Guinevere, the Legend in Autumn: Book Three of the Guinevere Trilogy

by Persia Woolley

  Kevin—childhood’s companion and my first love. The Irish lad had run away when it was clear my moira lay in a royal marriage. For years I waited his return, praying to any Gods who would listen to keep him safe. Kevin—with the black hair and blue eyes. He and Lancelot looked so much alike that even Arthur had been fooled when Kevin came to Camelot, wearing the robes of a Christian priest, a few years back.

  I paused, and added Lancelot to my prayer as I tied a cluster of buttercups to the branches already thick with votive ribbons and small gifts. For all the things which had changed since I’d run free across the meadow at Patterdale, here I was again, standing by a holy well, asking the Gods to protect a love gone missing.

  “M’lady, look at the ducks we’ve snared.” Mordred’s voice broke my reverie, and I turned to see him and Cynric loping along the path.

  In the months since the Saxon had arrived, he’d held himself aloof, shunned by the British squires and ignored by the men. But gradually a cautious friendship grew up between my dark-haired stepson and the towheaded hostage, and when they had asked to come on this trip together, I was pleased to bring them both. Released from lessons and full of youthful exuberance, they treated the sojourn as a holiday—sprinting across the meadows, climbing trees, playing pranks on each other and occasionally on me. Now they came pelting up, each brandishing a brace of mallards.

  “Cynric’s a real expert at snaring,” Mordred exclaimed, and the blond boy ducked his head diffidently.

  “Learned the tricks of it at Lake Bala,” he said, obviously pleased by the praise.

  “Ought to be a nice surprise for Cook,” I allowed, taking their arms and heading back to the steading. Thus they escorted me through the trees, laughing and jesting as we went, and when the meadow opened up and the roundhouse was in sight, they pulled away to race ahead. I sighed happily, glad that the two youngsters who were most alone at Court should have found companionship in each other.

  ***

  Even before Beltane, Arthur decided to move on to York in order to confer with Urien about the new barbarians said to be landing along the upper coast of Northumbria.

  When he was riding proudly at the head of his warriors, or sitting majestically among the Fellowship at the Round Table, Urien was still a figure to command respect. But in his own den, surrounded by the remains of the old Imperial City, the Raven King of Northumbria showed the mark of his years. I looked at him in the torchlight of the Hall and realized that, like Cador, he had grown old in the service of Arthur.

  It had been a long life and full. In the early years he’d contented himself with cattle raiding and harassing the borders of Rheged. If he wasn’t out marauding, he was hunting or wenching, or drinking, like any Celtic warlord. Not even marriage to Morgan had changed that, and when she turned her attentions to the Old Ways and became a priestess at the Sanctuary, he hardly noticed her absence.

  It was their son, Uwain, who had been caught in the breach, raised by servants and doing the best he could to bridge the gap between his parents.

  “Glad to see you,” Urien growled, coming to meet us at the gate of the Roman fort. “I’ve been making some plans for fortifying the north—thought we ought to go over them.”

  So Arthur ended up being closeted with the old man for hours on end, going over maps, discussing options, examining the reports that warned of trouble. My ladies and I spent our time exploring the shops and stalls among the crooked little streets they call snickelways, and one afternoon Urien put a barge at our disposal so we could take a picnic down the river to a lovely meadow where the local Bishop had his manor.

  It was this same Bishop I was expected to entertain when Urien held a feast for us at the end of our stay. It was not a task I relished, but since Urien had no queen in residence, it fell to me to act as hostess.

  The Bishop of York was more polished than the one at Carlisle, but he carried a smugness that came of thinking himself exceptionally holy. And that night at dinner he made a point of talking specifically with Arthur and pretending I didn’t exist. It was a trait that infuriated me.

  “The wisest thing the King of the Franks ever did was to become a Catholic,” the cleric announced. “Best way to bind a diversity of people together is through a common belief.”

  I smiled inwardly, thinking that was exactly what we had done with the Round Table.

  “With the sanction of the Church behind him, Clovis has gained immense respect in what’s left of the Empire,” the Bishop went on, casting Arthur a sly look. “Even the Emperor of Constantinople recognizes him.”

  Palomides choked and hastily put down his wine goblet, no doubt remembering that Anastasius would not see him because Arthur wasn’t Christian.

  “But I thought the Frankish kings were Pagan shamans…” I said quickly, wracking my brain for everything I knew about the rulers of the barbarians across the Channel, “…that their lives are proscribed by holy rites, and their hair hangs down to their ankles because if they cut it, they will break faith with the Goddess.”

  “Ah, there’s no accounting for the odd beliefs of heathens,” the Bishop replied smoothly. “But whatever they used to do, that’s all in the past. I met Clovis and found both him and his wife to be excellent Christians. In fact”—the holy man paused to look specifically at me—“it was Clotilda who showed her husband the true faith after they were married. It’s amazing the influence a good woman can wield.”

  I squelched a tart response and glared fiercely at the water in my goblet until the unsaid words were well past. Slowly but surely I was learning to control my tongue.

  “In some ways you have much in common,” the Bishop continued, unrelenting in his courtship of Arthur. “Both of you are trying to forge a united country out of disparate tribes, holding them together by the strength of your personalities. And both have inherited as much Roman as local culture and customs. Of course, he’s not a philosopher like Theodoric, and laws aren’t of much interest to him, but Clovis is a name to go down in history, mark my words.”

  I sniffed, and dismissed the Bishop’s statements as so much propaganda. From what I remembered, this Clovis was little better than a cutthroat bandit—an opportunist who, like Agamemnon or Caesar, would use anything or anyone to further his own ends. I reminded myself, however, that it wouldn’t hurt to keep apprised of what he was doing.

  The rest of the feast went well enough, but the next day, just before we left for London, Urien asked for a chance to see me alone. When he led the way to a terrace overlooking the fine old city, I glanced at him surreptitiously, wondering if he’d had news of Morgan le Fey.

  “It’s about my son,” he began awkwardly.

  “Uwain?” I sat down on a marble bench. “Have you heard from him recently?”

  “No.” Urien’s voice was harsh and stiff, but he sagged noticeably and took a seat himself. “I was hoping you might have. It’s hard not to feel bitter, M’lady, when your only son is banished for something he didn’t do.”

  “I know…I know.” I spoke gently, wondering how to tell him that I, too, felt Arthur’s action had been unfair. There was no evidence that Uwain had been involved in Morgan’s plot to capture the throne, yet Arthur had sent the boy from Court simply because he was her son.

  “As a man gets old”—the admission was hard-wrung and difficult—“well, he starts wanting to have the next generation beside him. If Uwain were back here with me, he could handle things in York while I’m in the north. As it is, not even knowing where he is…”

  “I’ll send word if I hear anything,” I assured him, and made a mental note to mention it to Arthur when the time seemed right.

  Urien nodded silently, and I ventured a query of my own. “Is there news of the High Priestess?”

  For a moment the old man straightened, and a kind of resolute fire leapt to his eyes. His jaw tightened and he instinctively shifted his hand to his sword hilt.

  “The High Priestess remains at her Sanctuary next to the Black Lake, M’l
ady. She has not applied for permission to travel through the rest of Rheged, and I have not encouraged it. But if that changes, I shall certainly let you know.”

  He got slowly to his feet, and, giving me a curt nod, stalked away. Watching him leave, I wondered how long Morgan would be content to stay at the Sanctuary now that she had brought Agravain to her lair.

  ***

  As soon as we reached the Imperial Palace in London, Arthur began making arrangements to visit the Frankish king in Paris.

  “Now who’s being a foolhardy Celt?” I stormed when he told me. “Those people are savages. What if they decide to hold you for ransom, or kill you outright?”

  “Gwen, I’ll never have a better chance,” my husband replied, slipping into the “I’m being patient” mode he often used when I raised too-hasty questions. “Bors has arranged everything through his contacts in Brittany; my safe-passage has been sworn to; and with everything calm here in Britain, now’s the time to go.”

  “What if the boat sinks?” I flung myself across the room, propelled as much by amazement as fear. “Everyone knows how chancy the Channel is. Any crossing can start out easy and calm, but storms come up so quickly…what if you drown?”

  “Then you’d become Guinevere the First of Logres. Can’t say the client kings would elect you High King in my place, but they could do worse,” he teased, carefully wrapping Excalibur in its beaver-skin case. “Don’t fret so, my dear. I’ve come through far worse than this on my own home turf—nothing’s going to happen to me now. Besides, I’m taking Gawain along as bodyguard and heir apparent. Do him good to get acquainted with the people of the Continent.”

  In the end, of course, I stood on the dock below London’s bridge, waving my scarf and wishing them all well. Bedivere was beside me and he gave a good-natured chuckle as the boat came even with the signal tower and, rounding the bend, was lost from sight. “You weren’t really surprised he decided to do such a thing, were you?” he asked.

  “No, I suppose not.” I stared up at the craggy lieutenant and shook my head in wonder. Nothing that Arthur did could deeply surprise either of us anymore.

  Ah, my King, how many times you put yourself at risk, all in the name of your Cause. And yes, I know you would say it has all been worth it, for we’ve ruled long and well over a united Britain. But now, on this night before my death, I wonder which of us is in more jeopardy…

  Chapter XIII

  Stonehenge

  With Arthur gone, I held Court at London, seeing to local matters and adjudicating disputes between unruly neighbors or contentious shopkeepers. It was while I was thus occupied that Lucan the Gatekeeper came to tell me a chieftain with a Swedish accent was demanding an audience.

  “Wearing a wolfskin slung over one shoulder?” It was a likely guess, as Wehha of East Anglia was the only Swede we knew.

  “That’s him,” Lucan nodded emphatically, his round face suddenly serious. “Do you want to have Bedivere with you before I let him in? The man is most peculiar, you know.”

  I laughed and assured Lucan there was no need for such precautions. We’d been dealing with Wehha for years, and I found his stilted Latin and affectation of Roman mores amusing than imposing. But he’d more than proved his loyalty to Arthur at the battle of Mount Badon, so while he might be eccentric, I doubted he’d be treacherous.

  When Lucan announced the arrival of Wehha and his son, Wuffa, of East Anglia, everyone in the Hall turned to stare at the door.

  The Swede had brought his entire entourage with him and was traveling with full panoply. The first to come through the door was a steward holding aloft a strange metal staff with ribbons and feathers fixed to its top. “Good as any Roman standard,” Wehha had explained proudly the first time we saw the thing. Next came a solemn lieutenant carrying the oddly shaped whetstone the barbarian used as a scepter. Smooth and oblong, its tapered ends bore the faces of Gods and ancestors carved into the stone, and the man who held it inclined it first to this side, then to that, like a priest blessing the faithful. Our courtiers nodded respectfully as the fellow passed, then turned back to the door expectantly. The steward, who had come to a stop before my chair, stepped to one side and thumped his standard three times on the floor. Only then did Wehha strut into the room.

  The man was as big and rangy as I remembered, with masses of blond hair and quick blue eyes. At his side strode a younger version of himself; more lean and aloof, but with a similar arrogance. It took me a minute to realize this was Wehha’s son grown into manhood—the last time I’d seen Wuffa, he was still a lad.

  As they crossed the room, a scowl began to darken Wehha’s features. When he came to a stop in front of Arthur’s empty chair, I could see the trouble coming. For a man who didn’t even allow his women in the mead-hall, paying respect to a High Queen was bound to be difficult.

  “I came to treat with Arthur Pendragon,” the Swede declared. “Where is he?”

  Making my voice as cordial as possible, I explained Arthur was visiting other monarchs on the Continent.

  “Not here?” The words echoed like thunder as the barbarian turned to scrutinize every corner of the room.

  “I would be happy to treat with you,” I offered.

  “I do not discuss matters of state with women.” Wehha’s terrible Latin made the scornful comment almost funny. “When King Arthur returns, tell him I extend an invitation for him to visit my holdings.”

  With that the man turned and marched from the room, as indignant as though he was the one who’d been insulted. I watched him go, half amused at his pretensions, half outraged by his lack of respect. The son was less precipitous in leaving, however, and while the father might be bombastic in the extreme, Wuffa was a study in insolence. He stared at me with the brazen look of a man sizing up a woman for his bed. My hackles began to rise and my hands doubled into fists as I got slowly to my feet.

  The young warrior raked me with his eyes one last time before he backed down and turned to follow his father. I stood there glaring at his back, thinking I’d have to put the randy pup in his place once Arthur returned.

  ***

  When our business was concluded in London, I took the household back to the fortress above Cadbury, stopping by the villa at Cunetio. The excess of daughters who sought to be ladies-in-waiting lived here, since there was simply no way to have all of them at Camelot at one time, and I intended to tell them that, with the death of Vinnie, they would have to return to their families. But the majority of them begged to follow me home, and in the end I accepted their requests with a certain chagrin—without Vinnie, I would have to look after them myself.

  We spent the first week at Camelot sorting out which trunk belonged to whom, finding enough box-beds to sleep them all, and rounding up every available mattress. Some of these were not in the best of condition, and I made a note to collect extra barley straw for new stuffing come harvest time. At least, I thought gratefully, I can pass my summer in simple tasks, with nothing more demanding than trying to find ways to keep my ladies occupied and overseeing the workers when harvest time arrived. With any luck, Arthur would return to find a rested wife and well-provisioned headquarters.

  So I was hardly expecting news of great note when Lynette found me pulling up weeds in the little garden that had become my private retreat. “There’s a Druid asking for an audience,” she reported. “He says his name is Cathbad, and he won’t talk to anyone but you.”

  The name came from far back in the past, and I rocked back on my heels. “I expected all Druids to be old and crabbed,” the gamin went on. “But this one looks to be in his prime and right handsome, too.”

  I nodded my agreement and brushing the dirt from my hands, walked thoughtfully toward the Hall. In some ways I put no more trust in Druids than I did in Christian priests, and for all that Cathbad had been my tutor in Rheged, I wondered what brought him to Camelot. Years ago he’d gone to serve the Lady at her Sanctuary by the Black Lake, and I’d never been sure but what the High P
riestess had turned him against me.

  Cathbad was standing at the far end of the room, scrutinizing the tapestry of the Red Dragon. His back was still straight, his hair still thick, and when he slowly turned to study the architecture of our Hall, his face was full of the same intense curiosity with which he used to dissect flowers or examine a new insect with his students. A rush of nostalgic fondness swept over me.

  “Well come, friend,” I called. He brought his gaze down from the roof beams and, after carefully appraising me, gave me a smile touched with paternal pride. When he held out his arms in invitation, I ran to him, kneeling to receive a blessing. “It’s been a very long time.”

  “That it has,” he answered, laying his hands gently atop my head. “But you’re the royal one here, so I suggest you get back on your feet, Missy.”

  The use of my family nickname was equally dear, and by the time we sat down for tea, we’d slipped into the old teacher-pupil roles. It was then, over a cup of peppermint brew, that he came to the reason for his visit: Morgan le Fey intended to hold a ceremony at Stonehenge on midsummer’s morn for the purpose of purifying Agravain.

  “What!” I exclaimed, suddenly pulled back to being High Queen. “Morgan is coming to Logres? Right into the heart of Arthur’s kingdom—when Arthur’s banished her on pain of death? Surely you are mistaken.”

  “I’m afraid not. She seems to think she can act with impunity since her brother’s across the Channel.” Cathbad looked down into his tea and inhaled its fragrance. “I myself was sent to carry the word to other Druids, to the doires who keep the sacred wells, and to such of the peasantry as would like to attend.”