Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn

by Persia Woolley

  A number of his warriors followed, but once inside that devil’s brew, they could not tell friend from foe, and those that could staggered back to the safety of higher ground. Yet the sounds of terrible conflict came rumbling and screeching from the blanket of white, and many claimed the battle lasted well into the night. It seemed as though the very souls of Saxon determination and British defense were struggling for the future of Albion.

  Cei paused in his story and swallowed hard. “When dawn came and the fog lifted, the entire beach was littered with the dead.”

  Invader and defender alike lay twisted in the grip of death, washed by the incoming tide, eyes vacant and staring. Tiny crabs nibbled at the edges of open wounds while the scavenging gulls screamed overhead. Even the barbarians wept to see the price of bravery, and before the remnants of Geraint’s warband could claim his body, the enemy had seized it and laid it in state upon the proudest of their ships. “Hail to the bravest of foes, the most honorable of warriors,” they chanted, paying him the greatest homage of their kind. With all solemnity they rowed the vessel across the water to a nearby headland.

  “There they built a pyre, as is their fashion, and consigned the King of Devon to its flames, assuring him immortality in their legends as well as ours.” Cei looked slowly around the circle of warriors and household that had gathered in the Hall. Tears streamed down his face and theirs, but when he turned back to Arthur, his voice was full of tragic triumph.

  “A man who braves the mist of the unknown is a man of rare courage, Your Highness. In his death he brought further honor and renown to the Round Table, and we are fortunate to have called him comrade.”

  Arthur bowed his head in grief and a long wail of mourning filled the Hall. Through brimming eyes I watched the new widow, thinking it a cruel moira which brought about such needless death; if he had only waited till morning, the story would have been quite different. It struck me as ironic that the sensible, Romanized Geraint had been goaded into a foolish encounter in defense of that most Celtic of virtues, personal pride.

  Later we held a ceremony of our own for the dead King, and I found a place for Enid to stay, since she had no desire to return to Exeter.

  Arthur and Bedivere called a Council to determine who should take Geraint’s place, and Bagdemagus of Dorset put forth Gwynlliw, a wily old warlord in command of one of the hill-forts in Dorset. He seemed a good enough choice, and Arthur was pleased when he agreed to take over the defense of Devon.

  “But only after I’ve made sure there’s not a single invading warrior left,” Arthur announced bitterly. So by early summer he’d gone off to reinstate order along the south shore, leaving Bedivere and Gawain with me at Camelot.

  The loss of Geraint lay like a pall upon the Court, and no one felt it more cruelly than Enid. I watched helplessly as she struggled to make sense of a senseless loss. “He was such a good monarch,” she would say, as though debating with invisible forces. “Far better than creatures such as Mark in Cornwall or that new Vortipor that’s taken over Agricola’s throne. A man who cared about his people, who loved life and beauty and shared that love with noble and peasant alike. Why? Why should a king like that go to his death when toads and tyrants sit smug upon their satin cushions? I ask you, where is the fairness in that, M’lady? Where is it?”

  I listened to her railing, offered what comfort I could, and was more than delighted when she asked to take over Vinnie’s job of looking after my ladies-in-waiting. Since the girls came, got married, and left to form their own households with alarming regularity, I barely got to know their names before they were off on a new life. Now I could turn them over to Enid and not have to think about them again.

  As summer deepened, she began to find succor in daily talks with Father Baldwin. The priest was gentle and kindly, letting her rage at the moira which had struck down her husband in his prime, and reassuring her that the love of the White Christ cherished his spirit even after death. Perhaps I should not have been surprised when Enid asked to be baptized, though I worried her newfound religion would dull her quick wits with platitudes and silence the tongue that kept gods and men alike on their toes. On the last point I need not have feared, for Christian or Pagan, Enid would never be one to tiptoe around sleeping dogs.

  Word from the south said that the invaders had melted away like the fog they came out of, though whether they had gone back across the North Sea or were being hidden and cared for by Federate farmers, no one could say. So Arthur decided to make a methodical search of all steadings from Winchester to the sea, insisting that individual landholders swear fealty to him and reassuring himself we were doing everything we could to keep the Federates under control. As a result, he probably would not be home for several more months.

  It was dull news and predictable, given Arthur’s distrust of the Saxons. News from the north was far more interesting, for the Green Man was said to have been sighted again.

  “You’d think they’d go away and leave the poor thing alone,” Enid commented. “It’s probably just some poor demented scoundrel driven to madness by the ways of the world.”

  “Mad, maybe,” Bedivere agreed. “But not necessarily a scoundrel. More than one just man has taken to the woods that way, managing to live on berries and clothed in animal skins.”

  “Be that as it may,” Gawain mused as he methodically stropped his dagger along a leather belt. “These sightings could be the Master of the Fields come forth again. One never knows…”

  I shot the Orcadian a quick glance. Always a cautious man where the Gods were concerned, he made the sign against evil before going on. “What say I take a party and go settle this problem once and for all?”

  “And leave Camelot undefended?” Bedivere lifted an eyebrow of inquiry. “With Arthur off in the south, you’re in charge of the warriors here at home.”

  Gawain flushed, embarrassed at having forgotten his first duty. “Well, someone should look into it,” he muttered.

  Bors had been twisting the ends of his elaborate mustaches, and he spoke up eagerly. “I’m not bound to stay here…I could go up through the Marches and have a look, and still be back by the time Arthur returns. And if this creature is all that they say, it will give me a chance to prove the power of Christ over Pagan fiends.”

  There was a murmur of assent, and Lionel suggested that he accompany his brother. “Been years since we’ve gone adventuring together,” he opined.

  Clearly both men were in need of something to do besides lounge around at Court, so after provisioning them with dried foods and jerky and a leather tent, Bedivere and I stood at the top of the cobbled drive and waved them on their way.

  There was something childishly stirring about the cheerfulness with which they went in search of the supernatural, like boys on a lark. It was touching and amusing at the same time, and I looked up at the one-handed lieutenant and grinned.

  That was, of course, before we came to know about the Green Man firsthand, and I was intensely curious as to what they would bring home.

  Chapter XV

  Prayers

  Someone once said that prayers are simply dreams grown older, and perhaps they were right. When we were young, Merlin’s dream of a Britain grown strong and whole under a just king had filled us with fearless enthusiasm. Now that energy had been tempered by time and the knowledge that a man can die in a skirmish as easily as in a battle. Geraint’s death brought home how fragile we all are, so I prayed daily that Arthur’s work among the Federates would end well and he’d be home soon.

  I prayed for others, too: for Lance, in whatever lands he wandered; for Mordred, who did not even know the shadow that stalked him; and for Bors and Lionel, trying to trap the supernatural with a fine bravado. All the Old Gods—Brigantia and Cernunnos, Mabon and even the Horse Goddess, Epona—were hounded by my entreaties that summer.

  Then, as autumn netted the land in gold and the bracken turned copper on the hills, my prayers were answered.

  “Make way—make wa
y for the King’s men!” The sentries rushed to swing the massive gates open and sent a page flying up the hill to me. He found me in the kitchen, wrapping cheeses in waxed linen for winter storage.

  “Quick, M’lady. It’s Bors and Lionel returned, with a litter between them and a wild man strapped to it. Raving, he is, like some ferocious beast.”

  I dropped what I was doing and ran to the steps of the Hall, wiping my hands on my apron. People were pouring out of every door—ladies from the spinning room, grooms from the stables. Even Cook was close on my heels. We ran down the drive to where the curious formed a knot around the newcomers. The little crowd jostled this way and that, then parted as the Bretons’ squires pushed them back. A ragtag entourage emerged from the press.

  Bors and Lionel advanced up the steep incline. They kept the horse between them moving at a steady pace, constantly checking the travois that trailed behind them. Lamorak of the Wrekin walked beside it, his hand resting on his sword hilt while his eyes scanned the crowd. I wondered if he worried that Gawain and his brothers would attack him even in the King’s stronghold.

  “A fiend. They’ve caught a fiend,” one of the more excitable pages cried. “Maybe it’s the Green Man.”

  “But it t’ain’t green at all,” argued his companion. “Just dirty and bleeding.”

  “Watch out!” someone warned as the bundle on the litter thrashed about. “He could break his bounds.”

  Fear and amazement silenced the onlookers, and many among them made whatever holy sign their Gods gave them for safety. By the time I reached the little party, everyone else had stepped back in awe, waiting to see what would happen.

  “Lamorak found him in Clun Forest,” Bors announced, halting his horse and swinging out of the saddle. He took my arm and murmured softly, “It’s a terrible sight, M’lady. Mayhap you want to wait until we get him cleaned up a bit.”

  But I brushed past him, drawn toward the creature by a force I did not question. The smell was rank—not only was he dirty and unkempt, festering sores oozed on one leg and gruesome bruises covered his arms. The triangular face was slashed across, swollen and furrowed with dried blood. Groaning deliriously, he moved his head constantly from side to side, and when he opened his eyes, they focused on nothing at all. But the blueness of them blinded me.

  “Lance…oh, Lancelot, what happened to you?” My knees went weak and Bors tightened his grip on my arm.

  “Most likely a bear,” my escort said. “Seems to have been some time back, for he was in this state when Lamorak chanced on him during a hunt. We met them on the Road. This was the only way he could be transported, he’s raving that bad.”

  Tears of joy and anguish poured down my cheeks, and I reached toward the pitiful shape that struggled at the brink of death, only to have Bors pull me back sharply.

  “He’s out of his head, M’lady, and might harm you. We need to take him to the stables and put him in a box stall until he’s well enough—or worn out enough—to let us see to his wounds.”

  They were words well chosen, but I flung them aside. “Nonsense. This is the finest warrior of the realm, the Queen’s own Champion. Do you think Arthur would countenance his being kept in a barn?” I drew myself up fully and looked from Bors to Lionel and Lamorak. “Take him into the Hall. We’ll build up a fire and care for him there.”

  The men hesitated for a fraction of a moment, and Gawain, who was just arriving from the lower pasture, stepped to my side. “You heard Her Majesty,” he thundered, glaring with particular severity at Lamorak.

  So we struggled into the Hall, where I ordered a clean pallet be found and laid out on one of the trestle tables close by the hearth.

  “Cook’s going to find it in the way,” Lynette ventured.

  “She’ll manage,” I snapped, unable to think of anything but Lance. He was almost as big as Lamorak, and strong as well, so it took all the men present to restrain him as they lifted him onto his new bed and pulled the broad leather straps tight.

  “The surgeon is with Arthur in the south,” Gawain reminded me. “Well need to find another healer.”

  I opened my mouth to order Morgan le Fey be brought, but closed it hastily in frustration—if only her damnable scheming hadn’t made her an enemy!

  Nimue came to mind next, but she’d gone with Arthur also, determined that the people should know that the successor of Merlin still guarded the Pendragon’s reign.

  “Brigit,” I said decisively, looking about for Griflet. “My sister in the convent. She’s a fine medic and must be sent for at once.” Then, remembering that a member of a holy house was no longer subject to royal authority, I amended the command. “Ask her, for the love she bears her God, to get permission to attend this man.”

  Griflet nodded and ran out of the room. I could count on his being on the Road within the half hour.

  “Where’s Palomides?” The Arab had often assisted the surgeon on the battlefield, and I was sure he had brought back powders and unguents from the East that could help us now. When he came to my side, I asked for something to make Lancelot sleep, and before long he returned with a syrup that was heavy with the smell of poppies.

  “Opium,” he explained, looking dubiously at Lance, who still groaned and occasionally strained against the straps that held him secure. “But it should be swallowed…”

  I tore a strip of linen from my shift and twisting it into a wick, sopped up as much of the syrup as it would hold, then turned and perching on the edge of the table, leaned over Lancelot.

  Under the matted beard his lips were cracked and dry, and his eyes glazed with fever, but drop by drop I coaxed the sedative between his lips. Half the time he turned away, so that the liquid trickled into his beard, but I simply gave him more, confident that sooner or later it would take effect. Time ceased to have any meaning as I sat there, determined to keep my love from death.

  When his breathing steadied to that of sleep, I bathed his wounds myself, soaking the dirt and pus from the raw skin, applying the leeches when Lynette brought them from the pond. The filthy rags that clung to his body were cut away, each sore addressed, each bruise salved. It was a long and difficult process that seemed to last forever but I focused on one small patch at a time, working tirelessly until that one was taken care of, then moving on to the next. Days and nights could have passed, for all I knew.

  Finally, when he was made as clean and comfortable as I could manage, I ordered my carved chair be brought from the dais and set beside his bed. Weary to the bone, I sank into it. Enid wanted me to go upstairs to sleep, but I waved her away, too tired even to speak. When Cook pressed a cup of broth into my hands, I took it blindly and sipped the steaming nourishment as my mind wandered.

  Just so I had seen Mama, in the days before her death, tending the sick and dying who had come to our Hall for succor the year that plague and famine struck. Worn to a wraith, she had given every last ounce of energy—and finally life itself—to the people who needed her. She had many patients while I had only one, but I would pour as much of myself into keeping that one alive as she had in trying to save all who counted on her. Her actions were fueled by the pact between monarch and subject, whereas mine came from personal love as well as duty. Yet we both drew on a depth of strength rarely tapped, and I drifted into a doze with her last words whispering in memory: “Once you know what you have to do, you just do it.”

  How long that vigil lasted, I have no idea. Trancelike, I moved between waking and sleeping, barely noticing if it was day or night. Bedivere saw to managing the Court, Gawain handled the men, sending them on to hunt or help the locals with the harvest, and between them Enid and Cook kept the women busy. Lamorak, I was told later, began the return trip to the Wrekin as soon as he’d seen Lance safely home.

  Whereas in the past I prayed only in the evening, now I sent constant petitions to every God I’d ever heard of, from Cybele of Syria to Wodan of the Swedes, pleading for Lance’s life.

  Let him live, oh please let him live,
I begged. It doesn’t matter about me—he needn’t love me anymore, needn’t even remember me, if it comes to that. Just let him live. I’ll stay away from him, if he wishes, and ask nothing more than forgiveness for having been so unfairly cruel. He can go off to Elaine and the babe at Carbonek, if that’s his will…I’ll not stand between him and his moira again. Just let him live. Dear God, let him live.

  The litany went round and round in my head as Lance’s fever mounted and his delirium deepened. Brigit arrived just before the crisis, bringing her knowledge along with a satchel full of salves and powders. She checked him over with crisp efficiency and allowed that I had done an admirable job of caring for him so far.

  “Now it is truly up to God,” she added, putting her hand over mine. “You might try praying to the Christ.”

  It was the only time she ever coaxed me toward her faith, and I looked at her hopelessly as I answered, “I already have—and to his Mother, too.”

  “I might have known,” she whispered, giving my fingers a reassuring squeeze.

  The fever broke that night, and by morning the delirium was gone. I left him in the Irish girl’s capable hands and threw myself across my bed, too exhausted even to undress. I suppose it was Enid who did that for me, for I awoke at noon the next day, safe under the down comforter and well rested.

  It was still a while before Lancelot regained consciousness. I sat beside him, sometimes doing handiwork, sometimes just remembering the hours he’d sat by me when I was recuperating from the rape. A tie to sanity, he’d been, as I wandered through nightmare dreams. Now it was my turn to be the same for him.

  Life in the Hall went on all around us, making space for the sick bed and the Queen like the waters of a river eddying around a stone. Cook did indeed grumble about having him so close to her cooking area, but I noticed she’d pause now and then to look at him, shaking her head in amazement that he still lived. And on a fine, Indian-summer afternoon she bustled in from the kitchen, smelling of fresh air and new-mown hay.