Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn

by Persia Woolley

Palomides sat next to me, silent and watchful. I reached for the ale mug a servant had provided and waited for Morgan’s son to show his colors, still unsure if he was my enemy or my ally.

  “There are many in the north who take your side in this dispute with Arthur, M’lady,” Uwain noted, slowly turning his mug between his fingers. “They remember you are one of them—a daughter of the Cumbri—whereas the High King is a Romanized southerner. The warriors of Rheged would take up arms against him in your behalf if you but said the word. And others as well—Caledonians who aren’t happy with the Pendragon, Fergus’s people at Dumbarton. Of course, if you agreed to lead such an uprising, you’d need a partner—a man who knows the land from a military point of view and could bring his own troops to the battle.”

  The thought of my starting a civil war against Arthur was appalling, and I stared at Uwain blankly, too shocked by the idea to respond. Beside me, Palomides was still as stone, never flicking an eyelash as Uwain talked treason. I tried to make my face as unreadable as the Arab’s.

  “Then, too,” Uwain went on carefully, “what with Rheged in the west and Northumbria in the east, between us you and I control a sizable portion of the realm. If we merged our holdings…”

  In spite of myself, I choked on my ale. It didn’t matter whether Uwain was speaking in political or personal terms, I wasn’t in rebellion against my husband and I wouldn’t consider an alliance with any usurper.

  “There is no reason to plan for such an uprising,” I sputtered, furious that my body had betrayed my outrage.

  “Ah,” the King of Northumbria noted, raising one eyebrow. “Perhaps you’d prefer to find a quiet niche and retreat from the world, leaving others to mind the dogs of war? Well, that too, might be arranged, though it will take some doing. The followers of Agravain are furious about his death, and they prowl the edges of Northumbria, looking for vengeance. They’ve begun killing my subjects—most recently a crofter named Kimmins and his sons, for supposedly harboring you and the Breton.”

  I caught my breath, and Uwain, looking up quickly, pinned me under his gaze. A slow, hard smile tugged at his mouth. “M’lady, you have too soft a heart to be a great monarch…it gives you away. But if the gentler concerns are what you’re looking for…”

  His voice trailed off, and he settled back against his chair and downed the rest of his ale, watching me casually across the rim of his mug. I tried to assess how much he was bargaining in good faith, and when he lowered his cup and licked the last of the brew from his mustaches, I leaned forward quietly and asked, “What would it take to arrange that?”

  “The price, M’lady? In exchange for my letting you and your lover live safely in Northumbria? Your abdication of Rheged’s throne in favor of me.”

  It didn’t come as a total surprise, but one does not hand over the future of one’s people lightly, and I groaned inwardly.

  Uwain was taking a righteous stance. “As I recall, by treaty the country was to come to us in the event you had no child to stand for the throne. Surely,” he added with sly malice, “you cannot expect the people of Rheged to accept Mordred as your son?”

  It seemed Uwain’s parentage had finally come to the fore—Morgan herself could not have delivered that barb with more skill. My instinct was to give him a royal tongue-lashing and walk out, but his next words stopped me cold.

  “Unfortunately, since Lancelot never built those walls, it appears you must seek my protection. If I do not keep Agravain’s forces out, you stand little chance of surviving.”

  Palomides’s hand dropped to his dagger, but I was in no danger of physical assault; Uwain was doing well enough with words. He was also far more snide than I had expected. I tried to meet him with an equally caustic tone.

  “My skin for my country, is that it?”

  “If you wish to put it that way, M’lady. I was under the impression that you might consider it a bargain well made.”

  “Mayhap.” I backed away a bit. “How can you assure my safety?”

  “I’ll tell Arthur that none of his men will be welcome in Northumbria—and I will kill anyone who presumes to disturb you in any way.”

  “I see.” I reached for my ale and drained the last of it slowly and purposefully before answering. “In return for Rheged?”

  “In return for Rheged.”

  “I need some time to think it over.”

  “Of course.” Uwain sighed and, putting both hands on the table, heaved himself to his feet. Now that he’d made a bid for my kingdom, he was really quite cordial. “It will be good to see Lancelot again. He’s done well at Joyous Gard, though he should have taken my advice on those walls!”

  At a signal a page came scurrying into the room and was given the charge of taking us wherever Palomides and I might wish to go. After touring the windswept heights of the fort, admiring its forge, and noting the sleek, fat cows in the fields, we climbed down the path to the clear waters of the river Glen. Since it was well within sight of the hill-fort, I sent our page packing and, sitting on the stump of a tree, took council with Palomides.

  “He’s as sly as any bazaar merchant,” the Arab said, folding himself up to sit cross-legged on the grass. “For all we know the people of Rheged may be on the verge of revolt against him, which is why he needs to have you concede the title now. But we have no way to ascertain that, and he’s clearly an opportunist who knows how much you need his help.”

  Slowly we went over the details of the situation—how vulnerable I was, how strong Uwain. We also discussed the fact that the people of Rheged considered him a good regent and he was familiar with their problems in ways that I was not.

  “Besides, if you don’t mind my saying it,” the Arab concluded, carefully examining his fingers, “there is a kind of symmetry involved. Lance has given up his search for God in order to be with you; it’s fitting you should give up something equally important for him.”

  I smiled wanly at the man who so often looked into the more subtle heart of things. There was a fairness and justice in what he said, in spite of the fact that deserting my people was unthinkable. But even though the alternatives seemed to involve war and bloodshed, I was not ready to give over the throne just yet. When Palomides and I returned to the Hall, I still had not come to terms with my choices. If only the Gods would send me some sign…

  The evening came on quietly, as northern summer twilights do, but shortly after the sun dipped below the horizon, there was a flurry of activity in the courtyard. At first it was kitchen-women, then the servants from the barn and stable, and finally noble and warrior as well who flocked outside, climbing to the peak of the hill which the ancient hill-fort encircled and staring toward the west. I went out to join them, curious as to what had captured so much attention.

  “An omen,” someone said, making the sign against evil.

  “Indeed,” answered the smithy, crossing himself heavily.

  “A gift from all the Gods,” a little girl whispered, pointing toward the sky.

  There, riding on the very edge of the sunset’s splendor, was the first, wee slip of a moon. Pale ivory and slightly blurred in the misty light, the lower point of its delicate sickle seemed to be hung with the glittering diamond of the evening star. I caught my breath and stared at the rare and beautiful sight, seeing in it the symbol of Lance and I finally coming together. It was the sign I was looking for and I silently thanked the Gods. If Rheged was the price that must be paid to allow us to live our little moment in the rainbow’s heart, so be it.

  The next morning I drafted my letter of abdication from the throne of Rheged. There were a number of Christians in his Court, so we had no trouble finding a scribe, and once the words had been written, I took the Seal of State in my hands for the last time and pressed it to the colored wax at the bottom of the scroll, making the act official.

  I did not tell Lance about it right away, however. When he arrived from Lindisfarne, there was dancing and gaming and much high cheer, and by the time we headed back to Jo
yous Gard, picking up the Roman Road they call the Devil’s Causeway, I had decided not to mention it.

  As long as Uwain could keep us safe, I wasn’t going to count the cost.

  Chapter XXXIII

  The Idyll

  Never do I remember a more glorious autumn, when the land went rust and cream and soft blue-gray, and morning mists hung, wraithlike, on meadows and trees. The afternoons were pure gold—honeyed and slow, turning burnished in the late-afternoon light as the fruits of the sun-season were safely gathered and stored against the winter’s needs. The barns bulged with hay and grain; apples and pears from our orchard lay sliced and drying on the winnowing floor; and at the dairy the last of the butter was being salted for storage in the spring house.

  Lance worked closely with Mr. Badger—an imperturbable man who went off fishing each day when the chores were done—and sometimes I joined them in the garden, harvesting and mulching and preparing the garden for the winter storms.

  “They come in pretty fierce,” Mrs. Badger explained, jabbing handfuls of fresh bed-straw into the mattress we were restuffing. “I’ve seen ice and sleet cover the trees with a sheath of crystal that breaks the limbs and freezes the roots. But at least it keeps the Saxon sea-wolves from marauding.”

  Lance gave me one of his horses, a handsome little bay mare named Flyaway, and on a fine, crisp day we returned the pony we had borrowed to Kimmins’s widow. “Caught them out on the moors, they did,” she told us in a voice as hard as the land on which she lived. “Left ’em to the raven and vulture. I built up a cairn over their bones, but it’s not the same as a respectful grave near home.” With that she turned bitterly away, not even responding when Lance asked if there had been any further contact with men from the south. Without news of what was happening in Camelot, we had no idea what to expect.

  When it came time for the harvest fair at Rothbury, we all trooped to it together. While Lance discussed weather and crops with the farmers and Lionel proved his prowess in the hay-toss, Bors sat among a small group of monks and told them his story of the Grail. I picked up several large fleeces and a sheepskin, this last to go beside our bed; a warm, soft pelt to step onto was the one touch of luxury I missed from my former life. And a beekeeper gifted me with a batch of heather honey after I asked if it was his hives we’d seen on our trip over the Cheviots.

  I still had not mentioned giving up Rheged, nor had Lance talked of his visit to Holy Isle. Sometimes he went off to pray and meditate in the cave on the Coquet’s bank, where an old hermit had carved out a personal chapel. And sometimes, when I was riding along the uplands, my gaze would be drawn to the southern hills gone blue in the haze of distance, and I would wonder how matters stood with Arthur. But neither of us mentioned these things, and when we sat before the coals of an evening fire and stared at the shimmering, glowing pictures in the embers, it was of our present happiness we spoke.

  Bits and pieces of news filtered in from the outside world. Arthur had canceled the Round Table meeting, much to the relief of the various members of the Fellowship. There were many who said he had become as short-tempered and difficult as ever his father, Uther Pendragon, had been. I prayed silently that Nimue and Bedivere were at his side, giving him some kind of balance.

  About Mordred I heard nothing. Still not knowing what part he had played in the entrapment, I was loath to speculate from such a distance. I kept my concern for both of them to myself—there was more than enough to do on the steading to occupy both time and mind. Besides, it does no good to brood over what you can’t change.

  Before long the bracken on the hillsides flamed to copper, the lynx’s fur grew thick and rich, and in Coquetdale the rutting stags filled the air with their belching, grunting bellows as they cried out their defiant challenges to each other.

  Palomides came to visit often, as welcome a guest as one could want, and frequently joined our hunting parties. He happily pronounced the game of Northumbria to be the best in the world, and delighted in showing us his favorite spots.

  But for me the greatest wonder was the birds. We saw the black grouse dancing on their lek like demented things, feathers ruffed and wings bent as they jumped and bobbed about. Once the rooks convened a parliament a thousand strong, with new flocks joining them all day long, churning the air in their tumbling flight and shattering the peace with their clamor. As the days shortened, the summer birds gathered into enormous flocks, gorging themselves on berries and bugs before winging away to the south. Swifts and swallows and sand martins were the first to go, followed by redstarts and turtledoves, and finally the whinchats. Meadow pipits came down from the hills to winter around the steading, while fieldfair and waxwing and the great white swans from the north came to spend the winter. The whole sky seemed full of birds, coming or going.

  Early winter brought occasional light snow that turned the upland landscape into a stark picture of black and white. On one such day, as we rode home with a bag full of blue hares, Palomides asked what we had heard of Isolde’s lover, Tristan.

  “Nothing to speak of,” Lance responded, and the Arab sent an inquiring glance toward me. Since Palomides had loved the beautiful Cornish queen with a long and unrequited passion, I suspected his interest was as much in news of her as of Tris. So I recounted my visit with Isolde at Castle Dore, when she had mentioned Tris’s marriage and his growing reputation as one of the great warriors in Brittany. There was no chance he would return to Britain, however, since Arthur had banished him because of his wild, drunken behavior after Isolde had returned to Mark.

  The Arab looked slowly back and forth between Lance and me, then smiled softly. “Ah,” he sighed, no doubt remembering the months we had all spent together here at Joyous Gard in the past. “You have no idea how lucky you two are—so many dreams of love go unfulfilled…”

  It was a comment made all the more poignant when I realized that to this day he adored the memory of Isolde. By now she had assumed the stature of an icon in his life, and I wondered what he would make of the woman in reality, if they ever met again.

  The storms Mrs. Badger had predicted kept us indoors through much of January and February. With a full larder and good companionship it was not a trial, and on the nights when the wind howled down from the north, Lance and I burrowed under the pelts on our bed and set the world afire with our passion.

  It was part of the magic of our being together…no matter how often we bedded, each time was different: tender, poignant, long and delicately drawn; wild, fierce-shaking and demanding; playful or sly or silently yielding; there was more range of mood in our communion than I would ever have thought possible. And I cherished every moment as a jewel to be held in memory against the times to come…

  In April the weather lightened. One morning when Melias and I went to the fisherman’s village to see what the day’s catch had been, I noticed primrose and sweet violets beside the path, and marsh marigold trailing along the streambank. An otter dove under the surface of the river as we approached; no doubt he was following the young fish down from their spawning grounds in the higher country. So in spite of the nippiness of the morning, there were signs of spring everywhere.

  On reaching Joyous Gard, I found strange horses in the paddock, and a fancy litter that had been pushed out of the way, just inside the barn door. Leaving Melias to care for our mounts and bring in the fish, I ran through the barnyard, my breath streaming behind me like a cloud.

  “Another Queen,” Mrs. Badger informed me, bustling forward to take my cape and gloves. “The Cornish one. I’ve heard for years about her beauty, but she’s as pleasant and polite as yourself. I took her up to the front bedroom, as she wanted to rest, but the monk who came with her is with the Master, by the hearth. The cleric said you’d know him, though I’ve forgotten his name.” This last was half apology.

  “It isn’t Gildas, is it?” I asked, feeling my spirits drop.

  “That’s it exactly, M’lady.” She beamed at me happily. “How nice for you to have old friend
s come visiting!”

  Friend, my foot! I thought, bolting from the kitchen. I intended to see Isolde first, both to welcome her and find out what this visit was about, but as I passed the door to the main room, Gildas’s voice came through the curtains. He was haranguing Lancelot in tones that were both strident and patronizing.

  “But, my son, it is an adulterous relationship. She’s led you into the most base and venial sin and this debauchery will bring the vengeance of God upon you. Hear me, there will be despair and disaster for you and your followers unless you renounce her once and for all.”

  “You presume upon my hospitality, Father,” Lance responded. “I brought the Lady Guinevere here in part because she was in danger of her life. I cannot and will not cast her out among her enemies now.”

  “She must go back to her husband, where she belongs,” Gildas declared, his voice trembling with righteousness.

  “So I can be led to the stake all over again?” I demanded, pushing the curtains aside and marching into the room. “Isn’t that really what you want to see, Gildas—me hopping hot-foot up on that platform while the clerics all pray piously over my incinerated remains?”

  “Of course not, M’lady.” The monk showed no surprise at my entrance, but pressed his thin lips into a snakelike smile. “What I want to see is your acceptance of the One God and the bowing of your arrogant head to Christ, His only Son. You need only renounce your Pagan ways and throw yourself on His mercy in the hope of being saved.”

  “I have no desire to be saved by your Father God,” I flared. “Nor will I tolerate your meddling in my life this way. It’s bad enough that you’ve sheltered my cousin Maelgwn in your holy house all these years, you don’t have to come bringing trouble to Joyous Gard.”

  “I come not to bring trouble, but to spare you great heartbreak,” the puny little man responded, drawing himself up haughtily and speaking directly to Lance. “Unless you pack her back to her husband, King Arthur will lead an army against you.”