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

by Persia Woolley

  We lived simply for the moment, as much intent on finding food and shelter as on our travel, and both body and spirit grew stronger. The horror in Carlisle’s Square began to fade, as though all that went before had happened to someone else.

  When we reached the confluence of the North and South Tyne, we made a small camp and fire in the protection of a long-deserted hill-fort. “Do you suppose,” I mused as I turned the salmon on its willow-wand spit and stared into the coals of our tiny fire, “that I am still Queen, for all that I’m living in the wilds like an outlaw?”

  “Probably,” Lance responded. “The people will not forget you so fast, nor will Arthur. And I’m quite sure they’ll be wanting you back, sooner or later.”

  I groaned aloud at the thought. Lance had brought me a second chance, a new life over and above the one my moira had envisioned, and I wanted to reach out and take hold of it freely, without being tied to what used to be. The past was over and gone.

  Except perhaps for Arthur…the picture of my husband standing alone as I was dragged back to the cell returned whenever I thought of him. Even now he was no doubt struggling through the turmoil following my rescue—alone, hemmed in, without anyone to break through his inner isolation. The idea brought a terrible pang, and I turned resolutely away from it. Once we reached Joyous Gard, I would send word that I was safe. Under the circumstances, there was nothing else I could do.

  “We need to get across the Wall,” Lance said, spearing a piece of salmon with his dagger. “We’d best follow the northern branch of the river up to Chester and see if we can slip across there.”

  “Chester? Yea Gods, that’s a full-sized community. They’ll have guards at every gate, for sure.”

  “I was thinking we’d swim under the bridge.”

  “Swim?” The word came out as a squeak. Lance made it sound like the most reasonable idea in the world, but I couldn’t have been more shocked if he’d suggested we sprout wings and fly. “Have you ever seen how fast the river rushes through there? And there are grates between the piers that hold up the bridge. I’ve seen them—put up by Romans to keep people from doing just what you’re suggesting.”

  “They’ve been untended for at least a hundred years then. Even elm is going to weaken somewhat in that time,” Lance noted, not understanding my reticence.

  “What if I can’t manage the swimming part?” I inquired. “I haven’t been in anything other than a calm pool since I was a child.”

  “You can always hang on to the horse’s tail, if your royal dignity doesn’t mind,” Lance teased, and I made a very unroyal face, convinced we were courting disaster.

  But Lance was not going to put aside the idea till he’d proved to himself it wasn’t possible, so the next night we crept along the bank of the North Tyne until we came in sight of the fort.

  It was in the heart of the night, with no moon above and most everyone asleep in the town. As we neared the ruins of the bathhouse, a dog set up a commotion, barking his challenge though we couldn’t even see him. He must have been on a chain, for there was shortly an explosion of swearing, a whine from the beast, and a noticeable silence.

  We stopped while I tore off a length from the bottom of my shift and Lance wrapped it around the horse’s bridle to keep the jingling from alerting anyone else. Then we started forward again, the Breton walking at the animal’s head, steadying him against nickering or snorting. And I trailed behind, my heart in my mouth as we came up to the walls of the fort.

  By great fortune the guardroom at our end of the bridge was lit with only a feeble lantern, and there was no sign of shadow or silhouette in the window. Torchlight spilled from the tower on the other end of the bridge, and from the laughter and swearing that carried on the summer night, it would seem that the sentries were involved in a dice game whose stakes were high enough to hold everyone’s attention.

  After we crept under the bridge to the abutment, Lance slid into the water and worked his way upstream to where the remnants of the grates slapped and pressed against the stone piers. It took some time, and a lot of strength, but he finally succeeded in tearing one away enough to allow us to get through.

  Since it was high summer, the water was down, or we might not have made it. As it was, both Lance and the horse had to struggle against the current, while I clung to Invictus’s tail and tried to keep from swallowing half the river. It was one of those wild, exhilarating experiences which could easily have turned to tragedy but in retrospect is called a fine adventure.

  The caterpillar spins its cocoon and emerges forever changed. The Christians claim to be reborn after baptism. And for all that I misunderstood her at the time, Nimue had promised me a new beginning. By the time I clambered out on the far shore of the Tyne, soaked and bedraggled, the last remnants of my old life had been swept away like the ashes in Carlisle’s Square. I was as clean and free-washed as the pebbles that tumble along the river’s bed…and full of excitement.

  “Didn’t think I could do it,” I declared, planting my hands on my hips like any country maid proud of her accomplishment.

  “You?” Lance responded, wiping down the horse and grinning at me in the starlight. “There isn’t anything you can’t do. I could have told you that. Now, get on up on Invictus’s back; there’s a clear path ahead and we’ll all dry off best at a brisk trot.”

  Later we tethered the stallion to a birch tree and bedded down on the woody slope that overlooks a curve in the river. For the first time since the entrapment I no longer went to sleep under a shadow of dread and sorrow.

  At dawn the pretty little song of a linnet wakened me, and when I stretched slowly and opened my eyes, it was to find the Breton propped up on one elbow, watching me intently. The look on his face was so loving, I flushed in surprise, and he laughed softly.

  “You snore, did you know that? Little, puffy snorts, as if you were muttering to yourself in your sleep.”

  “Hmmph,” I responded, reaching up to trace the tantalizing line of his lips with one fingertip. “Do you know what I was saying?” He shook his head, and I whispered, “Where’s Lancelot, where’s Lancelot…”

  “Right here, M’lady,” he answered, bending his head until his lips were covering mine—full, rich, and trembling as much as mine were. A breathless flutter of desire leapt to life in me, and when he started to lift his head, I raised mine to follow, unwilling to be separated from the mouth that had fascinated me for so long.

  Thus we embarked on our long-deferred idyll of loving. His hands moved over me like a sculptor’s, forming and smoothing, defining the shape of my desire from rib to haunch to hip, and I responded to his touch like a cat arching its back to be petted.

  Wave after wave of desire enfolded us, building slowly until all my limits began to melt, smudged and blending like the colors of a sunset. A fine, soft mist stole over us, making my skin both hot and cold—and still our lips touched, gliding, nibbling, sometimes breaking away, always plunging back like moths into a flame. Inside me the whole of existence trembled, rising, pulsing, turning toward his touch like a flower opening to the warmth of the sun.

  And when I rose to gather him to me, pulling, plunging, drawing him downward to the heart of the stars, a deep, unconscious moan rose between us.

  Afterward, dozing in the crook of his arm, I drifted as light and free as a butterfly wafting on the barest breeze. Isolde had once spoken of the indefinable wonder of being with Tristan, and I, jealous of such depth of intimacy, had not wanted to hear. Now I smiled to myself, saluting the Queen of Cornwall with full understanding. Lance and I might have lived all our lives without this coming together, but with the hindsight of experience, I would no longer call such a life complete.

  “Happy?” I asked, turning to look at my love.

  “Um-hm,” he confirmed, eyes closed but fingers playing with a lock of my hair. “And you?”

  I nodded vigorously, “I didn’t know…”

  It was true, I didn’t know it could be like this, but of a
sudden I wished I hadn’t said it. It was too much like comparing him with Arthur.

  “Nor I,” Lance sighed, his easy tone making me forget my embarrassment. “Perhaps,” he teased, opening one eye but not moving his head, “we should try it again sometime.”

  “Sounds like a good idea,” I agreed, sitting up and stretching my arms over my head. Yet even without seeing, I felt his eyes caressing me, and when I turned toward him, he was watching me intently.

  “Put your clothes on, Lady,” he grinned, “before I ravish you all over again.”

  I gave him a punch in the ribs, and then we were rolling and laughing like children half our ages, and when we came to a breathless stop, he looked down at me, slowly shaking his head. “It’s remarkable to be able to say I love you without having to rely on words.”

  Who knows how long we would have stayed there if Invictus hadn’t begun pawing the ground and reminding us that he, too, was awake. “It sounds,” my lover noted with a sigh, “as though the old fellow thinks we’d best be on our way.”

  ***

  Whether because the constraints of the past were lifted or simply because we took such joy in being alive, the rest of the trip to Warkworth was more pleasurable than difficult. We followed the ever-changing Tyne past swirling pools, whiffling rapids, mossy crags, and fringing woods. I loved its marvelous liquid song, and was sorry to leave it when we turned up the stream they call the Rede and headed for the high, heather-covered moors.

  Soon the soft leafiness of the river valley was left behind. Instead of dappled shade and gentle zephyrs there was naught but wide skies and rolling, sweeping, wind-swept hills covered with rippling grasses. We made our way along tracks that followed the curve of the land, occasionally climbing to the high summits where the moors were bursting into purpie splendor. Huge buzzards wheeled lazily overhead, while skylarks from the grassy slopes below hurled their tiny bodies upward, frantically fluttering higher and higher into the blue as they flung their song against the day.

  Not since childhood had both body and spirit been so free, and I ran to the brow of a hill, arms extended to the wind that ruffled my hair as it combed the grass. Lance caught me from behind and, locking his arms around my waist, lifted me from the ground. I leaned my head back against his shoulder as we spun in gentle circles, there on the top of the world. I don’t think either of us had ever been happier.

  Signs of people were few and far between in this high, open land. Once I saw the hives of a beekeeper—brought, no doubt, to collect the special nectar of the heather—and occasionally Lance would point out the distant outline of a steading on a south-facing hill. By tacit agreement we avoided such places, me because I wanted no intrusion into this happiness, Lance for fear of recognition.

  But when a summer storm came racing across the sky, we were forced to seek shelter at a crofter’s home. The wind was whipping around us as I piled my hair under a cap Lance had, then hid the whole by drawing the monk’s hood up as we approached the rundown steading.

  A farm wife appraised us with silent thoroughness, eyes narrowing at the sight of the warhorse. Just then a gust of rain swept across the farmyard, so she gave a terse nod of welcome and ordered the boy by the barn to look after the horse.

  “Kimmins’s hunting,” the woman allowed as she led the way into a farmhouse with drystone walls and a heavy thatched roof. “But I’ve enough pease porridge for supper, whether he brings home meat or not.”

  “We’re much obliged,” Lance answered as I drew close to the fire-pit, grateful to be inside while the rain pelted down.

  A small girl was sitting by the cooking pot, carefully carding a hank of wool. She stared at us open-mouthed, and when her mother came to stir the porridge, the child asked in a hoarse whisper, “Why’s he not wearing a kilt?”

  “He’s from the south, I presume,” the woman answered, then gave her a dour look. “It’s rude to ask questions, child.”

  So we sat in silence while the farm wife went about her chores. When she set out bowls and a chunk of thick barley bread, I asked what I might do to help, but received only a curt admonition to rest myself.

  Luckily the storm drove Kimmins home early, a bag of young grouse slung over one shoulder. He was a weathered, hardy man, in all ways as outgoing as his wife was reticent. Both he and his two grown sons immediately made us welcome.

  By the time the rains passed, we had feasted well and were sitting cozy around the fire. The farm wife disappeared into some dark corner while the younger children bundled up in their boxbed, but the older boys hunkered on the dirt floor by their father, and I sat on a cushion at Lance’s feet, my head resting against his knee. Kimmins searched through the firewood piled near the hearth, and finding a pine knot, drew his dagger and began to whittle on it.

  “Two sets of visitors in barely a week—now that’s remarkable,” he noted casually, eyes intent on his woodwork. “Mayhap the two are connected?”

  “Mayhap,” Lance responded carefully. “The first wouldn’t be someone from the High King’s Court, would it?”

  The crofter snorted as his knife sent a scatter of chips flying. “A fellow wearing the badge of Orkney—said he was Agravain’s man. He was an arrogant sod, who searched the house in disbelief that we weren’t hiding Lancelot and the Queen.”

  I sat very still, not making a sound, but looking back and forth between Kimmins and his sons.

  Lancelot absorbed the news thoughtfully. “Did he say where he was headed? Further north, perhaps?”

  “Doubt it.” Kimmins had outlined a face around a knot in the wood and paused now to hold it to the light, appraising it critically. “Don’t think Uwain would care for that. Urien was a good old King, but this son of his keeps a tight rein on his lands, even down here. He’s not about to put up with strangers marching through his territory, giving orders to those of us as lives here.”

  “What sort of orders?” The words were out before I knew it.

  Kimmins was bending over his work, intent on adding the last few touches, his blade flashing this way and that. “Demanded we send word if the couple showed up. Says they’re wanted for treason.”

  At the word Lance put his hand on my head. But our host never looked up. “Such men’ll whistle up a snowstorm in August before they hear from the likes of us; we don’t take kindly to outlanders telling us what to do.” He made one last nick in the carving, then held it up for my inspection. “There now, I do believe it’s a bogey I found. Every piece of wood has its sprite, you know.”

  A funny, lopsided face with huge horse teeth peered out of the whorls of the pine knot, and I smiled at the humor of it, in spite of my fear.

  “I’d be honored if you’d take it, M’lady. Might help lift your spirits,” Kimmins allowed gruffly. “I think it’s that Hedley Kow who loves to disrupt things in the kitchen and always vanishes laughing.”

  We slept that night in a bed—the children having been doubled up to make room for us—and, after a breakfast of porridge, prepared to continue on our way. The little wood carving was carefully packed in Lance’s saddlebag.

  Kimmins never asked our names, but insisted on giving me a pony to ride.

  “And not to worry about returning it,” he added, helping me up onto the beast’s back. “If I need it, I fancy I’ll find some way to let you know.”

  We left him with a wave and a prayer of thanksgiving, sure our safety would be well guarded.

  ***

  From there on, Lance and I rode constantly, making our way down Coquetdale with the dark escarpments of the Simonside Hills guarding the south and the bright, playful river leading us from the high moors through cool green canyons and out onto the coastal plane.

  There, in the broad, sweeping loop that swings past its rocky knoll, Coquet River brought us to Joyous Gard and home.

  Chapter XXXII

  Bargains

  There is much to love about the north—the hardy honesty of the people, the wild and untouched sweep of the land, the const
ant challenge of the weather. The south of Britain may be lush and poetic and pretty as a garden most of the year round; Northumbria is crisp apples in old orchards, and great huge clouds piling up over the North Sea, and the graying housekeeper who came running into the yard as we emerged from the forest track that leads to Joyous Gard.

  “’Tis Himself returned!” she exclaimed, arms flapping and face aglow. “And he’s brought the Lady with him, safe and sound.” A sudden frown dampened her exuberance when she saw the bandage on Lance’s arm. “You aren’t bad hurt, are you?” she queried, looking anxiously up at him.

  “No, Mrs. Badger,” he assured her as he swung down from Invictus. “Nothing that your good cooking and a little rest won’t cure.”

  She reddened at the compliment and ducked her head bashfully; it always amused me how easily women of all ages were charmed by Lance. Then she turned her shrewd blue eyes my way, and I caught a moment of quick appraisal as she tried to assess how much trouble I was likely to be. Between the natural caution of the peasant confronted by royalty and her own fierce protectiveness of Lance, I had the bemusing thought the woman might run me off if she didn’t like what she saw.

  “Well come, Your Majesty,” she said at last, essaying an awkward curtsey.

  “Oh no, Mrs. Badger,” I interjected quickly. “There’s no need for that. I’m simply the Master’s Lady here.”

  She flashed me another look, this one a bit warmer. But the voice remained stubbornly neutral. “We’ll see about that,” she declared, clearly reserving the right to restore my queenly status in the future, if she saw fit. “Now then, let’s get you inside and into some fresh clothes.”

  Since her own garments would have gone around my lanky frame twice over, we settled for one of Lance’s old tunics and a pair of breeches her youngest son had outgrown. They weren’t fancy but were more convenient than either of the long-skirted garments I’d lived in for the last few weeks.