Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn

by Persia Woolley

  Only Lance, keeping himself as distant from me as I was from him, could guess at the chaos inside—the unshed tears, the long, heart-broken pleadings with the Gods, the wild swings between rage and sorrow.

  The thought of Elaine filled me with silent curses—at the girl, at Lancelot, and finally at the Gods. I turned the subject first this way and then that, trying to find a way to accept it graciously, but the very possibility of her bearing him a son opened too many taunts from the past.

  At least he had told me as soon as he heard the news, so it wasn’t really like finding out about Mordred. I had had no warning about that, for Arthur had kept the wretched secret of his fatherhood hidden from all save Bedivere and Merlin. So I’d blundered into that discovery all unknowing, and been devastated by Morgause’s gloating revelation.

  It had never occurred to me that Arthur might have a child by someone else—or that that someone might be his own half sister. He hadn’t known who she was at the time, though Morgause had been fully aware when she lured him, young and bedazzled by his triumph at the Great Battle, into her incestuous bed. He discovered soon after, and she’d made sure he knew when Mordred was born, holding the secret of his paternity over Arthur like a sword balanced precariously over his head. And when Mordred was coming up to his eleventh birthday, she brought him to Court so that he could serve Arthur along with his brothers Gawain and Gaheris and Agravain.

  Mordred’s existence did much to explain Arthur’s hatred of Morgause, but there would never be any way to know what her plans had been for the boy; it was barely a day later that Agravain had cut off his mother’s head. Arthur’s family never did anything by half measures.

  Morgause’s death relieved us of worrying about her plots and schemes. But it also left Mordred a half orphan—full orphan in the eyes of the world, who assumed King Lot had fathered him on the eve of the Great Battle. Poor hapless child, born into a skein of bitter conniving that was none of his making—I could not let him be cast away so cruelly.

  So I had insisted we take the boy in. As yet no one had guessed his relationship to Arthur, and I had no idea how much Mordred himself knew. Like his mother’s death, it was not something we spoke of. That’s where the matter rested and might well remain, for Arthur was not likely to acknowledge the lad on his own.

  But Lancelot’s son was a different matter. Whereas Arthur’s paternity was silent, Lance’s would probably be trumpeted throughout the realm. And while I could have a hand in raising Mordred, there was neither reason nor likelihood that Elaine would let me anywhere near her child. In all probability she’d try to take the Breton back to Carbonek, and I told myself that that was better than having the two of them stay here. Lance was a natural father—the sort of man who stops to swing a toddler up on his shoulder or console a child with a scraped knee, a broken toy, a lost kite. How often I’d seen him walking down to the barn, surrounded by a gaggle of children all full of questions or riddles or just the pleasure of being near their idol—only Bedivere was as beloved by the youngsters. So I could not believe he would turn aside from one of his own.

  But neither was I willing to let him go without a struggle. What had happened could not be undone, but I prayed the Gods would spare us a public scene; with any luck I could intervene, could meet the girl privately and try to deflect the demands I felt sure she’d make on Lancelot.

  But whether by accident or design, my nemesis arrived at Court while the entire household was assembled for dinner.

  Lucan the Gatekeeper marched importantly into the center of the circle, round face beaming, and trumpeted, “Elaine of Carbonek asks that you grant entrance to her and her son, Galahad.”

  A gasp of surprise went through the assemblage and I froze, stung by fire and ice. Arthur, who was gnawing on a drumstick, shot me an inquiring glance. Putting the best face on it that I could, I smiled at my husband and told the Gatekeeper to show her in.

  Elaine glided across the Hall like a wraith floating above the ground. In spite of coming from the poverty-stricken Waste Land, she was handsomely arrayed, wearing a pale green mantle of softest wool. Where the hood fell back, her red hair tumbled in ringlets and curls down over her ample bosom. A sizable bundle of blankets filled her arms, and she held it tenderly for fear of waking the child within. Once she was clearly the center of attention, she paused, ingenuously staring down at her offspring’s face. The sanctity of young motherhood surrounded her and the babe like a nimbus, and when she had basked fully in its aura, she lifted a soft and limpid gaze to Lancelot.

  In spite of all my effort, a gut-wrenching anger leapt up behind my mask of royal dignity. The girl, however, chose not to acknowledge my presence, either in word or look. Turning slowly to Arthur, she curtsied deeply, her expression radiating sublime happiness.

  “Your Highness. I bring you a new warrior, who will be raised to serve you as well as his father has.”

  Arthur smiled indulgently at the young beauty. “And who might his father be?”

  “Why, I thought the whole world knew.” Elaine dimpled demurely. “It’s Lancelot of the Lake.”

  “Lance!”

  Arthur’s surprise ricocheted around the Hall, and all eyes turned to the Breton, who flushed furiously. “By the Horned One,” my husband swore, “what a wonderful surprise. Why didn’t you tell us?”

  My heart plummeted as Lancelot rose to his feet. He’d gone very pale and looked only at Arthur, not me or Elaine. “Because I didn’t know. I have not seen this lady for two full years, M’lord, and she sent me no word.”

  “Well, no matter. The news has finally arrived.” Arthur banged his fist on the table and leaning back in his carved chair, grinned happily at his lieutenant. “Splendid news. Absolutely splendid. About time you settled down and started a family.”

  Lance gulped, and a hundred words of denial crowded my throat, but I kept my jaws clenched though my face burned scarlet. Gawain, who had guffawed the loudest at the news, now led a cheer for the new father, and the men clapped and stamped their approval.

  “You must help arrange the wedding,” Arthur announced, turning to me. His voice and manner were so expansive, you’d think parenthood was a state he much desired. “We’ll make it a royal occasion. And,” he went on, beaming again at the girl, “if your father is still too ill to travel, I’ll take his place at the Bride Blessing. That is, if you wish.”

  “Oh, yes, Your Highness.” Elaine’s response was breathless with pleasure, and she sent him a flutter of appreciative smiles.

  The fury in me slipped its leash, and I leapt to my feet without thought or volition. One of the pages jumped forward to pull my chair back and I mumbled some hasty excuse before I stormed through the kitchen door. The Hall had gone abruptly silent, but the force of my anger drove me out into the night without regard to protocol. If I must be drawn and quartered emotionally, it didn’t have to be in public.

  I started down toward the stables, instinctively heading for the hay-sweet security of Featherfoot’s stall. Originally my mother’s mare, she’d been the gentle companion of my whole life, nickering and nudging and simply letting me cry against her neck many times in our years together. But the laughter of stablehands gathered in the tack room caused me to veer away from that haven, and I retreated to the garden instead.

  Whatever the response to my abrupt departure, the merriment in the Hall had resumed, the glad gabble of congratulations murmuring behind me. No doubt the precious beauty from Carbonek was handing Galahad to his father. Mentally I saw the child waking to stare, sleepy-eyed and curious, at Lance…could see the great Champion drinking in the warm innocence of young life, enraptured by the miracle of his own offspring. When the toddler laughed and reached toward the sparkle of Lance’s eyes, how could he fail to smile in return?

  In the tree above me a thrush burst into song, casting its net of magic against the stars, and my heart welled with the ache of my own inadequacy, the sorrow of impossible dreams. Not only would I never know such a moment with
a child of my own, now I was about to lose Lance to one who did.

  Sinking down on the marble bench, I stared up into the night, waiting for the blessed release of tears. Yet anguish closed my throat and neither sound nor tear came forth. Stifled, choked off, unable to lessen the misery with weeping, I sat still as a statue in the starlight, without even the moon for company.

  Gradually the sounds of the Hall fell to a soft mutter as I plunged into the black night within. Lost, alone, cut off from the cheerful embrace of my Court because of a love I couldn’t have and a barrenness I couldn’t change, I shivered in misery and barely realized that Lance was speaking from behind me.

  “Is that you, Gwen? I thought you’d retired to your chamber.”

  I began to tremble as the hoarse-whispered words reached me, cringing before the news I was so sure he’d bring.

  He came to stand in front of me, a darker form amid the shadows. We stared at each other through the blackness, each knowing full well the other’s distress, yet unable to bridge the chasm of circumstance. A terrifying void gaped between us and I scrambled to my feet, flinging out a screen of words in a desperate effort to retain some semblance of pride. Better that I give voice to the inevitable than that I wait for him to.

  “What are you doing here, Sir? Have you not got a family to look after? A babe who comes complete with cozy wife to warm your hearth and rock the cradle. What a pretty scene it makes—how cleverly it all works out! I can see the years passing, with a new bairn every fall, until the Hall at Carbonek rings with the laughter of generations to come. How very nice for all concerned…even your poor wretched father-in-law, King Pellam. Poor man, lying on his bed of pain, neither brave enough to end his life nor strong enough to get well. Looks like they all found a savior in one night’s work, my dear. Lancelot of the Lake, providing Elaine with love and protection the rest of her life, and a great brood of children as well. Giving the old invalid a powerful son-in-law to keep his enemies at bay. Who knows, you could even become the King of Carbonek eventually, and bring the Waste Land back to life, as well.”

  When I stumbled to a halt, gasping for breath, Lance spoke up, doggedly trying to ignore the venom of my attack. “I have told Arthur I will not wed the girl. I explained that the child was the result of a trick, and I will not saddle all of us with a loveless marriage.”

  He reached out to me, as though by taking me in his arms he could undo the disaster that had come from that earlier embrace, could erase the twisted bitterness inside me.

  “Don’t you touch me,” I hissed, striking out blindly in the dark. My hand stung suddenly as it crashed against his cheek. There was a moment’s silence while I stared at him, aghast at what I had done. But the misery too long held silent had not yet run itself out, and the words continued to pour forth. “Just go away. Take your accursed honor and get out! I can’t stand the sight of you and your cunning lady—so go—now—this moment!”

  Even in the shadows I could see him tremble, fists clenched, eyes glittering with tears. Suddenly, with a great, heartbroken sob, he spun on his heel and bolted from the garden. A long, piercing scream trailed behind him and when I threw myself down on the bench, the golden circlet fell from my head with a small metallic clatter.

  ***

  “M’lady? What is it, M’lady?” Nimue bent over me, trying to gather me into her arms as Arthur and Cei came stamping down the garden walk. The torchlight flickered over their frowning faces.

  “Are you all right?” Cei asked, his hand moving to his dagger.

  I nodded mutely, unable to meet any of their eyes.

  “Then who screamed?” Arthur demanded.

  “Lancelot,” I whispered. “He was distraught…”

  “Shush now,” Nimue insisted, beginning to rock me as though I was a frightened child while she spoke to the King. “I’ll fix her a sedative and take her upstairs, M’lord. She’s much too unstrung to stay here shivering in the night air.”

  “Yes, of course—by all means,” Arthur agreed, glancing toward the wall of the fortress. “Someone look to Lance—he’s probably in his chambers.” My husband looked back at me. “You’re sure, lass, ’twas no one here but the Breton? No enemy in ambush?”

  Only I who love him, I thought bleakly as I shook my head.

  Nimue had me on my feet by then and, having stooped to retrieve the circlet, guided me carefully through the Hall and up the stairs. I wondered vaguely where Elaine was, but didn’t have the strength left to deal with her. Tomorrow would be soon enough for that.

  It was well past noon before I woke, making up in dreamless slumber for the week of sleepless nights just past. But wakefulness brought memory and a deep, gravid despair. In my misery I had brought about the very thing I feared most—Lance’s departure. I groaned aloud.

  Nimue came over and peered down at me anxiously.

  “He’s gone, hasn’t he?” I whispered.

  “So it seems.” She nodded and sat down beside me. “His horse is still in the stable, and his clothes are all hanging in their closet. But the man himself is nowhere to be found. At daybreak a sentry discovered a rope hanging from the parapet—they think Lance used it to lower himself over the wall.”

  “And Elaine?”

  “Wailing tragically that her life is ruined. She thinks that you sent Lance away out of jealous spite.”

  “Arthur? What does he think?”

  Nimue sighed, then gave me a wan smile. “The High King had already heard Lance’s declaration that he would never marry the girl. Between death and desertion and the old tradition of temporary marriages, there’s many a Celtic princess who’s raised a royal son by herself, so Arthur isn’t much concerned about that. He is concerned about having his lieutenant turn up missing, however, and has sent out search parties to comb the woods.”

  I sat up in bed and took the doire’s hand, regret making my voice small. “Elaine’s right, you know. It wasn’t done to spite her, but I did drive him away.”

  “You, or life, or his own moira.” Nimue shrugged eloquently. “We all play out our different fates, Gwen, and his lies between him and his gods just as much as between him and you.”

  No doubt she meant it as a kind of consolation, but it brought to mind the vision I had once had of Lancelot as a priest—stiff and rigid and bound by a hundred Christian strictures that I neither understood nor trusted. The very memory made me shudder.

  “I will ask the Old Gods for help in finding him,” the doire promised. “But right now we must get you up and dressed. There’s a whole Court downstairs, wondering what really happened last night.”

  I gaped at her, horror-struck at the notion of facing the household. “Not yet,” I pleaded, clutching at the covers and trying to pull them up to my chin. “I can’t possibly see anyone today.”

  “Of course you can.” Nimue’s words echoed down through the whole of my life. She might have been Mama or Vinnie or my childhood love, Kevin, all trying to impart to me the first law of royalty—you do what has to be done, no matter the personal cost.

  “After all, you are their Queen,” she added.

  I stared at her blankly, wondering if she knew how little I cared, at this moment, about being a monarch.

  “Everyone knows how fond both you and Arthur are of Lancelot, and as your Champion they understand there’s a special bond between you,” she went on patiently. “But if you don’t go downstairs, the whole Court will be buzzing with rumors tomorrow, wondering if Elaine has taken the proper measure of things. Oh, I know, by tradition a queen has a right to her own lover, and maybe, if Lance were anyone else, it wouldn’t matter. But he’s the King’s lieutenant; closest in fact, if not in blood, to the King himself. So rumor breeds speculation, and speculation breeds fear—fear that you aren’t loyal to Arthur, fear that you are too distraught to govern, fear that the throne is in danger. You know how quickly that sort of thing spreads.”

  She was right, of course, so I sighed wearily and clambered out of bed while she colle
cted jewels and torc, dress and girdle. Not only must I make an appearance, it seemed it must be a regal one.

  Somehow I got through the rest of the day, listening to everyone’s concern but keeping my mouth shut. Then suddenly, after dinner, Elaine of Carbonek advanced upon me across the Hall. Her lovely eyes were brimming with tears and her voice was hoarse from crying.

  “Wretched woman,” she hissed. “You’re just jealous because Lancelot loves me instead of you.” Everyone in the Hall went silent, and she turned to them in appeal. “She cannot tolerate the idea that he doesn’t want to be her Champion anymore…always at her beck and call, as if he were one of her wolfhounds.”

  Vinnie bore down on the girl like an indignant whirlwind. “You can’t talk to the Queen that way,” she admonished, trying to lead her away.

  “Of course I can,” the beauty declared, shaking off the caution. “I’ll show the whole world how cruel she is, how haughty and selfish and only thinking of her own pleasure. Why, if you only knew what Lancelot told me…”

  “Enough!” I declared, rising from my chair. “You are clearly too distraught to realize what you’re saying. I order you back to Carbonek until you can come to grips with reality.”

  That apparently reached through the girl’s hysteria, for her attitude of righteous denunciation began to melt. And instead of appealing to the audience who watched us, fascinated, Elaine focused only on me.

  “You have the power to banish me, M’lady…but we both know that it is unfair. If it weren’t for you, Lancelot and I would be living together, raising our son together. I would be here to greet him each time he returns. His son would bring him the joy of parenthood…a joy those who never know it can’t understand. To deny both father and son that pleasure, to stand between Lance and his moira, is cruel and vicious and unfair.” Her voice deepened with conviction, and she pulled herself up to face me as staunchly as possible. “Whatever misery befalls the Breton is on your head, unfair, ungracious, and ungentle Queen!”