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

by Persia Woolley

  “But what of you and Lancelot?” she asked, smiling in return. “How does the other famous pair of the day?”

  “The same as ever. Close, without touching. He’s been gone recently, acting as envoy for us among the northern tribes. The chieftains beyond the Wall respect him; they call him the Man of Honor.”

  One dark brow lifted gracefully, and Isolde shook her head. “I have never really understood what all this fuss over honor is about…which was, no doubt, part of the problem with Tris.”

  “No doubt,” I concurred. It was their lack of honor that had so shocked the world. Swept up in a “fated love,” they had stooped to all forms of lying and duplicity in order to continue meeting, never honestly admitting the affair that everyone else tittered over. Until they ran away together, that is.

  “No two people should love each other the way we did,” she said softly. “And it’s good that he’s in Brittany. I’m not sure I could go on being Cornwall’s Queen if he were closer.”

  The admission came from some deep, central part of her and was doubly poignant because I knew how thoroughly she had been trained to consider the needs of her people first. No queen leaves her throne except under the direst of circumstances—or when the country’s security demands it.

  “I notice there’s quite a contingent of young men with white shields in your entourage.” Isolde changed the subject gracefully, turning to look out at the men preparing for a display of horsemanship. “Isn’t that something new?”

  “The Queen’s Men,” I responded. “Made up of warriors who have vowed to serve me until such time as war crops up. It began with the youngsters who followed Lance about everywhere, and when he took Mordred as his squire, they became a sort of informal cadre with Gareth and Mordred at their head.”

  “They make a pretty sight,” the Irish beauty mused.

  And a gay one, with their bright-colored pennants flying as high as their youthful spirits. When Mordred became a full-fledged warrior and member of the Round Table, it was the Queen’s Men who cheered him loudest and toasted him longest. Lance was as proud to sponsor him as he had been in sponsoring Gareth, and even Arthur took part in the festivities, clapping the new warrior on the back and announcing we were lucky to have such fine swordsmen at our command. Mordred beamed with pleasure, taking in the much-deserved attention like a thirsty plant drinking in dew. It was the high point of his young life, that precious moment when dream and reality almost came together. If only it hadn’t been so short-lived.

  “M’lady, I need your advice,” Mordred ventured as we rode to Wells to fill our kegs with the holy water that bubbles out of the ground. Such water was indispensable for use in preparing medicines. “Now that I have become one of the Companions, I would like to find some way to better serve the King…some special cause, or quest. Do you know what he might like best?”

  What was I to say? I, who knew Arthur would never allow him close, never even admit to their blood-tie? I looked at Mordred and realized for the first time that he was a grown man seeking to make his way in an adult’s world.

  “Perhaps,” I said cautiously, “you can be most helpful politically. That is, take an interest in his plans for the Round Table, help him coordinate the new law, or act as envoy to outlying allies. Why, with your friendship with Cynric, you’d be a natural to advise His Highness on the Saxon Federates. There is no one who takes a special interest in their problems or represents their needs at Court. Maybe you can fill that niche.” At the time it seemed a stroke of inspiration, and I was well pleased to have come up with it.

  The doire who guarded the sacred waters was very busy that day. Not only did the royal party fill the enclosure of her precinct, there was a gathering of locals milling about outside the temple grounds.

  “The Witch,” somebody whispered. “The Witch of Wookey has come to confer with the doire.”

  A shiver ran down my spine. Years ago I had heard of the hag who lived in the cave known as Wookey Hole. I had even thought of visiting her in my effort to cure my barrenness, though Gwyn had cautioned against it, saying she was known to be as much inspired by evil as by good.

  We waited with the rest of the supplicants, listening to local gossip and speculation about the witch. “Has the Sight,” someone said. “Casts the evil eye,” reported another. “Doesn’t take kindly to being slighted,” a third volunteered. Finally, about the time I was thinking we should leave and come back another day, the door of the temple swung open and a crabbed crone sidled onto the porch of the holy house. The goat at her side paused and surveyed the gathering with its strange, hypnotic eyes.

  “What’s this?” the Witch croaked, blinking in the sunlight. She peered about the glade as her fingers curled around the crystal ball which hung from her belt. “Royal visitors as well as commons? The Pendragon’s Queen, no less—a lady too proud to visit the Witch of Wookey, back when she wanted children.”

  I stared at her in amazement, wondering how she knew. Without a word she marched straight up to me.

  “There’s not much I don’t know, my proud one,” she cackled, scanning my face with white-webbed eyes. “This old granny still has a trick or two up her sleeve.”

  With that she turned and stumped away, the crowd parting silently to let her through. Some covered their eyes, while others bowed before her. I just stood there, involuntarily making the sign against evil.

  “What was that all about?” Mordred inquired.

  “A minor problem, from back before you came to Court,” I answered, shrugging off the encounter. “Nothing to concern us now.”

  We waited our turn with the doire, then hurried back to Camelot, for Palomides was leaving to go settle in Northumbria and I didn’t want to miss bidding him farewell. At the time, he was hoping to capture and train his own hawks there, though that was a project that never came to fruition.

  Nor was the Arab the only one to leave. Ector de Maris returned to live on the Continent for good, while both Lionel and Bors divided their time between Camelot and Brittany. At one point my wry friend Dinadan accompanied them to Brittany, in order to visit Tristan at Howell’s court.

  Bedivere returned to Camelot after Clovis died, bringing me a lovely knee-length tunic of crimson silk which was a gift of Queen Ingunde, consort to Clovis’s son, Chlotar. There was also a remarkable collar of filigreed and granulated gold for Arthur and a fine set of the glass claw-beakers still being made in the Rhineland despite the collapse of the Empire. Since the Britons have no knowledge of how to make glass themselves, these were a fine, rare gift.

  My foster sister, Brigit, left the convent in Amesbury to start a holy house of her own in the Chiltern Hills, near London. Bedivere, who had once hoped to marry the Irish girl, escorted her and her sisters to their new home, and stayed to make sure they were settled in and safe before coming back to us.

  A sense of adventure filled our Hall during those days. Camelot had become a hub for travelers passing from north to south, east to west. News of happenings far or near was brought to our doorstep almost as quickly by our guests as by the Royal Messengers. And if there was a challenge to be found, the men could count on hearing it first at Camelot.

  Ever since Gareth had made his name by besting Ironside, the rest of the Companions had been busy devising quests of their own. Off they went, alone or in groups of two or three, sometimes on a definite mission, sometimes simply looking for wrongs to right, injustices to redress.

  “It’s becoming an occupational hazard,” Arthur commented one night at bedtime. “Thank goodness they don’t all take a notion to leave at once!”

  “Well, it really isn’t doing any harm,” I responded, removing the pins from my hair. “And Dagonet’s foray into Cornwall gave us all a good laugh.”

  Our Jester had gone to visit his cousin at Castle Dore, and while he was there, had composed a very unflattering song about King Mark. The old goat heard it and Dagonet was forced to leave rapidly with Gaheris, who traveled with him, guarding his flank.r />
  “Not,” the Jester assured us, “because the work was of poor quality, but because its content was too truthful.”

  Arthur laughed and agreed that it had added a certain spice to Dagonet’s report on the southern shore. “At least things are quiet politically. God help me if the Saxons decided to make trouble when half my men are gone.”

  But the Saxons stayed quiet, as did Morgan le Fey. Cathbad, who retained his good standing with the rest of the Druids, kept a sharp ear out for any word that the Lady of the Lake was preparing to leave the Sanctuary. So far there were not even any rumors to that effect. I myself kept an eye on Agravain, fearing that he might be acting as a spy for Morgan. But the behavior of Morgause’s most handsome son was above reproach, and he stayed close to Camelot, except when he occasionally sallied forth on minor quests of his own. These were invariably resolved quickly—Agravain being a deadly fighter—and never lasted long enough to include a trip to the Black Lake.

  As the time of peace and plenty spun out, Lance left us more and more often, following some adventure or going to his retreat at Joyous Gard. There he worked in his garden, attending to the orchard or overseeing the kitchen crops, and patrolled the Northumbrian coast for Arthur.

  “Urien has done a fine job overall, but he’s getting old and stiff and can use the help,” the big Breton explained. “Then, too, it’s a good way to keep my men and horses in trim.”

  Lance and I never spoke of the summer when Tristan and Isolde, and all my ladies and I, joined him at Joyous Gard for a season of laughter and gaiety and nothing more pressing than the discovery of love. Sometimes I wondered if it had truly happened, or if it was only the half-remembered dream of a Queen so busy with matters of state she’d lost touch with the earth itself. Either way I did not dwell on it.

  In those golden years each man contributed his own color to the Round Table mosaic. Gareth became a father twice over. Gaheris came into his own, proving to be the most stable of the Orcadians. Bors continued to build a reputation as a fierce and colorful warrior; Christian or not, he was known for showing no mercy, and I cannot recall his ever being bested. Cei, on the other hand, was forever getting beaten; even though he’d grown solid through the middle, he regularly went off looking for glory—and generally came out the loser.

  Once, when we were holding Court at Caerleon, the Seneschal decided to check on reports of a bandit band and stumbled onto three of Vortipor’s men instead. Cei’s haughty manner angered them thoroughly, and the warriors responded in kind. Their shouting match escalated to the drawing of swords, and Arthur’s foster brother had to make a hasty retreat, galloping headlong into the yard of a roadhouse and bolting for the pub just ahead of his pursuers.

  “Lance and I happened to be staying there, as we’d been checking the horses at Llantwit,” Mordred reported. “We’d just set up the chess board by the fire, and you can imagine how surprised we were to see the Seneschal come pelting into the tavern as though the Sidhe were chasing him. We ordered more ale and settled down to an evening exchanging news. When the ruffians came to the door, they saw the odds had grown more even, so they went away.”

  Both Cei and Mordred assumed Vortipor’s men had returned to their own camp, but the next morning Lance got up very early and taking up Cei’s shield and helmet, went down to the stable and stole his horse as well. He’d been riding less than a mile before the threesome broke cover, thinking they would finish off the Seneschal for good. Much to their surprise, the man they took for Cei taught them a quick lesson and left them all with sore heads and bruised ribs. Later the Seneschal rode home astride Invictus, wearing Lance’s armor. Naturally no one accosted him, thinking him to be the Breton.

  “And that,” Mordred concluded happily, “is why the Seneschal is currying Lance’s stallion in the stable right now.”

  The tale amused everyone, but none enjoyed it more than Father Baldwin. The priest had grown quite fond of Cei—they shared a passion for good wines and sometimes talked until late into the night over a glass of the best from our cellar. “Do the Seneschal a world of good to relax and not take himself so seriously,” the holy man allowed, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “And I’m sure it does him good to know that, in spite of his sharp tongue, he has friends willing to risk their lives in his behalf.”

  During that time an odd friendship developed between Cathbad the Druid and Father Baldwin, for when he wasn’t imbibing with Cei, the cleric was fond of philosophizing with my old teacher. Perhaps all truly holy men have a natural bond.

  I would see them, sitting like cats in a pool of sunlight on any spring day, discussing the age-old questions of Existence. Baldwin would grow more and more excited as he developed some point, while Cathbad made a steeple of his fingers and leaned back in his chair, eyes closed. I could have told the priest that the Druid wasn’t asleep, that he was simply mulling over what he was hearing, but the cleric was so interested in his own ideas, he wouldn’t have stopped to listen to me. Nine times out of ten, Baldwin would suddenly stop and stare suspiciously at the Druid, horrified at the idea the man had nodded off in the middle of his argument.

  Only then would Cathbad move, opening his eyes and sitting upright. “You’re quite right, sir, as far as you go…” he would declare, and poor Baldwin, startled out of his wits, would sink back wordlessly while Cathbad picked up the theme exactly where Baldwin had left it. I sometimes wondered just who was playing with whom.

  ***

  There were major achievements and minor during that time. Mordred had not only learned the Saxon language from Cynric, he’d taught the hostage to read and write, so the two of them became our resident scholars. Between them they collected a vast number of riddles—Saxons are inordinately fond of wordplay—so there was many an evening spent round the fire with Cynric reciting the complicated descriptions and everyone else trying to guess their meaning. I was glad to see it, for now that he had reached manhood, the towhead clearly chafed at being held in captivity, no matter how comfortable it was. At least this gave him some way to participate in our communal lives.

  Of greater import was the adoption of the legal code. Slowly, over a long time, Arthur had generated enough enthusiasm among the client kings and warlords to make work on an actual code the next logical step.

  “It’s finally coming to fruition,” he told me gleefully after the Round Table Council in which Urien allowed he would at least study the code. “We’ll give them laws they can count on, rights they can be sure of. Oh, Merlin would be proud of this day, Gwen—proud indeed!”

  Interestingly, Gawain was as excited about the idea as Arthur. “No more local tyrants,” he allowed, “but a code of honor throughout the realm—what a fine notion that is!”

  I watched the redhead with amusement. As a boy he’d seemed destined to grow into the wildest of Celtic warlords. Yet now he was a man of courtesy, sworn to protect the weak—particularly if they were women—and uphold law and order.

  For all his brusque ways I was dearly fond of him and wished he would find a wife to round out the personal side of his life; someone to settle down with, as he had once thought to settle down with the Prydn Queen, Ragnell. But in his typically complex way, once the bitterness of the parting between himself and the leader of that small nomadic tribe was past, Gawain kept all other women at a distance. Rescue them, protect them, treat them with respect, yes. But let them get inside his guard…not likely.

  Until, that is, the Green Man came to prominence again. Suddenly the Prince of Orkney’s moira tightened around him as honor and courage and the love of his life all came together at once. It is a frightful, devastating thing to see that on which you’ve based your whole life be tested—I know, I speak from experience. In the end, of course, all you can do is face down your fears as best you can…as I shall at dawn, as Gawain did in the Perilous Chapel. And be grateful for the prayers of others. Heaven knows, we all prayed for the redhead when he went to meet the Old God’s challenge.

  Cha
pter XVII

  The Green Man

  It was in the very heart of autumn, after the harvest was in and the swineherds were shaking acorns and beechnuts down for their charges. The beekeeper was wrapping his skeps in straw for the winter and I was mixing the last of the summer’s honey into a pickling brew for hams when the messenger arrived requesting an immediate audience.

  I joined Arthur in the Hall, but he insisted that everyone, including the Companions, be present to hear the news, so I surveyed the stranger while we waited.

  Most of the Royal Messengers were young and agile, full of energy and knowledgeable about all the ways to travel quickly across the land, whether through the swampy marsh of the Somerset Levels or across the ragged spine of the Pennines. This man looked to be in his midyears, however, but hardy and capable of riding hard for long stretches. From the look of him, he’d come straight through, stopping only to get fresh mounts along the way. Whatever he had to relate must be important.

  When everyone was assembled, the messenger raised a tankard of ale in salute to us. “Your Hall is justly famous for its warmth and hospitality. It seems a pity to bring such harrowing news into this peaceful setting.”

  “Harrowing?” Gawain asked, reaching for the ale pitcher.

  “Indeed,” the man responded, covertly making the sign against evil. “The Green Man has been seen again.”

  It had been some time since we’d had reports of the creature, and Arthur sent me a sidelong glance. “What do they say of him now?”

  “That he’s a monster, Your Highness.” The man’s voice dropped and he glanced about apprehensively. “The churchmen claim he’s the horned devil, but there’s many who think he’s the Old One of the land—Master of the Wilds and all the animals thereof. He’s not only green, M’lord; leaves and branches sprout in his beard, out of his ears, even from his loins. Of course, I haven’t seen him in person, but those that have say he is a most awful giant. And he’s now challenging men to combat with his terrible ax.”