They fished it out with a branch. No one had the courage to dive into that strange water, which only reflected images, never showing anything beneath its surface. After much debate, it was decided that two of them would take the bag and Morgan’s horse to King Arthur and hope he would believe the story of his sister’s death. The others would return to Tintagel and break the welcome news that Lot’s son Agravaine was now Lord of Cornwall.
• • •
Deep within the Lake, in a palace of diamonds and orchids, the Lady lounged on her couch. She was only moderately bored. Lillith had composed a new piece for lute and pipes and it was quite tolerable. There was a report that a griffin had been seen in the woods. That might provide some diversion. She had managed to keep Damion from reciting all seventy-four verses of his latest saga. But it was hours yet until dinner and she wished fiercely that something would happen. Again, she regretted letting Lancelot leave her. Kidnapping him as a baby has been the most interesting part of her eternally long life. Raising him had kept her amused for years. If only he hadn’t gotten those strange ideas from that nurse and insisted on charging out to help King Arthur save the world.
“Lady! Come quickly!”
“What is it, Torres?” She wasn’t unduly stirred. Torres was human and young enough to get excited about almost anything. He ran into her rooms and grabbed her by the arms.
“Come see what we fished out of the lake! She even brought her own clothes!”
The Lady decided that this sounded different enough to be of interest. She followed Torres out to the side garden, where several of her people were gathered around a rather plump, bedraggled, middle-aged woman who was trying to talk and cough up lake water at the same time.
“Bring her in to me!” the Lady ordered and two of the men scooped her up between them and carried her in to the main hall where they set her gently on a low divan.
She stared about the room in wonder, her mouth slightly open. Then she turned to the Lady.
“If this is the afterlife, someone’s been giving it a bad name," she said.
Torres laughed. The Lady hushed him.
“If you meant to die, we must disappoint you. This Lake is my realm and, now that you are here, you will never be allowed to age or die.”
Morgan’s eyes lit up. Why had she never known about this place?
“I don’t suppose you could make me look just a little younger first?”
“Well, of course! We could also do something with your hair. What color was it when you started out? But you must understand that, now that you are here, you can’t change your mind and go back. I tried letting someone do that once and it worked out very badly.”
Morgan fingered the wet folds of her gown. She hadn’t really wanted to die when she leaped into the lake. But she was sick of the machinations and the hurt in her life, disgusted with what the years had done to her body. She looked at the men out of the corner of her eye. This, yes, this would do very well, almost too well.
“What would I have to do, to earn my keep, I mean?” she asked.
The Lady looked blank.
“What kind of service would you expect from me?” Morgan clarified.
“Service? I really don’t need anything from you. I’m served quite well.” She smiled at the ladies and gentlemen around her. “However, if you happen to know any good gossip, that would be fine. I haven’t heard any since Torres here came back from Arthur’s court. Is Arthur still King? Does he still have the sword that Master Merlin won from me? Did he ever discover the secret of it? And my stepson, Lancelot, I haven’t heard anything about him for a long time. Do you know him? Is he still trying to suffer for everyone’s sins? Oh, I’m sorry, my dear, you’re still wet. Never mind all that now. Go make yourself presentable and then come join us at dinner. You have years and years and years to tell me about it all.”
Chapter Five
“So, old Leodegrance is finally dying.” Modred’s striking profile was outlined in the window as he watched the rain through the glass at his aunt Morgause’s home. “He was the last one, wasn’t he? Now no one can stop us. There’s no one left who saw Uther.”
“No one who matters,” his aunt Morgause agreed. “Cador might remember, but he can barely see anymore. He’s no threat. This will still take time, you know. You mustn’t let anyone suspect us. Anything blatant will only get you thrown out of Camelot, even killed.”
“My dear, when have I ever been blatant about anything?” He ran his knife idly under his fingernails.
“Don’t be so smug, Modred. Leodegrance would have seen right through you. He was the only man who ever got his wife out of Uther’s clutches without a war. I wish my father had been half what he was.”
“Why, Morgause, such sentiment! It sounds as though he never came into your clutches, either.”
“Never mind that. Have you told Agravaine to expect you at Camelot? Perhaps you can win your way into Arthur’s heart on your own. Blood calls to blood, they say.”
“In this family it certainly does.” And Modred laughed as he left the window and rejoined Morgause in bed.
• • •
At Camelot, Modred’s brothers were upset enough to call a family meeting, something only done in dire circumstances. None of the sons of Morgan le Fay resembled her in the slightest, so, of course, they were nothing like each other. Agravaine was tall and brawny, like his father, Lot. The responsibility of being the oldest of the brood weighed on him, and he was balding rapidly. Gawain had always been almost unbearably handsome, with his golden hair and lithe, effortless strength. He would have taken more advantage of his looks if he could have stayed awake past sundown. Gaheris was the mystic of the clan; he spoke rarely, but his deep blue eyes saw everything. His intensity rather awed his older brothers, who did not speak much to him of worldly matters. Gareth was slight and beige. He blended so unobtrusively with the background that many people never noticed him at all. It was a trial to him, but Arthur took advantage of it, sending him places where it would not have been politic for a knight to be. His main characteristic was his steadfast devotion to Lancelot.
Agravaine stood facing the other three, who were seated on the bed in his tiny room. He folded his arms and cleared his throat. Gareth’s eyes were red. He hadn’t believed the guard’s story about an accident at the Lake any more than the others had. He was awash in guilt. Agravaine’s pomposity was grating on him to the point of screaming.
“You all know that under Cornish law, Tintagel passes to me. I don’t suppose Mother would have liked that, but there it is. I’ll do my best to take care of things there and, of course, you should all consider it your home.”
“You’ll have to get married now, Agravaine,” Gawain chuckled. “The Duke of Cornwall must have an heir.”
“How can you make jokes with our mother newly dead?” Gareth cried.
Gawain was unapologetic. “She never cared for me. We all know that. She sent me away as soon as it was decent. All she ever cared about was Tintagel and, maybe, Modred. The rest of us were merely unavoidable miscalculations.”
“Well, I loved her anyway!” Gareth couldn’t deny Gawain’s statement. “And you should at least have some respect!”
Gawain shrugged. “Did you want to get us together just to tell us you’re in charge now?” he asked Agravaine. “Because you can have every rock in Cornwall for all I care. Just don’t try to lord it over me here.”
Agravaine glared at him, then subsided. “When did I ever try to do that? No, how you act away from Cornwall is your own business. It’s Modred I’m worried about. He’s coming here now. With Mother gone, there’s no one to stop him.”
They forgot their bickering at once. Against Modred they had to be united.
“Do you think Aunt Morgause is sending him to kill Arthur?” Gaheris asked.
“Nothing so clean, I’m sure.” Agravaine chewed his tongue. “If only he weren’t so damn oily! You think you have him and he’s slipped across the room. He’s goin
g to make friends here, you know.”
They all nodded. Modred had a knack for making friends.
“We ought to warn Lancelot and Guinevere,” Gawain said. Gareth rose up. “You ought to warn Guinevere! It’s all her fault; it always was. Lancelot is just too good to refuse her.”
“Not again, Gareth,” Gaheris sighed. “It’s none of our business, anyway. I don’t think it would be worth it, Gawain. If they can’t stay apart for love of Arthur, they won’t for fear of Modred.”
“Modred might convince her to forget about Lancelot,” Gareth suggested with a leer. “He’s got more of a following among the women than you do, Gawain. And a woman who would betray Arthur ought to be easy for him.”
The shot went home and the next minute, Gawain was picking his brother up and shaking him until his teeth rattled.
“Stop it!” Agravaine yelled, pulling at Gareth from behind as Gaheris tugged at Gawain. “Gawain, you’ll kill him!”
“I c-can t-take c-care of m-myself!” Gareth glared defiantly at Gawain, who dropped him with a look of shame.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “But you shouldn’t talk about the Queen that way. You know very well she’s not like that.”
In the ruckus, none of them had heard the door open.
“All of us together again! How jolly!” Modred gazed at them in mock delight. “And beating up on Gareth still? It will be like old times. Well, brothers, aren’t you going to welcome me to Camelot?”
They all gaped at him. Gareth wiped his chin. Gaheris sighed and began to recite Pater Nosters in his head. Gawain wondered if fratricide were sometimes justifiable, and Agravaine forced a smile and held out his hand to Modred, wishing again that he had been an only child.
• • •
They had hardly stopped at all in their race against death. The horses were almost spent when they pulled themselves up the last hill to the villa. But it was too late. Guinevere knew it as soon as the gate opened. The stillness told her. Even the air was muffled with grief.
Pincerna, their ancient butler, met her in the courtyard. His gnarled arms eased her to the ground. Tears slid easily down the furrows of his face.
“He went yesterday,” the old man whispered. “My Lady Guenlian was the only one with him.”
“My brother?”
“Perhaps the message never reached him.”
Guinevere nodded. She wanted to believe that. Whatever angry words had been shouted when Mark ran away with the daughter of his Saxon enemy, she did not believe that he would abandon their father on his deathbed.
Inside, they were greeted by Rhianna, widow of Guinevere’s eldest brother, and her daughter, Letitia. Caet hung behind, mindful that his place had always been in the stables. But Constantine was hugged and welcomed as one of the family.
“Guenlian is sleeping, finally,” Rhianna told them. “We moved your father to the chapel for now, but she won’t let us remove the bedding. She just lies there, clutching the blankets as if he were still there. Perhaps, when she sees you, it will be better.”
“Take me to her, please.” Guinevere’s nails caught in her riding cloak as she twitched it nervously. She had no idea how she could comfort her mother. She had no comfort even for herself.
Pincerna took the men to their rooms. Constantine was lost in grief, or so the butler thought, but as they parted, the younger man took the older aside.
“Pincerna,” he asked. “That girl with Rhianna, that wasn’t Letitia, was it? I thought she was a scrawny little thing with tangled hair.”
“You’ve been away a long time, Sir Constantine. Letitia is nineteen. She has been eating much better lately and has learned the use of a comb.”
He then left Constantine with his thoughts, and turned to Caet.
“So, you run away from your master and now come back as a lord, you think!” He snorted in disgust.
“I am horsemaster to King Arthur.” Caet looked him full in the eyes. “I am not a lord, but I am no man’s slave. Leodegrance and I made our peace years ago. You have no right to sneer at me now.”
“So why are you here!” the old man blazed.
Caet shook his head. “She wanted me to come.”
Pincerna looked at him closely. “I see. It was always like that, though, wasn’t it? You took her punishments more than once, I remember. True enough, Caet, you’re no man’s slave. I love her as my own, lad, but even I can see that you’ll only bring yourself grief.”
“And when, Pincerna, have I ever expected anything else?”
They went together to the butler’s quarters and shared a pitcher before the long night of watching in the chapel. That night, also, there were fires along the fields. The shepherds and farmers wanted to be sure the old gods would light the way for their master even to the new heaven he sought.
• • •
Mourning was getting on Guinevere’s nerves. Her father was dead. He was buried. They had said Masses for his soul. They had torn their clothes and beat their breasts until the blood came and then they had rubbed ashes in the wounds. It was enough. Caet had insisted on leaving as soon as he could. He complained that the horses would be neglected if he didn’t watch over the stable boys. Only Constantine seemed in no hurry to go, but he spent all his time comforting Letitia, leaving Guinevere and Rhianna to cope with Guenlian’s deep mourning.
“Rhianna, I can’t stay here much longer,” Guinevere said one morning as they went over plans for the day. “I must be back at Camelot soon. Arthur needs me.”
But it was the music of summer she was thinking of, more than Arthur, and laughter and the jugglers and magicians and the games and dances at Solstice Eve. She had thought she loved this villa more than any place on earth, but it was so empty now, and dim, like the ripples of a reflection in a lake. It belonged to the past, with the evening reading from Vergil or Diodorus and the lush meals served to reclining guests. Guinevere felt that, if she turned her back on it, the house would vanish and, when she turned again, only a peeling shell would remain, roofless and ghosted.
“You’re very tired, Guinevere. Your mother is resting now and Pincerna is going to bring her a long list of decisions to make when she awakes. Why don’t you go for a ride?”
Rhianna was gray with grief and exaustion, Guinevere noticed with guilt. “Come with me. You need to get away more than I do.”
“No, I don’t care for riding. Anyway”—there was a glint of humor in her tired eyes—“I think I should stay close enough to be a proper chaperon for my daughter. And to think that I always remembered Constantine as such a bloodthirsty, girl-hating little boy.”
So Guinevere went alone. She crossed the creek, still rushing with melted snow, and, without thinking, headed for the woods. Long ago she had found something precious there, but she couldn’t remember any more what it had been. Perhaps she had some idea of creeping up on it, for she left the horse at the hut of one of the framers and took the footpath among the trees.
She wandered in the dappled, green light, not caring where she went, until she was deep within the forest, part of the great one that the Romans had sliced through to make way for civilization. They had missed this corner.
She came to a great tangle of bushes in white and lavender blossom. Her hands brushed the tiny petals and she tried to remember to tell Rhianna so they could get the berries in the fall. Then she stared at it, puzzled.
“There is something on the other side of this. I was there once. I know it.”
She began to walk along the edge of the bushes. They had grown wild until they were over her head. They wrapped around trees and clambered into the branches. Halfway around, she noticed that the leaves were not the same. There was a space where no bushes grew, only long, thornless vines which curtained the other side. She spread them with her hands and stepped in.
It was only a clearing, about twenty feet across, covered with wild flowers. Other than that, it was completely empty and perfectly still.
Guinevere felt as if she had found
the key to heaven.
Slowly, she walked to the gentle rise in the center of the clearing. Violets were blooming there and alyssum. She slipped off her sandals and felt the soft velvet against her toes. The sun was warm and she pulled off her tunic and let her skirt fall on the grass. After a moment, she pulled off her shift, too. She reached out to the sunlight pouring onto her winter-pale body. The warmth curled into her bones and expanded, releasing her. Her hairpins dropped onto the pile of clothing as her braids fell to her knees and unraveled.
“I have done this before,” she thought. “I was waiting for someone. Was I a priestess then, or only a child?”
She lay on her back on the hillock, eyes closed but still seeing the orange glow overhead. Her arms stretched out along the grass, bruising the flowers so that their fragrance burst into the warm air. Her fingers pressed into the earth and old incantations came into her mind, arcane syllables intoned to her from the cradle by her nurse. They belonged here. A faint breeze started up and blew her hair across her face and shoulder, brushing against her breasts. There was only one thing missing to complete the enchantment. Guinevere concentrated.
The vines at the edge of the clearing rustled but she didn’t move.
“Guinevere.” He had thought he was going to shout it, but he could barely whisper.
She smiled. “You heard me calling. It must be a strong magic to bring you to me so quickly.”
“Arthur sent me to see how you were. I was not far when I felt it. I did not know it was you. I didn’t want to follow.”
She opened her eyes and sat up.
“It’s too warm for all that riding gear,” she said.
He looked around at the entrance, hesitating.
Guinevere laughed. “No one will come. I’ve put a spell on this place.”
Lancelot nodded. He knew about spells. All the women of his childhood had used them as a matter of course. He began to remove his clothing.
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