“Adam was innocent, too,” Bors insisted.
“Are men ever innocent?” Gawaine asked, letting the juice drip down his chin. Laughing, Lancelot reached past the apples and took a honeycake.
Guinevere thought that it must have been Eve who took the first bite, because she wanted knowledge and men think they already know everything. Only a few months ago, she might have spoken those words, but now she didn’t dare.
“Adam was foolish to trust Eve,” Arthur said. “Who can trust a woman who deceives her husband?”
Lancelot shifted in her seat.
Clearly Arthur was trying to sow the seeds of distrust.
Guinevere wanted to strike at him like a cornered animal. Never having had such a violent impulse before, she felt sick to her stomach.
Talwyn visited her father in his cell of a room, and walked with him to the ramparts so that he might have some air. His room was not so different from others in the caer, except that he was kept in it, which made it seem more dismal. His serving man, Huw, was always half a step away from them, lest Gryffyd's madness show itself. Gryffyd believed that all men were Saxons, save only Huw. Warriors and guards were warned in advance of his coming, so they might not cross his path.
Guinevere joined them, for Gryffyd admired her exceedingly and was fond of her because Talwyn's mother, who had died in childbed, also had been named Guinevere.
"Still a captive of the Saxons, my lady queen?" he asked sadly.
"Still a captive," she answered with a brave smile, and Talwyn suppressed a giggle at the improbable idea of the golden-torqued queen being a prisoner.
Talwyn spoke with her father about things that would not disturb him. It took some ingenuity to devise such mild subjects for conversation.
"The queen has given me a new mare, Da. She's a fine chestnut."
He scrutinized her and said, "Aren't you of an age to marry, daughter?"
Most of the girls her age were married or betrothed, but she said, "Not yet, Da." At least his madness prevented him from betrothing her. It was better to stay with Queen Guinevere.
Gryffd groaned. "I fear that you are. What can be done about it? You're living among Saxons. Be wary, child. Don't forget that all of the men around you are killers."
"Yes, Da." It occurred to her that, excluding the young warriors who had not yet fought anyone, the priests, and the serving men, he was right.
Gawaine lolled over his wine at the king's private table, the small one in his room. Arthur cleared his throat, preparing to speak, perhaps about some new mistress or Saxon War memories.
"You are, of course, my heir and successor."
Had the king truly spoken those words? Slightly dazed, Gawaine gawked at him. Arthur seldom mentioned the subject of his own death.
"We needn't tell the whole world, but you know that I once wrote it on vellum. I shall write it again with the date and seal it with my great seal." Arthur tapped the finger that bore that ring with his seal.
Truly, he had drunk too much, and perhaps Arthur had, too. There seemed to be no possible response to this statement. No thanks found their way to Gawaine's lips because he felt none. He tried not to belch.
"What about my brother Gareth? He might be a good choice."
"Nonsense. Gareth is all very well as a warrior, but he will never have the strength of mind needed for kingship."
Gawaine sighed. "That may be true. I wish there was someone other than me. I hope you live long."
"You will keep that woman from ever being on the throne, do you hear?" Arthur seemed to be talking to himself, and Gawaine was to play the audience.
"What woman?" he muttered stupidly, wondering whether Arthur imagined that his mother, Queen Morgause, would sweep down from Lothian with a horde of northerners and seize the whole of Britain.
"My wife, of course!"
Arthur’s voice held a note of contempt for Gawaine's greater state of drunkenness.
Gawaine flinched just slightly. True, he was too old to get drunk, if he wanted to keep in fighting shape. "Oh, her. Well, no doubt she'd like to rule. Why not?"
"Never," Arthur proclaimed decidedly. "It must be you."
"If you say so. But I'll likely die before you, don't you know?"
Arthur sighed. "What a pity that I cannot be king forever. That would be best for the people."
Gawaine nearly fell out of his chair. King forever? He was not too drunk to know that such an ambition bordered on madness. All he could do was leave. "Gods, it's late," he said. "Time to be abed. Hope I can wake Ragnal." Lately Ragnal had been so tired and slept so deeply that he had not had the heart to wake her.
"You may take your leave," Arthur consented.
Gawaine almost stumbled out of the room.
Bedwyr saw Talwyn carrying a large book with sewn leather binding to the queen's room, and called her aside.
"Such a weighty tome for a maid. I hope that the queen's teaching is not worrying you with thoughts too solemn," he said in a kindly voice. She would make a fine daughter-in-law. Pity about her father.
Talwyn smiled. "Oh, no, my lord Bedwyr. She does not tax me with any thoughts that are too solemn for me."
He smiled to show his benevolence. "Very good. I have a far more pleasant message for you. The king and I have discussed the possibility of your marrying my son. What say you?"
He was rewarded with a broader smile. Talwyn's face softened and she breathed, "Marry, marry, baby, happy."
Bedwyr stiffened. "What did you say, child?"
Talwyn began to chant. "Marry, marry, baby, happy." Her face was sweeter than honey. "Marry, marry, baby, happy," she sang again and again, nodding her head. She went on and on with the refrain.
The warrior froze. "Stop this, child. Stop it," he commanded. "Nothing is settled," he told her and hurried away.
The poor girl was addled like her father. Thank Mithras he had found out in time.
Bors pulled Talwyn aside outside the chapel after a Mass. A proper time for such a solemn occasion.
"I have thought of marrying you to my eldest son, dear child," he said. "I suppose that you would be a good Christian wife?"
Talwyn beamed. "Surely, my lord Bors. I pray to the three Christs."
He jerked back as if struck. "No, child, there is only one Christ," he admonished.
She still smiled and nodded. "Three Christs, three crosses."
"No, no, Christ was hung between two thieves. It is the Trinity that is triune. Of course that mystery is too difficult for a girl to understand." Why must the queen daze the poor girl with so much reading? It boded ill.
"Three gods," she nodded.
Despite this stunning lapse in theology, she might be a good girl, he told himself.
"Just listen to your elders and repeat exactly what they say," he cautioned her. "Exactly. For Eve was tempted to believe that she could eat the fruit of the tree of knowledge, and she was rebuked. Pray to the Holy Virgin Mary."
"Eve is Mary, Mary is Eve," said Talwyn in the most innocent of tones. His gasps did not stop her from repeating it.
Bors made the sign of the cross. She was mad like her father after all.
Mordred unhorsed the other young warriors with such force that they could hardly fight when he came to batter them on the ground. Seeing that the king was watching the practice, he fought harder than ever. He could tell that Arthur's gaze lingered on him.
"Well done, Mordred, you'll be a fine warrior." The king condescended to walk over and give him this encouragement after the practice. "The Saxons don't ride to war, of course. They fight on foot."
"Perhaps you might want the treaty Saxons to be tied closer to you, sire." Mordred used this word whenever possible. "They'll be better allies against invaders that way. They have no wish to yield their hard-won land to others newly come. I speak passable Saxon. Perhaps I could be of use to you in dealing with them."
Arthur regarded him with more interest. "Saxon? Can you really? Say something."
Mordre
d began to discourse on the art of war in the Saxon speech.
Arthur nodded, apparently understanding at least enough to realize that Mordred knew the language. "Very good. How did you learn to speak it?"
"I have done some trading with them, sire." He neglected to say that what he had traded was women. The Saxons seemed to find the black-haired British women as exotic as some Britons found the yellow-haired Saxon women.
The king hemmed and hawed. "I will send you to spend six months of every year with them. You will report to me everything you learn about them." He patted Mordred's shoulder.
Some bird sang. Mordred didn't know or care what it was.
Mordred smiled faintly, saying, "Never fear, I'll tell you everything. Thank you for entrusting me with this mission, sire."
Arthur sighed. "Their language is ugly and difficult. They have no beautiful music like ours and their culture will never be so fine. But we must try to civilize them, for we shall have to live with them in this land."
Mordred continued to smile. He cared nothing about this culture of which his father was so proud, the culture that assigned him to humiliation every day of his life. The Saxons would mark how much he resembled the king, and they would treat him well, no doubt. And Arthur would be glad to have him out of sight.
Mordred couldn't quite admit that he hoped to make his father proud of him.
And of course practice at dealing with the Saxons would help him when he became High King.
"I have just one other request, sire." Mordred felt his heart beat faster than it ever had. "Would you cut my hair publicly?"
The king sucked in his breath. "How could you ask such a thing of me? That is never done. You are a brave young man. Be content with what I have already given you." He turned away.
Even though Mordred had expected this blow, it shook him. Of course Arthur would never cut his hair, because that would mean acknowledging him as a son. He had been a fool to ask. He must never be so soft-hearted again. He must never let himself be rejected again.
Guinevere noticed that a serving woman who passed her in the courtyard looked ill. Her face had become thin and haggard. "Ragnal," she said to the gray-haired woman, "you must see a physician."
"Yes, my lady," said Ragnal, flinching.
"Today," Guinevere told her, and sent for Cassius, the king's physician, though it was not usual for him to see servants.
Guinevere demanded that he report to her afterwards, so he came to her room.
"What is the matter with Ragnal?" Guinevere asked in a commanding voice.
"She's dying," the short but dignified physician said simply. "Some wasting sickness."
"Is there nothing that you can do?" she demanded. Death had always seemed an enemy to Guinevere. Tales of heaven had never moved her. They might if they had come from someone who had actually been there.
He shook his balding head.
"Does she know that she is going to die?" Sunlight poured in the window as if death were impossible.
"I think she does, Lady Guinevere."
"You think?" Her voice rose. "You didn't tell her?"
"Not in so many words, my lady."
"I shall tell her, then. Thank you," said Guinevere, dismissing him with a gesture. What cowards men were. Only women could bear the truth.
She sighed because Fencha was no longer with her. Fencha had been such a fine healer. The old woman had tried to teach some of her skill to Luned.
Guinevere asked Luned whether she knew of any way to save the woman, and Luned said that she did not, but could abate the pain. Guinevere asked her to bring Ragnal to her.
Guinevere did not know Ragnal well, for she seldom served the queen. However, she thought Ragnal seemed rather pleasant, with a nice although not extremely pretty face and a perhaps excessively loud laugh.
The woman came into Guinevere's room and curtseyed to her.
"Never mind that," Guinevere said. Queen or serving woman, they all faced the same fate eventually, if not in life. "You are seriously ill and should not have to worry about pleasing anyone. You are relieved of all your duties." She had no idea what Ragnal's duties were, but Cai would have to do what the queen decreed.
"I am dying, then," Ragnal said in a voice that strove for resignation. Moved by her dignity, Guinevere tried to make her voice gentle. "Yes, I am so sorry to tell you, it seems that you are. Luned says that she can do nothing but ease the pain. I wish she could do more. Do you want to go visit your family?"
Ragnal drew back. "Oh no, I want to stay here."
Guinevere was a little surprised at this rejection of her magnanimity. Perhaps Ragnal had nowhere else to go. "Of course you can if that is what you want. Do you want to stay in a room near mine, so I can see how you are doing?"
"No thank you, Lady Guinevere."
Ragnal's reluctance seemed strange to her, so Guinevere spoke with Luned. "Don't you think we should put her in a little room near mine, so you could look after her better? Surely she is too ill for me to worry about her gossiping about my locked door."
Luned shook her head.
"No, my dear lady. A great warrior visits Ragnal regularly, and she doesn't want to do anything to disturb that. She lives in a small house that he gave her."
Guinevere raised her eyebrows. "A warrior visits a gray-haired serving woman? I never heard of such a thing. I thought they were interested only in the young ones." She had never bothered to notice which warrior liked which serving woman, except to rescue girls like Creirwy who did not want to be touched.
Luned shrugged. "Lady Guinevere, Ragnal has loved the same warrior for many years. All she wants is to see him while she can."
"But will he still see her when she is sick?" Guinevere asked, shaking her head as if that were unbelievable.
"She wants to be left alone so that he will at least have the chance to do so," Luned insisted.
"I shall do as Ragnal wishes," Guinevere said.
"Lady Guinevere?" Luned almost whispered.
"Yes?"
"I, too, am fond of a man. Cathbad, one of the stablehands."
"Yes, I know who he is. Is he kind to you?" Guinevere searched her face.
Luned blushed. "He is."
"Do you want to marry him?"
"I think so. I am not yet certain." A smile strayed across Luned's face. "If I do, can I stay in your service and spend fewer nights by your room?"
"Of course you may. I am glad if he is kind to you." Guinevere smiled at her.
When Luned left the room, Guinevere pondered how many years it had been since Luned had served her. Luned's father had treated her shamefully, and she had fled to Guinevere. Luned had shown no interest in men. If there was finally a man who was gentle to Luned, that might be a good thing. Guinevere hoped for Luned's happiness. Creirwy could be near her when Luned could not, and Creirwy showed no signs of wanting to be with a man instead.
Guinevere did as Ragnal wanted. Luned showed her where Ragnal's small mud-daub house was in the town, and Guinevere visited her there once or twice.
One morning she decided to start her day by visiting Ragnal. When she went to Ragnal's house, she saw Gawaine leaving, his face pale and his eyes red.
Never having seen him sorrowful, Guinevere was jolted. She stopped and looked at him.
"I think she has only a few days more," he said in a broken voice.
"Yes, I'm afraid that's true," Guinevere replied, patting him on the shoulder.
She could scarcely have been more astonished. Ragnal was perhaps a few years older than Gawaine, or at least she looked older, which was not so unusual in a serving woman.
Back in her room, she demanded of Luned, "Is Gawaine so fond of Ragnal?"
"Can't you see it, my lady?" Luned asked.
"Yes," she said reluctantly.
She thought that Lancelot might believe it to be a touching romance, but Guinevere herself could imagine not so pretty reasons why a man might want a mistress whose rank was so much lower than his. However, sh
e could not deny the grief on his face, so she was gentle with him when she saw him over the next few days. On the night that Ragnal died, Guinevere saw Gawaine weeping, so she patted his shoulder again and said that death was always very hard.
"Other men did not think Ragnal beautiful, but she was beautiful to me," he choked.
Guinevere held back the retort that he certainly ought to think so after the woman had given him years of devotion.
Lancelot had been away on a mission for the king. She had ridden for many hours, and was resting in Guinevere's room. Luned brought her pears and watered wine, and Guinevere fondly watched her eat the fruit.
"Has anything happened while I was gone?" Lancelot asked Luned. She would ask Guinevere a little later, more privately. "How are you?"
"I am well, thank you, my lord," Luned said, as always. She was not one to complain. "Not much has changed in the world of the serving people, except that Ragnal has died."
Lancelot dropped her pear. "That's terrible! Poor Ragnal! Poor Gawaine!" she exclaimed.
"You knew about that? I suppose he talks about everything with you," said Guinevere with little pleasure.
Luned slipped away.
"It's hard to keep such things secret in a place like Camelot—unfortunately, I have often thought," Lancelot said, sighing. "I think he was embarrassed to care about her."
"How dare he be ashamed of her birth! What kind of life did she have?" Guinevere demanded, frowning. "How terrible to be a mistress, loving but unacknowledged, visited only after dark."
Lancelot looked out of the window at the night and could keep silent no longer. She spoke sharply. "Yes, it is. Will you come away with me?"
Guinevere gasped and her face reddened with anger.
"How dare you compare me to that man. He could have married any woman..."
"King's sons do not marry serving women, except in tales," Lancelot objected.
"But he can do almost anything he wants, whereas I..."
"Could run away," Lancelot said gravely. For the first time she dared to say the words that she had scarcely allowed herself to dream.
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