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

by Persia Woolley

  And in the long, dark hours on my cot, I scrambled mentally from one corner of the realm to another, desperately dredging my memory for every political favor owed us, every small warlord and local chieftain who might come to our aid. My own men of Rheged were now under Uwain’s rule: how they and the other northerners would react, I had no idea. All I could do was pray.

  The Bishop of London sent a terse note allowing that certain “irregularities” in my domestic arrangements had come to his attention, and he could not condone any actions I might seek to initiate. I saw the Latin letters on the wax tablet, but heard the voice of Gildas behind them, and cursing roundly, hurled the tablet against the stone wall.

  Nor was the Druids’ answer any better. Since they avoid writing things down, their answer was delivered in person by one of their representatives. He was a little man who wouldn’t look me in the eye. “We notice that you are inhabiting the tower the Romans built over the sacred mound containing Bran’s head. First, your husband digs up the skull in an unconscionable fashion, and now you hold Court on the holy ground without even asking our permission. It does not seem that you or your husband have much use for us, except when you need our help to maintain your own status,” he concluded nervously.

  I couldn’t throw him against the wall, but I stared at him coldly, and he scuttled out of sight without a backward glance.

  Among the politicians who responded, there were some, such as Petroc of Devon and Constantine of Cornwall, who swore constant loyalty, and some, such as Vortipor, who wanted to hedge their bets, inquiring who else was aligned with us and asking various favors. Gwyn, however, promised to have whatever fresh horses Arthur needed available after he landed.

  Wuffa’s answer was curt and belligerent. He sent a caustic note making it clear that the Britons need not look to the Swedish settlers for any sort of alliance. He also announced that his father’s name had been expunged from the tribal records because of his association with us, and in the future the tribe would be known as the Wuffings, not the Wehhings. I thought of the fierce old barbarian with the high pride and deep loyalty, and was sorry that the dynasty would not even carry his name.

  I kept a tally as the replies came in, leaving a question mark beside those who didn’t bother to reply. Perhaps, I told myself, they had not received the message.

  It was going on the second week when Nimue arrived, coming unannounced into the upper room as though materializing out of thin air.

  “Thought you’d want to know,” the doire began as she slipped off her dark cloak. “Arthur is on his way. Lancelot finally agreed to do battle with Gawain, but then only defended himself—wouldn’t follow up with blows of his own. In the end I don’t know if Gawain dodged into it, or Lance simply lost his control, but the Breton felled him with a blow to the head.”

  “Dead?” I asked, too numbed by recent events to be shocked.

  “Not that I could see.” Merlin’s apprentice accepted a cup of valerian tea and, after taking a sip, continued. “There are times when my Sight is blurred—like watching the reflection in a mill pond where the mists are rising. Merlin said it was often this way—when even he didn’t know for sure what he looked on.”

  “Have you seen anything of the future?” I asked, hoping for some kind of reassurance.

  Nimue drained her cup, then put it down on the camp table with great deliberation. “I see much death and sorrow, Gwen—an agonizing battle between Mordred and Arthur, with awful bloodshed. Gore and screams and the death throes of all Britain, if it can’t be averted…at least until the stars are better. Another month, perhaps another outcome. If they do battle now…” She lifted her pale hands in despair.

  “We need to find someone to talk to them…someone to mediate between them,” I announced, willing to clutch at any straw that floated by. “Arthur would listen to you. Who would Mordred take council from?”

  “Maybe the High Priestess. She’s the most logical choice, being his aunt.”

  The suggestion hit me in the pit of the stomach. The very idea of trusting Morgan in any way brought a bilious taste to my mouth. “How do we know she won’t try to kill Arthur during the negotiations?”

  The doire got to her feet and walked over to the window, where she stood staring out over the Thames for a long time. At last she sighed and, coming back, sat down across from me.

  “I can see nothing of her motives, or her hand in the matter—only the terrible destruction to come if we stand by and do nothing. How trustworthy she’ll be depends on what she stands to gain. The recognition and prestige she’d get by being a peacemaker might be enough, but you’d be wise to have something else to offer—something that only you can give her. What would that be?”

  “Good Glory, you’re asking me? After all these years I still don’t know what Morgan wants, besides power!”

  The doire tapped her finger against her teeth before replying. “Then that may be your solution. I know it’s hard for you, Gwen, but if there is a battle, she should be present for her healing talents alone.”

  I groaned at the realization that one way or another, I needed to ask Morgan for help. “How can I get a message to her?”

  “The Ancient Ones tell me she’s already left the Sanctuary at the Black Lake and seems to be heading for London. It’s possible she’ll seek you out with a bargain of her own.”

  “At least if she comes looking for me, I’ll be in a stronger position than if I have to make the request of her,” I muttered. “And how do you plan to get Arthur to accept this, after all she’s done to him?”

  The doire smiled softly. “I think he’ll listen to reason, Gwen. Negotiation, even through someone you don’t like, is still preferable to killing your own child.”

  Caught up in my own fear and worry for my husband, I had not thought what it would mean for him to have to go to war against Mordred. Dismay knotted my stomach, and Nimue came over and put her arms around me.

  “It’s not of your doing,” she said. “It is theirs…their moira, their choices. Has been since the day of the boy’s conception. The best we can do is try to keep it from ending in a bloodbath.” I stared up at her, and she gave me a gentle blessing and laid her fingertips on my eyelids. “Now, you just concentrate on Morgan. I’m off to join Arthur when he lands.” She moved away to the door, then turned and gave me a smile. “Pelleas wants you to know, he’ll be at Arthur’s side as well.”

  With that she was gone.

  During the next few days I thought constantly about what I could offer Morgan, weighing the matter over and over, even after I heard that the High Priestess had arrived in London. She made no effort to contact me, however, and on the second day, fearful that she would leave to go to Mordred’s side, I sent a message to her. She answered that she would come to the Tower the next morning.

  In the afternoon a runner arrived with word of Arthur’s landing and his first pitched battle with Mordred’s troops. “Blood all over,” the man panted, “and nothing decided. Mordred’s withdrawn, but the High King is following, sure as death.”

  The news turned London into a madhouse. Always a polyglot city of Saxon, Briton, Celt, and Roman, its peoples now reacted in wildly divergent ways. Everywhere was speculation and rumor: that Saxon partisans were taking over the city in Mordred’s name; the Druids were offering sanctuary to any who wished to accompany them to the sacred groves; Merlin himself was seen flying over the city Wall near Bishopsgate, where he ran into an elm tree and settled down to roost in its branches.

  Some of the stories were funny, others unnerving, and all of them without any shred of truth, though the people seemed to swallow them whole.

  And if that wasn’t enough, no sooner had the night darkened to the point where torches must be lit than the sentries on the walls sent out a horrendous cry. There, in the West, was a giant comet, plowing across the sky and leaving a furrow of sparks and fire in its wake. I stood and gaped at it, along with everyone else.

  What had been confusion quickl
y turned to terror. Believing it signaled the end of everything, people ran screaming through the streets, hid in attics, and growled like mad dogs at friends and relatives. Some got roaring drunk, others became suddenly devout, but all filled the night with their fear, making sleep impossible.

  I heard the commotion, saw the chaos, and wondered if they were right. Perhaps the world was coming to an end, at least as we knew it. “If so,” I prayed, “let it happen now, so that I can avoid meeting Morgan on the morrow.”

  But dawn came as usual, and with it the need to rise and dress for the occasion. Though I’d left Camelot with only my traveling dress and cape, I’d found one of my old silk dresses left behind in a cupboard in the Imperial Palace. It was the color of green apples and had been made for me from a garment my mother had owned.

  Enid helped me brush out my hair and pinned it into a simple bun at the back of my head, then held the bronze mirror while I slid Igraine’s torc around my neck. The end result, I decided, looked regal without being fussy, authoritative without being harsh.

  With luck, I told myself, Morgan and I can discuss this matter calmly, in a statesmanlike way—two monarchs negotiating rationally, in a climate of diplomatic propriety. One doesn’t have to like one’s counterpart to see the need for rational agreement when the life and death of a country are at stake.

  Finally, with a heavy heart, I thanked my women for their attendance, and taking a deep breath, went to the upper room to wait for the woman I feared most in the whole of Britain.

  Chapter XXXVI

  Morgan le Fey

  Morgan’s dwarf strode across the floor and planted himself directly in front of me. He was dressed in Kendal green, in a well-cut battle jacket that was padded and studded with brass bosses, and his stunted legs were covered by specially fitted boots. Just as in all our past meetings, he managed to look right through me, as though I didn’t exist.

  “Her Royal Highness, Morgan le Fey, Lady of the Lake and High Priestess of the Goddess,” he announced in stentorian tones.

  There was a rustle from the shadows beyond the door, and Morgan swept into the room, her cape flowing around her like a swirl of dark smoke. She was still petite and beautiful, with only a trace of gray threading through her black hair, and her green eyes were as compelling as ever.

  Once I had been intimidated by Morgan: by her beauty, her power, and her immense presence. Now I just felt ragged and worn down—a tired Queen too used to wielding power of my own to be overawed by a beautiful woman. Not that I underestimated my sister-in-law; clever and determined, she would drive a hard bargain—if, in fact, I could tempt her to negotiate. But her physical elegance no longer impressed me.

  When she came to a stop, I scanned her face, noting that age had not softened the vixen sharpness of her features. There were no overt signs of weakness that might give me an advantage: no petulant pout, no hint of overblown appetites. Over the years she had maintained the same purity of energy and dedication that had marked her as a young woman, though I noticed her mouth turned down in a perpetual frown. It was not a visage to inspire confidence in anything but her determination to get her own way. Still, I told myself, there were a few things I held the key to, and with careful bartering, we might reach a suitable agreement.

  “Well come, Sister,” I said, but I neither rose nor offered her the kinsman’s embrace. Instead I motioned to the camp chair on the other side of the small table. “Won’t you sit down? I was about to have tea served.”

  “I have little time,” the High Priestess snapped, looking at my Spartan living arrangements with obvious distaste. “If there is something you want from me, I suggest you name it.”

  “That you help stop this war between Arthur and Mordred.”

  My directness didn’t seem to disconcert her, though her eyebrows lifted.

  “Why should I? As I recall, as long as my brother is King, I am banished from Logres on pain of death…”

  “I’ll have that revoked,” I promised, hoping Arthur would honor it once the rebellion was quashed.

  She looked me up and down thoughtfully. “Can you do that?”

  “I can try, if you make peace between them.”

  So far our dialogue had been clear and to the point, and I began to hope the matter could be quickly settled.

  But my optimism was short-lived. Some center of gravity shifted in Morgan, so that she sank down in the chair and began slowly and deliberately taking off her gloves, as though she’d suddenly found all the time in the world.

  “What exactly did you have in mind?”

  “Negotiations between them. If each of them has a mediator and is willing and able to make a truce on the promise that the concerns of each side be addressed…Mordred will surely listen to you, and Nimue has said she’d represent Arthur.”

  “Nimue!” The name whipped out of Morgan’s mouth, and she jerked to her feet. “Merlin’s little darling? Have you forgotten I had to expel her from the Sanctuary for arrogance and insubordination?” My sister-in-law suddenly glared at me with the malevolence of a hoody crow.

  Drat, I thought, dimly remembering that back before Arthur and I married, Morgan had been jealous of Nimue’s powers. Apparently the High Priestess never relinquished a grievance, but guarded them like a miser hoarding gold.

  “Perhaps you need not deal with her,” I hedged. “Perhaps I can arrange for you to meet directly with Arthur.”

  It was a gamble, and one I felt very unsure of, but the idea caught her fancy, and Morgan sat down again and scanned my face with her green cat’s eyes.

  “How unfortunate that two men of such close kinship should be at each other’s throats,” she purred. “It is truly a pity when father and son set out to kill each other.”

  “So you knew…” The words came out involuntarily, and she smiled at my surprise.

  “And you wonder why I never made it public?” Morgan lifted her shoulders with an exasperated sigh and looked off into a space of her own. “My poor, foolish sister…Morgause was never very bright, you know. Big and lusty, she was the one to inherit Mother’s passion for men. Not that she was besotted in the ways Mother was—never prattled on about love and always saw bed for the path to power that it is. But she didn’t think things out very clearly. I remember how proud she was…so proud of having seduced Arthur, bragging to me that she would bind him to her by producing his child, as if it would make any difference to him!”

  Morgan shook her head sadly, still seemingly distressed by her sister’s naïveté.

  “Men walk away from bed with a shrug and a laugh, but a woman is branded, sniggered at, seen as a whore or tawdry plaything and tossed aside. That was something Morgause never understood, anymore than Mother did. Oh, I suppose the guilty secret of incest could have given her some leverage over Arthur, if she hadn’t let Merlin drive her away from Court. But as it was, she was driven out, left to bear the child and raise it by herself. Arthur took no heed of it at all…or of her, for that matter. Never once sent to inquire how she was, if she lacked for anything, what she might need or want. He’d taken his pleasure, and that was that.”

  I winced at the insult to my husband and had to bite my lip to keep from blurting out a rebuttal. But Morgan was caught in the grip of some inner fury and didn’t see my response.

  Anger and vindictiveness filled her face, twisting her mouth awry. “That for the power men take to themselves!” she snarled, spitting furiously on the floor.

  I gasped at the vehemence of her action, but she quickly regained her composure, sitting back in the chair and carefully arranging the folds of her garment across her lap. By the time she spoke again, both her voice and manner had returned to normal

  “When I realized Morgause had died without even telling the boy, I saw no reason to broadcast what had happened. A secret loses its power if it becomes common knowledge, and I suppose I thought someday I’d find a use for the information. In the meantime, why ruin Morgause’s reputation? She may have spent entirely too
much time stumbling in and out of bed, but she was still my sister, after all.”

  I stared at Morgan with bemused surprise. Who would have thought that familial loyalty to her sister would override Morgan’s desire for revenge against Arthur? As for myself, I was too exhausted from too many nights without sleep to worry about who knew or didn’t know about the incest.

  The Lady of the Lake suddenly changed both mood and subject, leaning toward me and speaking in a most patronizing way. “Mordred and I are very close, you know. He’s asked me to become the Dowager Queen if I join his rebellion against your husband. We’ll be discussing the matter shortly.”

  So that was why she’d left the Sanctuary. I nodded slowly, glad to know that Mordred had appealed to her political vanity.

  “Does he also promise to support your religious crusade?” I inquired. “Build new temples, honor your rites with his presence, help spread the new teaching?” It was the one thing I felt confident she could not get from him.

  Morgan’s green eyes narrowed, but not before a gleam of interest flashed through them. I followed my advantage immediately.

  “As I recall, Mordred has little use for any deity, much less the Goddess. He’d be an odd one to champion your cause—and not nearly as effective as I could be.”

  “In return for my helping Arthur?”

  I nodded in affirmation as Enid appeared at the doorway, bringing the teapot and biscuits on a tray. With great deliberateness I turned my attention to the tea things, giving my sister-in-law time to weigh my offer.

  When the herbal brew had been poured and Enid retreated, I looked over at Morgan and saw a cool, calculating smile on her face. Clearly she was intrigued by my proposal. It was then I backed away from the subject, hoping to force her to reach for the bait, to commit to wanting it.

  “Such a nice tradition,” I said casually, handing her a cup of tea.”I learned it from Igraine.”