"Did you sleep well, Lady Guinevere?"
"Indeed. And you, Fencha?"
"Tolerably well, my lady." She smiled because Guinevere had asked her.
Guinevere slid out of bed and took the damp cloth Fencha handed her to wash her face.
A series of mews, increasingly desperate, startled Guinevere.
"Here, Grayse," she called, looking about the room. The cat was not under the table or the bed, nor was she hidden among Guinevere's gowns.
The mews became louder.
"She's in the secret passage,"Fencha said, moving to free her.
Grayse bounded over to Guinevere, who reached down to pat her. "God's eyebrows, what if someone else had heard her and discovered the hidden door—and the fact that I was using it!" Guinevere exclaimed. Fencha had always known about the door—had in fact told Guinevere about it when she came to Camelot—and about Lancelot. "Such a simple thing. How near we come to being discovered." Guinevere gritted her teeth and tried to dismiss the thought. Arthur did not object to their love, but he would care very much if anyone else learned that his wife was unfaithful to him. Indeed, he would have to punish them. Guinevere did not want to contemplate just what that punishment might be.
Mordred crept through the darkened brothel. He knew what door Dunaut, the owner, slept behind. With a whore, of course. Sometimes when Mordred was younger, he had been the one who was forced to lie with Dunaut. Raped. Now was the time for his revenge.
He wished he could torture the panderer, but that would rouse the others. Mordred clutched the sharpest kitchen knife, the only weapon he was allowed to touch. He was sorry that Dunaut would die in his sleep and would never know that Mordred had killed him, but there was no time for the luxury of confronting him. It was necessary to act as quickly as possible, and Mordred understood necessity.
Mordred knew every inch of the brothel, for he had been raised there. He was ignorant of the rest of the world, but he would remedy that.
Mordred wedged his knife through the crack in the door, springing the latch noiselessly. He stole his way to the bed.
Dunaut lay far enough away from the girl so that Mordred could probably kill him without killing her, too—not that he cared. Not when every scar on his back had come from Dunaut's beating.
For an instant, he regarded the sleeping panderer. Then he slashed Dunaut's throat neatly.
The girl opened her eyes.
"Make a sound and I'll kill you, too," Mordred whispered.
She cowered, and shrank to the furtherest corner of the small bed.
There were two other panderers to kill, though Dunaut had been the chief one. All of them had mocked Mordred for being a king's son, born to a whore. If his so-called mother, who was only a whore, hadn't died when he was a small child, he would have killed her too, Mordred thought.
Drunk with elation, he moved to the second panderer's room. His bloody knife was ready for more work. Now for Tudy, who had liked to kick Mordred when he was a boy and watch him fall on the floor. And then kick him again. Tudy was heavier, and might require a deeper thrust of Mordred's blade.
This latch also opened easily—Mordred had of course tried them earlier. He entered. Tudy stirred in his sleep, so Mordred bounded across the floor and stabbed him. The girl beside him screamed before Mordred could warn her not to and leapt from the bed.
"Shut up, fool! I'll be the owner now, and you dare not disobey me," Mordred said, checking to make sure that his knife had gone home and Tudy was dead.
"What's up?" came a shout from outside the door. Coan, the third and youngest panderer, not so many years older than Mordred, was on his way. Coan had liked to shame Mordred by throwing the food Mordred served in Mordred's face.
Mordred waited. The girl shivered in a corner.
Bearing a rushlight, the panderer peered cautiously through the open door. His other hand held a club.
Mordred grabbed a chair and threw it at him.
Dropping both torch and club, Coan fell. Mordred was on him in an instant, holding down the thrashing man until he could slash his throat. Coan screamed and tried to get away, but Mordred kept slashing until he fell silent.
Kicking the corpse, Mordred grabbed the chamber pot and doused the fallen torch. The brothel was his now, and he didn't want it damaged.
Emerging from the doorway, he yelled, "Here, every one of you! Come here. I'm the master now."
He had waited for a night when there were no customers. Only the whores and assorted rough men who worked at the brothel were there.
"Light the rushlights," Mordred commanded.
Men and women scurried to obey him.
Mordred held his bloodied knife before the assembled throng. "I've killed all three of the masters, and I'm the master here. Obey me, and you'll live as you did before. Disobey, and you'll follow them. Which will it be?"
Several cracking voices called out, "We'll obey."
"You'd better. Now clean up their rooms and throw their bodies to the pigs. And bring me some mead."
Mordred took a seat at one of the tables in the front room and waited to be served, for a change, instead of serving. He did not wipe off the blood that had splattered on him. It pleased him.
This was only the first step. He would have money now, plenty of money. And he would find a man to teach him sword-fighting and the ways of the High King's court. He would go to his father, the king, someday, but only when he was prepared.
He was young, strong, and clever, Mordred told himself. His whole life was ahead of him. King Mordred had a good sound to it. Mordred Rex.
2 IDYLLS OF CAMELOT
Guinevere's morning had started out fair, but just as she set out rain began to pour down. She pulled the hood of her fine blue wool cloak over her head and dashed over the cobblestones to the house where Bors and his wife Lionors lived.
Lionors was Guinevere's favorite of the court ladies, so she wanted to see how Lionors fared after childbed. Much as she liked Lionors, Guinevere was glad no one expected the queen to attend women when they gave birth. The sights, sounds, and smells of a birthing room reminded her too vividly of the night that she had watched her mother die, trying to bear a son for Guinevere's father, King Leodegran of Powys. The mere thought of being so torn apart made Guinevere shudder. Convinced that she would have died if she had borne a child, Guinevere had taken a potion to prevent conception when she was lying with Arthur. But she was willing to pay her respects to Lionors the day after the birth.
Guinevere thought of the other reason that she had never born a child. Arthur had had dreams that an infant son would rise up and kill him. He therefore had also sometimes tried to prevent conception. She still shuddered at the memory of his dreams, and his belief in them. He had hoped that if she bore another man's child he would escape the fate foretold in his dreams.
A serving woman opened the door to Bors's house, bowed her head to Guinevere, and took her dripping cloak.
The first thing Guinevere saw on entering the house was a cross on the wall, and the first thing she heard was the children. Two small boys were squabbling over the rules of a board game and a little girl was talking to her wooden doll. Guinevere thought she would go mad if she had to listen to such chatter all day, but of course if she had borne children they would not have had to live in such close quarters.
The older of the boys bowed to the queen, but the other two children were too young to know court manners. She nodded to them all and followed the serving woman into the room where Lionors lay in bed.
Lionors was pale, but her gray hair was neatly braided. A red and wrinkled baby lay sleeping beside her, and Guinevere was grateful that it was not awake and crying. She silently castigated Bors for fathering a child on a gray-haired woman. Would Lionors never have a chance to rest? Bearing twelve children—not to mention the miscarriages and stillbirths Lionors had endured—was enough to kill any woman.
Lionors tried to prop herself up. "Lady Guinevere, how kind of you to come."
> "Rest, rest," Guinevere said, making a gesture indicating that Lionors shouldn't try to rise. "How are you faring? Was it a difficult birth?"
"Not as easy as some, but I'll be fine presently." Lionors lay back against her pillow, which showed that she must be fatigued. "Here is my dear little one." She regarded her infant tenderly, for Lionors seemed to have all the proper sentiments. "He is well, God be praised. We are naming him Ban, after Bors's father."
"How nice. I am glad that you are recovering." Guinevere was overjoyed that Lionors had survived. She never fully expected that women would. Bors's father was King Ban of Lesser Britain, and Bors lived modestly for a king's son, even one of the youngest sons. But Bors had always been humble, which made him far different from the other kings' sons at Camelot. No one could call Gawaine of Lothian and Orkney modest or humble.
"We are fortunate that the Lord has seen fit to give us so many children," Lionors said. "But the Lord's ways are mysterious." She appeared to be apologizing to Guinevere because she assumed that Guinevere must grieve over her childless state.
Guinevere wished she could say that she had been terrified at the thought of bearing children, indeed had taken a potion to prevent bearing any, but she could not confide in anyone but Fencha.
The baby woke and began to wail. Lionors took him to her breast, and Guinevere made her excuses to depart.
As Guinevere left the room, her skirt swept too close to the fire in the brazier that heated the room. She suppressed a gasp and pulled her skirt away.
“Are you all right, Lady Guinevere?” Lionors asked.
“Yes, of course.” Guinevere flushed. She was afraid of fire, and anyone close to her knew that, but the fear embarrassed her. She did not want to fear anything, certainly nothing so ordinary. She hastened away.
The rain had ended, at least for the moment, but Guinevere had to pass Gawaine in the courtyard. She might have preferred a downpour. She had little liking for Gawaine, a man of many mistresses, both highborn and lowborn, and moreover, he bragged about his prowess.
"Good-day, Lady Guinevere," he said, nodding to her but not smiling. His red hair and beard were thoroughly soaked from the rain.
"God grant you good day, Lord Gawaine," Guinevere replied in a cold tone, and walked past him. They were always polite, of course, despite their lack of fondness for each other, but she thought that as a queen she could be cooler to him than he was to her. And why should she be cordial to a man who had pretended to be Lancelot when he bedded a woman—that shameless Etaine? And Lancelot was supposed to be his friend, and they had saved each other's lives. Thank all the angels he did not know that Lancelot was a woman.
There was only an occasional drizzle on a fine spring day. Tiny green leaves heralded the coming of the new world.
Lancelot might have preferred to ride through the forest alone, but she blended into the group of warriors surrounding the king as if she were one of the pack of hounds that had been brought on the boar hunt.
The forest was her home, dearer to her than walls, save those of the room where she lay with her sweet queen. Yet the forest saddened as well as delighting her, for it was in a wood in Lesser Britain, across the sea, that a brigand had raped and murdered her mother when Lancelot was only a child. The smell of pines reminded her of that day. She had grabbed a stick and put out the murderer's eye, but not being able to save her mother had seemed unbearable. Her pious father, horrified by the rape, had raised her as a boy so that she would be safe from all men forever.
She might be safe from rape as long as men believed she was a man, but she certainly had her share of battles with them, and had slain too many.
The warriors on their horses galloped through the trees. The sight of the men, their eyes bright with the thought of killing, and the sound of their horses' hoofbeats reminded her of the times when she had fought beside them, hunting Saxons and burning Saxon towns.
She closed her eyes at the memory of battlefields littered with corpses, but a wren's song lifted her spirits.
Barking drowned out the music of the wren. The master of hounds and the men who accompanied him had found a boar and were driving it towards the king and the warriors. Dismounting, they held their spears in readiness. Arthur's face and some of the others' were red with an excitement that Lancelot did not share. She smelled the damp spring forest and noticed new fronds curling out of the earth. A few hepaticas and crocuses grew where patches of light shone through the trees.
Spring was not the proper time for a boar hunt, but the king wanted one, and everyone must do as he wished. They would not kill a sow in the spring, of course, only a male.
The boar burst into sight. His tusks were larger than most and his eyes blazed with fury at those who harried him. Like a warrior determined not to die without killing a foe, he lunged at Arthur. Arthur, usually steady and swift with a spear, slipped in the damp earth and fell to his knees.
Lancelot threw herself in front of the king, as she always had when he seemed to be in danger. Saying her usual brief prayer to the spirit of the creature she expected to kill, she readied her spear.
Thrusting himself between Lancelot and the boar, Gawaine impaled it. Startled, Lancelot barely managed to hold back her own blow to avoid injuring Gawaine. The boar grunted with rage, trying to turn to strike his attacker, but Gawaine forced the spear further in, pushing the beast to the earth.
Warriors shouted with exaltation at the boar's death. Gawaine pulled out his spear, and the huntsmen rushed in to cut off the bits of the kill that would be thrown to the dogs and to bind up the body to carry on a pole to the caer.
Smirking as if he had slain all the boars in the forest, Gawaine turned away from the boar.
Lancelot glared at him. A warrior never took another man's kill, unless he lost his footing as Arthur had. "How dare you do that."
"Pardon. It was your kill, but I know you don't much like slaying the beasts and I wanted to particularly." Gawaine grinned broadly, as if he had proved himself a better hunter than Lancelot.
Arthur put a hand on Lancelot's shoulder. "What you did was very odd, Gawaine. I'd think you had killed enough boars not to care much about being the one to kill this one. Lance, be your good and gentle self and don't quarrel. Certes, I am the best protected king in the world with both of you great men to guard me."
The king turned away.
Glancing from the boar to Gawaine, Lancelot said, "You're a swine yourself."
"How not, since the goddess Cerridwen has come to me many times as a swine, and I have pleased her," Gawaine said.
"May you have many more sows," Lancelot retorted.
"Thank you," he said graciously, as if she had wished him good health.
The warriors who had heard them laughed.
Lancelot knew that if Gawaine had still believed she was a man, he would have left the boar to her. If he persisted in such foolishness, he not only insulted her but also jeopardized her position. Surely the other warriors would think it strange if Gawaine always threw himself between Lancelot and danger.
The king's party rode back full of good cheer. Several talked about the taste of roast boar.
Harpers who had come to lighten the journey sang heroic hunting songs, but Dinadan, a handsome blue-eyed warrior whose sardonic smile matched his friend Cai's, sang a different tune. Dinadan's words told of a warrior who boasted of slaying a great bear (and everyone winced because Arthur was called the Bear), but then admitted that he had really killed an old wolf. Then he acknowledged that his prey was indeed a fox. Reluctantly, he was forced to admit that it was a hound. No, truly, it was a very fierce weasel. The warrior who listened to him looked behind a bush and saw that the boastful hunter had killed a mouse. But, the first warrior insisted, it was a mouse with a rare streak of ferocity.
Arthur and the warriors all roared. Gawaine laughed most of all. Lancelot knew that not even Dinadan would have dared to sing such verses if any warrior other than cheerful Gawaine had slain the boar.
"Lucky nobles'll eat that boar tonight," piped up one in a reedy voice.
Arthur stopped his horse. "Are you hungry, boy?" he called.
"Yes, lord," the boy stuttered.
"We killed our last pig at Samhain because it was too weak to last the winter. We finished the salt pork long ago."
"Cut off a leg for them," Arthur commanded the huntsmen.
Most of the warriors smiled, proud of their king's generosity.
A gaunt woman who must have been younger than she looked if she was the children's mother came out of the mud-daub hut and scolded, "Children, don't bother these nobles. Why, 'tis the king himself!" She bowed her head.
"Please accept some meat, good woman," Arthur said. "I know that spring is the starving time, before the crops come, but I don't want my people to go hungry."
"Bless you, majesty," she cried, raising her arms in a gesture of praise.
Lancelot told herself for the ten thousandth time that she had sinned greatly by lying with her kind lord's wife. And by wishing that she didn't have to see his face every day.
Lancelot found that the tunic she wanted to wear at supper had a slight tear. She therefore searched for Catwal, her servant, who was blind and liked men, both of which made her comfortable with him. Not finding him, she went down the stairs to the cellars, for she knew that the serving people liked to gossip there. It was the time of day when Cai the seneschal, Arthur's foster brother, was generally in his office working on accounts, not watching over the servants.
Sure enough, as Lancelot descended she heard the sound of voices and laughter. But the voices were only one voice. Someone was imitating the voices of the king, the queen, and Lancelot, and doing so perfectly. The words were innocent enough, "My dear Lady Guinevere," "my dear wife," "my dear Lancelot," but the way they were said suggested that Lancelot and Guinevere were lovers and the king was complicit in it. She descended a few steps further and saw that Ragnal, a buxom, gray-haired serving woman, was the one who produced this near perfect mimicry, much to the amusement of a group of serving men and women.
Lancelot and Guinevere Page 2