“Tougher than she looks,” she told her friends.
With the mountains too dangerous to pass, they put the outside world from their minds. At least, they never spoke of it. They ate at Lionel’s table and entertained him and Bors’ family at theirs. They played games with the children and laughed at the tricks of the resident juggler. They made love far into the night and learned that one could laugh in bed, too. As long as the snow lasted they pretended that life would go on that way forever.
One day Bors found Guinevere crying over a crocus in bloom.
Chapter Twenty
The spring wind rustled the tent flaps of Arthur’s camp. It was too early for any but the sentries to be about, but inside the commander’s tent, marked only by the ensign tied to a post in front, Arthur lay awake. The birds were being obnoxiously cheerful, and he cursed them for their happy ignorance of his state.
Nothing had a right to delight when he was saddled with so much. On top of his own grief and sorrow, goads in the forms of Meleagant and Maelgwn had been added. They had insisted on accompanying him to Banoit. Of course it was to support him. Meleagant even had some justification, since Banoit was his by conquest. Their gloating presence was enough to send him to the edge of murder, but he would not let them see it. Maelgwn had no stake in the matter at all except his eagerness to pick up the pieces afterwards and attach them to his realm. His excuse was that he could send his men as nonpartisan intermediaries. That was all Arthur needed. An hour alone with Lancelot and Guinevere could have settled everything but there was no chance of that.
Modred, Gawain, and Gaheris slept in their own tent. Arthur had hoped that Gawain could be convinced to stay behind and let the law work. But the bonds of family were too strong. Agravaine sent word that he was unable to leave Tintagel but Gawain should, of course, take his place in avenging Gareth. Even pious Gaheris agreed. The only compromise Arthur had been able to forge was that only Gawain should fight Lancelot. The issue would be decided by single combat.
How deep the family ties went was shown to Arthur again when he asked Constantine to accompany him to Banoit.
“I can’t, Sir,” Constantine had said in surprise. “Queen Guinevere is my wife’s aunt and she was fostered by my mother. You wouldn’t expect me to stand against her.”
“But she’s my wife!” Arthur answered in exasperation. “And everyone expects me to stand against her.”
“That’s different, Sir, you understand that. If she had sinned against her family or truly committed treason against you, then I would be the first to lay a sword at her throat. But in this, I must either stay away or defend her. You don’t need me there, anyway, and Sir Cei needs help with the provisioning of our army. Let me stay with him. Don’t be angry, Sir. My father says it was like this even when the Romans ruled. Actually, he always felt that Rome disintegrated when the great families began their internecine battles. If a man’s kin won’t stand with him, who will?”
Constantine grinned. “Of course, Father’s ancient now and has some odd quirks. He even has this strange belief about your nephew, Modred—insists that he’s the incarnation of Uther Pendragon. He can barely see, of course, but he swears that Modred even moves like Uther. Ridiculous ideas the old get.”
He took his leave, whistling cheerfully. Arthur listened to the tune fade away, feeling that someone had dropped a block of ice into the pit of his stomach.
• • •
When Meleagant’s couriers arrived Lionel went immediately to Lancelot.
“We’ll defend you to the last man,” he swore.
Lancelot shook his head. “That was what my father did and the last man died. Tell them I will fight their champion for the Queen’s honor. That way we can settle the matter without destruction.”
Lionel turned to the courier. “Tell your message to him, just as you did me,” he commanded.
The courier saluted and then recited from memory, “To Lancelot of Banoit: We call you to account for thwarting the King’s justice, for the act of adultery, and most especially for the willful murder of Sir Gareth of Cornwall. Will you submit to trial by combat to prove your innocence?”
Lancelot turned pale. “What is he talking about? Gareth? What happened to Gareth? How could they think I killed him? Guinevere, tell them they’re wrong.”
Guinevere couldn’t look at him. Lancelot grew cold.
“I couldn’t have killed Gareth,” he whispered.
“He was in the crowd, trying to help you,” she faltered as realization flooded him. “You didn’t even see him.”
“You knew?”
Tears choked her. “I saw him fall. I hoped he still lived. He didn’t blame you, I’m sure of it. There were so many people and the smoke was so thick.”
“Oh, my God!” he wailed and threw himself on the floor, pounding the stones till his fists were bloodied.
Lionel took the messenger outside. “Tell King Arthur that Lancelot will meet with his champion. I will have him ready.”
The courier looked doubtful, but it wasn’t his business to wonder, so he saluted again and returned to the camp.
Guinevere was kneeling next to Lancelot when Lionel returned.
“Help me!” she begged. “He’ll hurt himself. He wants to hurt himself.”
Together they got him to a chair and forced some wine into him.
“It wasn’t your fault, Cousin,” Lionel insisted. “Such things happen in battle. Don’t give way to despair. You must be ready tomorrow to meet their champion.”
“I don’t care. If I killed Gareth then I deserve to die. Let them take me.”
Lionel made Lancelot take another gulp from the cup.
“If you do that, they’ll take the Queen, too. It’s admitting all guilt. I have heard that King Arthur would be willing to take his wife back if you proved her innocence in combat.”
“But everyone knows we’ve spent the winter together!” Guinevere protested.
“Don’t ask me for logic. That’s what I was told. Arthur doesn’t want to punish anyone, but he has to save face. You know him. Does it sound like a trick?”
Lancelot shook his head. “Arthur has no deceit in him. Guinevere, if I fight this man and win, will you return to Camelot?”
She fumbled for her crutch and pulled herself over to the window. Across the valley she could see the white of the tents in the setting sun. In one of them Arthur waited; patient, kind Arthur, who had never asked anything of her but the love she couldn’t give. She had hurt and humiliated him in a way she would not have treated a vicious dog. But Lancelot!
“How can I leave you? Tell me! What should I do?” she pleaded.
“I can’t,” Lancelot sighed. “I can’t even decide for myself.”
Guinevere leaned against the rough wood of the window frame and tried to think. Merlin was right. She had never made a decision in her life. It had always been done for her. She had never even felt the need to deny herself anything, for no one had ever held back anything she wanted. She couldn’t decide now! It was too hard! It wasn’t fair!
“If I go, will that end the fighting?” she asked Lionel.
“They say so,” he told her. “It probably will. In a few weeks, most of the soldiers in Britain will have gone to Armorica to defend it against the Franks. Everyone, I think, would be glad to have this resolved by then.”
She set her lips and exhaled. She closed her eyes. She opened them. The situation hadn’t changed.
“All right. If Lancelot fights Arthur’s champion and wins, I will return to Camelot.”
“And if I lose?” Lancelot wanted to know.
“Then she must be turned over to the King’s justice, whatever that may be.”
“It doesn’t matter, Lancelot. If you lose, nothing matters.” Guinevere hobbled back and, standing behind him, put her arms about his neck. “We were never going to be parted again, and now we have only one night left.”
Lionel took the point and excused himself. On the ride home, he worried ab
out Lancelot. Would he make an effort to defeat the champion? Everyone knew he was the best of the knights and the most skillful at arms. He had shown his students this winter that he had lost none of that skill. But could he win if his heart wasn’t in it? Lionel knew Meleagant would be there. Lancelot had to win, if only to salve the pride of Banoit. They had to make Lancelot see that. It wasn’t just for himself and Guinevere that he would fight, but for the honor of his kin.
• • •
The moon had risen in their window and drifted farther across the sky, trailing stars behind her. Guinevere saw each one staring at her curiously, but with no malice. To Lancelot they were only a smear of light against the blackness. Together they waited for the last dawn they would share.
“You should sleep, my love,” Guinevere murmured. “You need to be strong tomorrow.”
“I’m rested enough,” he told her. “I’ll sleep when it’s over.”
She shuddered and he drew her closer, her ear against his heart. The slow beat went through her and calmed her.
“It was a lovely winter,” she said.
“The most wonderful of my life,” he agreed.
“Will you hate me for going back to Arthur?”
“Will you hate me for letting you go?”
She settled more firmly across his chest. “I won’t really be gone. I know better now. And your promise is unbroken. You will never leave me again.”
“Never.”
They were quiet for a while.
“Lancelot?”
“Mmmm?”
“Tell me, just once more, about Galahad.”
“Galahad was ours, only ours. We made him with our love and there was only love in him. He went joyfully into the light. His last words to me were of concern for you.”
“We could not be evil and be loved by Galahad.”
“No, we could be weak with humanity, but not evil. He would have known.”
“My beautiful, golden boy!” She smiled. "Yes, they can never make me repent my love. The sky is lavender now; the clouds are turning pink and gold. Soon, someone will call us. Sleep a little, while I hold you. Nothing can harm us here.”
• • •
An area had been staked out on a level field not far from Lionel’s castle. There was room enough for the traditional combat on horseback first. But no one believed it would end with that. It would come to hand-to-hand fighting, with short sword and dagger. Meleagant surveyed the area with a pleased smile. A good day’s entertainment. With luck, not only Arthur would be discomfited. Those stiff-necked lords of Banoit could use some embarassment. He’d never bothered with Banoit before; it was too much trouble to do more than send for the tribute each year and count it to be sure he hadn’t been shortchanged. When he returned from Armorica, he’d have to investigate it. There wasn’t land enough in Gaul to provide for all his bastards. Banoit might be a good place to dump a few. Meleagant rubbed his hands together. Sir Modred was right. After all these years, matters were finally working out his way, and most of it was Modred’s doing. There was a man who knew how to get things done.
Gawain banged his sword against his breastplate at Arthur’s tent.
“I’m ready, Uncle,” he stated, as Arthur came out. “But first I have to meditate for a hour or two. After that, you can begin the speeches and reading of the charges and the rules and so forth. Then, after lunch, we can begin the duel.”
“After lunch?” Gaheris had come up to hear this. “Don’t be stupid, Gawain. You know you begin to weaken after lunch!”
“The days are growing longer. I’ll be strong enough,” Gawain answered calmly. “Will you allow me time for meditation, Uncle?”
“If you insist on it, Gawain. It’s your right. Do you feel you need it?”
“To do what I must do? Yes.”
“Then I will tell the others that we meet at the field in an hour and a half.”
• • •
Guinevere dressed herself carefully. Lancelot helped her weave her hair into a crown and drape the veil over it and across her shoulders. Then she helped him into his armor, seeing that the padding under the mail was even and that none of the metal pieces sewn onto the leather were angled to scratch him. She laced up his boots and tucked his pants in before making the last knot. For a moment, she knelt at his feet, struggling with her tears. Then she held out her hand to be pulled back up.
“Are you sure you want to be there?” Lancelot asked worriedly.
“I couldn’t sit alone here and wait,” she answered. “That is not my kind of cowardice.”
There was a knock at the door.
“Lionel and Bors are here to escort us.” Guinevere reached for her crutch. “Do I look all right?”
Lancelot had to laugh. “Like a proper matron on her way to Mass.”
“Good enough.” She gave him her hand. “One last time; I love you.”
“To the gates and beyond, Guinevere, I love you, too.”
• • •
When Gawain saw Guinevere being helped down from her horse, he ran to her, just as he had always done. Bors saw him coming and drew his sword. Guinevere stopped him.
“Bors, it’s Gawain! He’s been my friend since we were children.” She held out her arms to him and he swung her around in the old way. When he set her down, she stumbled against him and held out her hand for the crutch. His face changed at the sight of it.
“What happened to you?”
“It’s all right, Gawain. It’s almost healed; then I can get around with just a stick. Lancelot, look! It’s Gawain!”
Lancelot’s face lit up. “It’s good to see you. Why are you all girded for battle? Have you come to be my second?”
Gawain dropped his hand and stepped back.
“They didn’t tell you yet, did they? I’m your opponent. I’m sorry, Lancelot. I have to do this. I owe it to Gareth. Why did you have to kill him?”
“Oh, no!” Lancelot was at the breaking point. “They can’t make us do this! I won’t! Kill me now and get it over with. I can’t stand this anymore!”
“Why did it have to be you, Gawain?” Guinevere demanded .
“He was my brother, Guinevere, and I wasn’t particularly kind to him while he was alive. I owe him something now. I’m the only one in the family who could give Lancelot a fair match. Everyone knows it. I had to agree. Believe me. This is the best way.”
“But you did nothing! There is no reason to punish you!” she refused to accept it.
“It doesn’t work that way, Guinevere. Gareth did nothing wrong. That couldn’t save him.”
“Look at Lancelot! No matter who wins, you’ll have killed him.”
“I know that, as he will destroy me.”
“Oh, Gawain! This is not the way life is supposed to be!”
“Guinevere, this is no time for philosophy. Just give me a kiss and say you’ll forgive me, whatever happens.”
“Of course.” And she did.
He smiled at her in the old way, as if going off for a day of hunting.
“Good-bye, Auntie! See you in the morning.”
• • •
They waited through the preliminaries, the speeches, the explanations. Father Antonius prayed for the truth to shine forth and for justice to triumph. Then Bors led Clades to Lancelot. When he had mounted, Lionel handed him his shield and spear.
“Remember,” they urged. “Don’t let Meleagant see Banoit defeated again.”
Modred handed Gawain his shield.
“Better you than me,” he smirked. “Don’t trip on your own sword.”
“Why couldn’t Lancelot have killed you?” Gawain replied.
• • •
They missed each other on the first pass, to loud booing from the crowd. On the second, their spears rang on the shields with a screeching clash that set men’s teeth on edge. The third time, both spears broke. They drew their swords and circled each other.
“Are they speaking?” Maelgwn asked. “I don’t trust them not to
make some alliance out there.”
“They are my knights,” Arthur told him. “They won’t, whatever it costs.”
“Then they’re fools. I would.”
“I know.” Arthur folded his arms and stalked away.
Gawain overbalanced in an attempt to slice through Lancelot’s bridle and fell, pulling the bridle and Lancelot down with him. There was some confused whacking until they righted themselves, then they seemed to settle down for an afternoon of thrust and parry.
“Oh God!” Meleagant complained. “This can go on for hours. Where is the boy with the wine jug?”
It did go on for hours. With every stroke, Guinevere felt the jar run through her bones. Her hands were clenched so tightly that the fingers were numb. If only they could end it, one way or the other. Anything to have it over!
Gawain felt the sun settling lower on the horizon, drawing his strength down with it. He knew Lancelot was aware of it, but wouldn’t take advantage. Gawain’s arm moved more slowly and he nearly missed countering some of the blows. Lancelot eased in his attack. Gawain knew better than to believe his opponant was equally tired. Lancelot was waiting, hoping to start again in the morning when Gawain would be at his peak and impossible to defeat.
“I won’t let you do it!” he muttered and, closing his eyes, stepped into the blade coming toward him.
He gasped as the steel went through him. He had thought it would feel like fire, but it was more as if he had been hit by something massively heavy. He tried to get his breath but blood was rushing into his lungs and he could only gag on it.
“Gawain!” Lancelot screamed, dropping his sword and scooping up his friend. “Gawain, why? You could have killed me in the morning!”
Gawain smiled and beckoned Lancelot closer. He brought his friend’s ear close to his mouth.
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