tiny platform atop that column, without shelter from sun or wind, night or cold. Ironically the people assumed he must be pure and holy, so they called him a saint and flocked to the base of his pillar by the thousands. From all across the desert, whole tribes swarmed to see him, drawn by curiosity but converted by the awe this man of God inspired.
I wondered what could drive a person to set himself so far apart from the warmth of human contact, and tried to imagine what he was like, red-eyed and dried up like a raisin, with matted beard and hair, smelling to high heaven as he railed at the world below. “Maybe he’d never had a bath, even when he was young,” I suggested. “They say you don’t miss what you’ve never known.”
Lance paid no heed to my flippancy, being intent on his subject. “The holiest Christians go off into the desert, much like the Druids make a retreat to the wildwood and live by their wits with only the Gods’ guidance. Sometimes, Gwen, I think that civilization clouds our sight, so that we lose our ability to see The Divine. Those strange, crazy hermits may be nearer to God than we know.”
I cast him a dubious look. As far as I was concerned, life was here to be lived and I couldn’t understand why anyone would make it more complicated than need be. So I teased him about spending too much time philosophizing with Palomides, and warned that so much thinking was likely to make him soft in the head.
“I can’t help it,” he answered gravely. “It’s the only way I know to come at the world. If I can’t define it mentally, I don’t know what it is.” Then he turned and gave me a dazzling smile that was full of bemusement as well as love. “We can’t all be as intrepid as you.”
“Intrepid, my foot,” I sputtered, wondering what any of this had to do with anything important. And then suddenly we were laughing together at the ludicrousness of taking ourselves so seriously.
If Lance was my Champion and protector, making me feel cherished and loved and even beautiful, it was I who lifted his spirits and kept him from dwelling too much on the dark, mystical side of things.
By midmorning we’d reached the Causeway to Glastonbury, and the horses’ hooves drummed hollowly on the ancient logs that had been pounded into the reedy swamp long before the Legions came. The day was pleasant and without wind, so the waters of the lake lay unruffled, smooth as a sheet of Roman glass. For years the Celts have called the hill that rises out of the lake Ynys Witrin—Glass Island—though others know it as Avalon—the Isle of Apples—because its orchards are so fine. In either case, it earns its name.
We talked with the cider man, then met with Gwyn, who came down from his fortlet on the top of the Tor to join us for lunch at a dockside tavern where we chatted amiably while the water birds rose and fell in great gathering flocks along the edges of the lake. When it was time to go, Lance went for the horses, and I told Gwyn how pleased I was with Etain. The little man beamed with pride.
But when the Breton brought our mounts around, Etain’s ears were laid half-back, and her eyes white-rimmed with nervousness. Lance was frowning sharply and handed the restive animal over to me with the curt announcement that we must leave immediately. Gwyn cocked his head to one side and extended his hand in farewell, but Lancelot gave him only a mute nod in return.
We rode toward home in silence, and my efforts at starting a conversation met with nothing but gloomy preoccupation on the Breton’s part. At last I gave up trying to draw him out, for he seemed to be struggling with more than some obscure question of philosophy.
When we came to a small ford, he abruptly turned off onto the streamside path and without a word led the way to the edge of a meadow. Tying the horses to a willow clump, he came round and raised his arms to help me dismount.
Startled, I looked down on him. All those years our never bedding had been his decision, not mine, yet now he stood, reaching up to me in evident appeal, and my heart quickened at the notion that he’d changed his mind.
When I leaned out over the space between us, he grasped me firmly around the waist and lifted me in a wide, gentle arc. I was light as thistledown in his arms, buoyed by the strength and safety of his presence, and even after my feet touched the ground, he kept one arm around me as we made our way through the willows toward the waterside.
“There’s something I must tell you—something very painful.” His voice had gone rough and I pulled away slightly, trying to see his face, but he turned his head away abruptly. “Don’t look at me—not just yet, or I’ll never find the words.”
So we walked together, arms around each other’s waist, with my head resting on his shoulder. The quiet murmur of the stream filled the silence as we approached a flat rock that nosed out over the water. Willow branches trailed down into a pool, making a kind of grotto around us, and an iridescent dragonfly coursed back and forth above the water. Surely, I told myself, nothing dreadful could happen in such a lovely place.
We sat down, leaning against each other like children, and I nestled beside him as he began absently stroking my hair. It was a long time before he spoke, his voice very soft and distant.
“When I left you after Mordred came, I made you promise that if you ever needed me, you’d send word. And that I would come, whereve
r you were, whenever you called. Do you remember?”
I nodded silently, recalling our parting and the great aching loss that had settled over me once he was gone.
“I went everywhere…down to Canterbury and along the Saxon Shore, over to Cornwall, up to the kingdoms of Wales…but I couldn’t escape you. Morning or night, you were the first thing I thought of, the last I prayed for. Even in my dreams you were with me. Then I went to Carbonek, to see how the ailing King of the Waste Land was faring.”
I stiffened as the pert, pretty face of Elaine rose to memory. “No doubt Pellam’s conniving red-headed daughter made you more than welcome,” I said, sitting upright as my own hateful jealousy came awake.
Lance turned suddenly, staring at me so intently all thoughts of Elaine vanished. He cradled my face between his palms and spoke in little more than a whisper.
“I thought it was the message I’d been waiting for, that you’d finally sent for me…been drinking too much, and when her governess, Brisane, handed me a scarf that smelled of lavender and said, ‘M’lady’s waiting’…it seemed the answer to all my prayers. I didn’t even stop to wonder why you’d be at Carbonek. Without candle or rush-light, or even a moon beyond the casement…Oh Gwen, I didn’t know how much was dream, how much was real…”
His eyes filled with anguish and we stared at each other in silence as the meaning of his words sunk in. Lance, who would not share my bed as a matter of “honor,” had been tricked into a liaison by the one woman I already envied.
Pain and understanding, anger and compassion rushed through me. Lance was a man like any other, with all the needs of any Champion, and I had no right to demand fidelity from him…I who romped comfortably enough with Arthur any night of the year.
But it hurt that the girl had been Elaine. She was all the things I was not—young and beautiful, and supremely confident that all men would love her, if only because she looked so luscious.
“Cheeky little creature,” I snapped, “always up to some charming game, as though her desires were at the center of everyone else’s thoughts. She’d been trying to trap you in a romance ever since you first met—and to think she should have succeeded by playing on your love for me…”
My anger was rising, focusing on the girl who had been so smugly convinced that Lance would someday be her mate. The deception she had played on him was played on me as well, and I hated her for it. I gulped and looked away. Over the reeds at the water’s edge the dragonfly darted and hovered, a shimmering illusion, now here, now gone.
“Well, no great damage done,” I said at last with a great, deep sigh, as though I could expel both my outrage and hurt in that one long breath. “You’re back here now, and that night’s fling need not be repeated…unless you wish.”
“Of course I don’t wish!” Indignation rasped Lance’s voice. “In the morning, when I realized what had happened, I was infuriated. I told her that I never wanted to see her or her scheming, treacherous governess again. I’d have run that meddling old woman through, if she’d crossed my path.”
He swallowed hard, then went on.
“But it seems that’s not the end of it. The groom at the stables just now passed on the rumor that Elaine is coming to Camelot…with a child she claims is my son.”
The words were spoken quietly, but they cut through me like a searing, slicing knife. The old, aching void of barrenness opened up again—bleak and empty, full of despair and the bitter knowledge that I could never achieve what every milkmaid and scullery girl found so exceptionally easy. Not only had that chit of a girl bedded the man I could not, she’d given him a child as well. A child…the very gift of life and immortality which I could never give Arthur or Lance or anyone else.
The air had gone out of my lungs and I stared, stupefied, at the dragonfly that had come to rest on the edge of the rock. It had lost all its color, like a world gone dead.
Gradually realization seeped through me. It spread through my body like a giant, throbbing bruise until even my fingers and toes ached with the pain of it. Jumping to my feet, I let out a wail and began to run blindly toward the horses.
“Gwen!” Lance’s cry reached me as I tugged Etain’s reins free and swung up into the saddle. “Gwen, wait!”
But the filly took her cue from my wordless scream, pivoting to head across the meadow toward the broken woods beyond. I leaned forward, keeping enough pressure on the bit so that she was still within my power, but urging her on as much as possible. After the first few strides she lengthened out, growing more confident by the second.
Behind us, Lance’s horse was pounding to catch up, so I gave Etain’s ribs a solid whack with my heels, and she summoned up an extra burst of speed as we entered the trees.
It was not the first time I’d tried to outrun my fate. When Bedivere confirmed that Mordred was indeed Arthur’s son, I had bolted from the knowledge, racing into the wind of an oncoming storm.
But that was down a clear Roman Road. Now I was trying to guide an inexperienced animal through an ever-darkening wood. Hazel withes whipped my arms as Etain swerved wildly to avoid the most obvious thickets, and I barely ducked in time to miss a low-hanging branch. The trunks of huge trees raced past as she bolted through the forest, and I wondered fleetingly how soon before we’d crash headlong into one of them. At last I gave up trying to guide her, and letting her have her head, twined my hands in her flaxen mane and crouched forward along her neck.
Instinctively the filly plunged toward the openings where golden sunlight denoted space between high arching oak and ash. We plunged dizzyingly from shadow to light and on again, and the blood that pounded in my ears drowned out all thoughts of jealousy and betrayal, irony and woeful lack. The whole of my world had narrowed down to simply trying to survive.
Suddenly the land fell away and I caught a glimpse of soft, rolling pastures beyond a stone wall. Etain was going too fast to stop, so with a tightening of knees and thighs, I set the filly to the barrier, praying she had more sense than her scatter-brained mother.
She took the wall at full speed, collecting and launching into the air as though she’d grown wings. Even her landing was graceful, without stumble or hesitation, and when I shifted my weight and gathered up the reins again, the young mare slowed to a trot, tossing her head and arching her neck proudly.
A great wave of relief and affection washed over me—I was still alive more because of her good instincts than my own, and I patted her withers gratefully.
Behind us Lance’s warhorse cleared the wall with practiced ease. By the time we’d crossed the pasture he’d caught up and we rode side-by-side in measured silence.
Whatever else that horrendous ride had produced, my panic had subsided, leaving me able to think calmly once more—though I still couldn’t bring myself to look at him, lest the rage that was building in me toward Elaine should be channeled directly at him instead.
The air between us turned as brittle as glass on the verge of shattering. With each breath the wall of silence rose higher, like the crystal tower the peasants claim Nimue erected around Merlin. It hid not the death of a body, as the old stories say, but my withdrawal from love, and I paid no heed to the young, childish voice that begged me to relent before I imprisoned both of us in icy bitterness.
Lance watched me anxiously, and I didn’t have to see them to know his eyes were pleading for forgiveness. Understanding I could give; forgiveness was beyond my grasp. At last, when he dismounted to open the pasture gate at the Road, I faced him with a cold smile.
“Not bad for her first time out,” I said, patting Etain’s neck and refusing to acknowledge the cause for my flight.
The Breton’s response was formal, accepting the distance that I was putting between us, but his voice was more ragged than the pursuit would warrant. “You might have been killed, M’lady.”
“Oh, lots of things might have happened that didn’t,” I flung back, lifting my chin defiantly. There was no way I would admit to anyone—not the Gods nor
Arthur, nor even Lance himself—how terribly deep the hurt had gone.
So we rode back to Camelot in silence while I laid layer upon layer of pride across the wound before Elaine could arrive at Court and take Lancelot away from me.
Chapter VII
Other Women’s Sons
It seems there’s something worrying at you, M’lady,” Elyzabel said, concern making her unusually bold. I had chosen her to take Enid’s place as my maid and confidante in part because her broad northern accent reminded me of my childhood in Rheged, and her older years gave her advice an added weight. “I’m more than willing to listen,” she offered.
We had ridden out to do some harvesting of our own, this being the best time to gather devil’s bit and the roots of marsh mallows. On the way home we went to gather some of the barbed teazles our weavers use for fulling, but as we approached the tall, dried plants, we found them surrounded by a charm of goldfinches. Perched on the spiky seedpods, the pretty little birds were busily extracting hidden seeds, fluttering and trilling among themselves without taking any notice of us. I stared at them in silence, wishing I could pick my way through my own thorny situation as blithely.
“If you want to talk about it, that is,” Elyzabel continued, and I looked over at her. Seeing the friendship and concern on her face, I was tempted to pour out the whole story of Elaine’s trickery. But caution stilled my tongue. What if the rumor wasn’t true? Maybe Elaine wasn’t on her way to Court. Maybe she hadn’t even conceived, in which case there was no reason to mention the sordid little affair to anyone. Certainly I didn’t want to expose Lancelot to unnecessary embarrassment if it could be avoided.
So the words stuck in my throat, and I ended by shaking my head mutely. I would go on struggling with the devils of jealousy and rage by myself.
Guinevere, the Legend in Autumn: Book Three of the Guinevere Trilogy Page 8