Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn

by Persia Woolley

  “I can’t imagine how nuns survive in a convent,” I commented as Enid helped me pack a change of clothes. “Living forever behind four high walls would drive me crazy.”

  “I think most of them want the security,” she answered. “I thought about joining one after Geraint died—you know they take in widows and women with nowhere else to go.”

  “Hmmm,” I responded. No doubt they provided a needed service, but I preferred to limit my contact with such places to an occasional visit with Brigit.

  The trip to Weston-Super-Mare was lovely. We followed the old track along the base of the Mendip Hills, stopping at Wells to leave a prayer ribbon on the Sacred Oak for Arthur’s safety, and carefully skirted the edge of Wookey Hole. Memory of Mordred’s experience and Arthur’s revenge slunk around the edges of my mind, and I was glad we made camp farther on, at the base of Cheddar Gorge.

  “Do you remember,” I asked Cei as we sat by the fire that night, “when we visited Gwyn in his hunting lodge at the top of the Gorge?”

  “Indeed. And the splendid cheeses he gave us,” Camelot’s gourmet affirmed.

  “I’ve heard his hall at Glastonbury is empty,” Enid noted. “Has he decided to move away?” There was a note of hopefulness in her voice. Like most Christians, she looked askance at those who were too close to the Old Ways.

  “No, he’s just gone to get the last of the horses from Llantwit,” I explained. “He’ll be bringing them back before harvest time, I’m sure.”

  Next morning, while Cei conducted his business at the villa, Enid and I strolled along the beach. The tide was out, leaving a long, golden strand between the high, rocky horns that flank the cove. I stared out over the wet, shining sand, as empty and clean-swept as the beach itself. The love and loss of Lance lay quiet against my heart, and I concentrated on my last sight of Arthur—flushed, excited, full of confidence that all would come well in the end. Hurry home, husband, I thought…hurry home so we can begin to build anew.

  That afternoon Cei was actually lighthearted as we started back to Camelot The many amphorae of wine made the ox-drawn wagon even slower and more cumbersome than usual, but the Seneschal rode beside me, cheerfully going over all the things he and Arthur and Bedivere were planning to do come the fall.

  “With such good times ahead,” I asked, “why don’t you find yourself a wife to share them with?”

  Cei’s countenance darkened, but the look he shot me was more one of confusion than anger. “What do I need a wife for?” he blustered. “Bound to be more bother than she’d be worth.”

  “Haven’t you ever wanted to marry?”

  “I would have, but she was wed to another, so I put the thought aside.” The words were flat and devoid of feeling, like a shield held up to protect a bruise that won’t heal. But his manner became more blithe as he went on. “Besides, taking care of the kingdom keeps me more than busy.”

  When we reached the bottom of Camelot’s hill, Cei signaled for a halt. “Something strange, M’lady—I don’t recognize the sentry on the lower gate.”

  I gave the Seneschal an inquiring look, thinking he was being unduly cautious, but he rode up and challenged the stranger, then came back with a puzzled frown.

  “Says he’s the cousin of that new fellow, Martyn. The two of them were out carousing last night; Martyn’s not feeling too well today and his cousin’s taking his place. Sounds plausible enough, though I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  So we made our way up the steep track that swings around the fortress’s base and ends in the staging area outside our upper wall. Here, however, there was clearly something amiss: the guards at the double gates and in the tower were all big, blond, and heavily armed. When Cei demanded an explanation, his voice was drowned out by the sounds of mounted warriors closing in behind the oxcart, making escape down the hill impossible. I glared at the strangers who opened the gate and swarmed around us, but they gave no heed to my protestations as they dragged our party into the courtyard and hustled me off to the Great Hall.

  There was a chill silence when I entered the room, though my mind raced feverishly to make sense of what I saw. Mordred was sitting in his father’s chair, elbows propped on the arms, fingers steepled under his chin. He watched me without moving as I was brought before him, then dismissed my guard and, rising, came down off the dais. With a smile he reached out to take my hand.

  “Well come, Your Highness.”

  “What is this?” I snapped, struggling to keep my voice steady. If the boy thought I would let him stretch his wings so arrogantly while his father was gone, I intended to put a quick stop to it.

  “This,” my stepson replied, “is the new order of things.” He led me to my own carved chair and after I was seated, retook his place in Arthur’s. “His Highness is so concerned with honor and such in Brittany, he seems to have forgotten his poor subjects here at home. So we’ve decided to take matters into our own hands.”

  “Your hands?” I bridled. So many Saxons on Camelot’s walls suggested a palace coup, and I had to remind myself to temper anger with caution.

  Seeing my wariness, Mordred shifted to a more diplomatic approach. “We’ve talked before, you and I, and agreed that it’s imperative to bring the Saxons and Britons together in peace. The Round Table is the perfect forum for it—or at least it could have been. But Arthur stunted it, turned it into a living relic—a haven for dreamers and posturing warlords out of the past. You and I both know it needs new blood, new ideas, the inclusion of the Federates—”

  “So you’ve taken over the throne and are going to rectify all those wrongs?” I interrupted, trying to keep my tone inquisitive, not sarcastic, though outrage ran in my veins. “No doubt you’ve had help from the Federates?”

  “Of course, through Cynric. I left him in charge of Winchester, by the way. Gave it to him as my first official act.”

  First official act—the inevitable statement of a conqueror. The seriousness of Mordred’s intent came home to me with a cold certainty, and I suddenly wondered if this was another of Morgan’s plots.

  Mordred rose from the King’s chair and walked slowly back and forth across the dais. His head was bent in thought, as though he were trying to decide just how much to tell me.

  The setting sun bathed the Hall with a final golden sheen before slipping beyond the horizon. I wished we could have the lamps lit so I could at least see my opponent clearly, but Mordred appeared to be balancing on the edge of decision, and I didn’t want to force his hand by calling in a servant; better he arrive at his own conclusions in his own time. With any luck, he’d take me into his confidence. So I folded my hands and waited.

  “If only you’d spoken up more forcefully,” he said at last, coming to a stop and looking at me earnestly. “I know you understood the problem, know you held more sway over the High King than I ever could. I was counting on your good sense to soften him.” He turned away with a sigh and a shake of his head. “Well, you can make up for that lack now, M’lady.” He went back to pacing again. “I have the Federates behind me, totally committed. But I need you to bring the Cumbri into line—the men of Rheged, the Wrekin, the various countries in Wales. It was clear they’d follow you against Arthur, and if you’ll recognize me as the new High King, they’ll no doubt follow suit. Naturally, you can remain at Court as the Dowager Queen.” He gestured from the tapestry of the Red Dragon to the stairs at the far end of the Hall. “All kept the same. Even your own carved chair. Just promise me you’ll back my bid for Kingship and encourage the Fellowship to accept me.”

  So this wasn’t just a local rebellion; Mordred was intent on ruling the whole of Britain as High King. And he was heeding the old maxim that he who controls the Queen controls the people.

  “How do I know this isn’t just a bluff?” I queried, playing for time and information. “Who among the Saxons are sworn to you?”

  Mordred raised an eyebrow at my question. “All of them. Cissa of Sussex, Aesc’s sons in Kent, Cynric in Wi
nchester. And a number of others ‘Good King Arthur’ never bothered to recognize, any more than he recognized me.”

  The bitterness of his last words laid bare the grief that had driven him to this, and for a moment my heart was touched.

  “And you trust them, Mordred? You trust them? Have you never thought they may be using you? Undermining the British rule from within, getting you to do their dirty work? What makes you think they’ll let you live to sit in the High King’s chair?”

  “Haven’t you noticed; I am already in the High King’s chair.” He smiled with cold satisfaction. “The rebellion has already taken place. All that’s left is to secure my position.”

  All that’s left! How blind the arrogance of youth can be! With a snap of the fingers he discounted Arthur, dismissed him as a force already overthrown, an old man who had grown blind to the realities of the day. Ah Mordred, you, too, suffered from lack of vision, the blindness of your hatred making you underestimate the very man who sired you!

  Seeing that there was no way to reach him with reason, I sighed and put my hands on the arms of my chair preparatory to rising. “Let me think about it,” I temporized. “Give me until tomorrow to consider the matter. By then I’ll have some idea as to how to help you.”

  Again the cold smile, but this time I caught a hint of warmth in his eyes—not triumph as in a political matter but relief, as though having my approval still mattered to him. It might not be of any use to me, but I was grateful that he had not totally discounted all the years I’d cared for him.

  Back in my room, I took my jewels from the treasure chest and slipped them into traveling pouches. Arthur had once told me they might be handy for bartering. Then I had Enid go in search of Cei and ask him to bring my dinner to my chamber, providing he was not under arrest with the rest of our houseguard.

  Fortunately the Saxons had heard so much about the fine food at Camelot, they were demanding proof of the Seneschal’s culinary skill. So while the rest of our men were in chains, Cei moved freely between kitchen and larder and Hall. Later, while the enemy were gorging themselves at their feast, he and I conferred in hasty whispers, making plans for escape.

  I gave him various spices from the cupboard, explaining which herbs bring on sleep, and after the strangers had had their fill of mulled wine and sat nodding by the fire, I crept down the back stairs and joined the Seneschal in the kitchen courtyard. We dared not confront the sentries on the wall, but slipped silently through the postern gate and, keeping well to the shadows on the edge of the track, made our way to the nearest steading. Here Cei found a pair of horses, which he appropriated without even waking the farmer. I told myself we’d repay the man when this was over.

  It was a chancy trip, as we had no idea how far the insurrection had spread and whether the more integrated Federates of the Thames valley would give us shelter in Arthur’s name or take us captive in Mordred’s. We rode at night and slept in ruined villas or hidden thickets during the day. Cei stole bits of food, his years as a tax collector having sharpened his eye for what was or wasn’t available at every steading.

  With luck and desperation we reached London before Mordred’s men found us. Lynette’s family let me stay with them in the Grounds Keeper’s quarters at the Imperial Palace until we could secure Caesar’s Tower. With its thick walls and square rooms set one on top of the other, it was the best defensive position around and would be a suitable headquarters from which to conduct Arthur’s business until he returned.

  While Cei went about finding an adequate food supply and Lynette’s family rounded up a ragtag houseguard for my protection, I tried to determine how much Morgan was involved in this. That she wouldn’t scruple to use Mordred was clear, but if she had initiated this uprising, he would not have turned to me for help in bringing the northerners to his cause. For once I decided my sister-in-law had nothing to do with the present disaster.

  On our first night in the Tower Cei and I held a council to consider what to do next. Sitting on camp stools around a fire built on the dirt floor on the ground level, we might as well have been in the field. That’s when I fully realized we were at war with Mordred.

  “I must get word to Arthur,” I declared. “He has to know what’s happening.”

  Cei had already spoken with the Harbor Master. “There’s a ship sailing on tomorrow’s tide. One of the Royal Messengers will be aboard when she pulls out.”

  “What do you mean, Royal Messenger?” Surprise made my voice sharp. “You must go in person.”

  “And who’s to take care of you in the meantime? That bunch of gangling boys?” He gestured toward the noisy group of youngsters playing dice just beyond the door. It was true that my houseguard was made up more of eager boys than seasoned warriors. “Well meaning, but not much for experience.”

  “We’ll just have to chance it.” I shrugged.

  “No, M’lady. Years back I took an oath to defend you with my life if necessary, and that’s not going to change now.” He bent to add another branch to the coals. The Tower was as chill as the cell in Carlisle had been, and the fire would be my only heat throughout the night.

  “I appreciate the sentiment,” I said with a sigh, touched by his loyalty. “But truly, I’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t think you understand.” The Seneschal continued to poke at the coals, not looking at me. “You asked why I’ve never married…let’s just say the lady I wanted was also my Queen—and my foster brother’s wife. So I kept to myself and concentrated on my duties. Not that it was easy, watching Lancelot become your Champion, seeing the Breton come and go, disappearing for months at a time and leaving you unprotected. The man didn’t half appreciate his position, in my opinion.” He frowned at the new flame licking along the bark of the branch and shook his head as though wishing he hadn’t said so much. “But now that it’s me you need, I intend to be here.”

  I stared at him, speechless. It was the last thing in the world I expected to hear.

  “Not that I would try to replace the Breton in your affections,” he went on hastily. “Nor do I ask any favors in return—just the chance to take care of you properly until Arthur gets back.” He lifted his head and looked at me worriedly, the firelight making his cheeks ruddy and his eyes shadowed. “I hope I haven’t spoken out of turn, Your Highness, but you should know my reasons for not going.”

  “Well, um…” I stammered, unable to think of what to say. It was my turn to avert my eyes. “I deeply appreciate your…honesty. But it’s desperately important that Arthur have as much information as possible—the names of Mordred’s allies, a rough idea of their numbers, and the fact that he doesn’t think he can count on the men of the north without my support. Who knows what Uwain’s position will be. Now that I’ve given up Rheged, we’ve precious little leverage where he’s concerned. Those are details Arthur will need to know, and even if I commit them to writing, he’ll be wanting your assessment as well.”

  I looked up then to find the Seneschal still watching me. Our eyes held for a long moment, and at last he smiled—a wry, lopsided smile such as I had never seen before.

  “If that’s what you command, M’lady, that’s what I’ll do. We both know the risks of leaving you alone here, and I’d rather stay. But I’ve had my say, and having served both you and Arthur nigh on thirty years, I’m not about to go against you now.” He rose to his feet, gathering his dignity with him. “I’ll go pack some things for traveling while you write down those names…”

  I stared into the fire for a long bit after he left the room, puzzling that a man could carry such a secret for so long, and that I had never guessed. All things considered, I was glad he’d never mentioned it before.

  Cei left on the boat early the next morning, and later that afternoon both Lynette and Enid slipped into the Tower, having managed to depart from Camelot without arousing Mordred’s suspicions. He was, by all accounts, too busy raising his rebel army and scouring the nearby countryside for me to notice the departure of two wid
ows and three children.

  “The men of Devon must be loyal,” Enid declared when we gathered around the fire after the children were abed. “You should send a message to Petroc and Gwynlliw assuring them Arthur is returning.”

  “The more allies we can muster before the High King arrives, the better the chances of winning,” I agreed, glad to have her help.

  We spent the next two days sending out word to our allies. Messengers went everywhere, from Vortipor in Demetia to the Scottish chieftains in Strathclyde and Stirling; from Constantine in Cornwall—King Mark being far too old for battle—to Wuffa in East Anglia. I even sent word to London’s Bishop asking what help the church could provide, and to Cathbad in the hope that the Druids would come to the Pendragon’s aid.

  And then we waited. During the day I paced the rooms in the Tower, climbing to the ruined parapet to stare out over the Thames and wonder where Arthur would land when he did come back. London was more secure, but the Channel at Dover was narrower, though it was possible the Federates who controlled the area had joined with Mordred. Then, too, he could make for the Wash to the north, where the Saxons might or might not prove loyal. Or he could swing around Cornwall and up the Bristol Channel, disembarking at Glastonbury and possibly taking Mordred from the rear. There was one consolation: if I could see so many possibilities, Mordred could also. It meant he would have to spread his forces thin.

  In the evenings I took little Lora and Megan on my lap and told them stories. By one of those oddities of fate the pine knot carving Kimmins had given me was among my jewels, so I brought it out and showed the girls, delighting them with tales of how the invisible Hedley Kow used to plague poor Cook by overturning pots and upsetting churns before scampering away on his bandy legs, laughing his great horse laugh. I wove in stories of the heroes their father had known, and memories of our early days at Camelot. It helped to pass the time and raised our spirits as well.