by Joan Wolf
He undressed her and then she finished undressing him. They lay down together on her bed, surrounded by the vast peaceful quiet of the empty villa. They might have been the only two left living in the world.
He was fierce and he was gentle. She loved the touch of his hand, his mouth, the feel of his strong hard body against hers. It never lessened for them, the wild desire to be together, to be complete, as they could be only with each other and with no one else. He went to sleep with his arms wrapped around her, his head pillowed on her breast.
Morgan lay quietly so as not to disturb him, but she herself was wide awake. She had not blown out the lamp, and it glowed on the blackness of Arthur’s hair. She touched the top of his head with her lips. He was deeply asleep, his breathing slow and even. He had been tired.
Why was she so uneasy? The night was quiet. There was no sound from the dogs. Finally Arthur’s untroubled breathing began to soothe her, and she too drifted off into sleep.
She awoke to the sound of an urgent knock on her door. “My lady! My lady!” It was Marcus. Arthur was already swinging his legs out of bed and reaching for his clothes. “There are men here from Camelot for the king. He must go back. Something terrible has happened!”
Gawain joined Gwenhwyfar and Bedwyr for dinner that evening. Arthur was at Avalon and Bedwyr always took care not to dine alone with the queen. Usually Cai was present, but he was still in Gaul and so Bedwyr had invited Gawain. He had actually invited Mordred first, but Mordred had made an excuse.
Gwenhwyfar was not in the mood for making conversation with Gawain. Bedwyr would be leaving for Gaul very shortly, and she wanted him to herself while he was still in Britain. Arthur could go alone to Avalon, she thought irritably. She did not see why Bedwyr was so insistent about providing her with a chaperon.
She excused herself from the table early and left Bedwyr with Gawain. Let the two of them entertain each other, she thought with uncharacteristic petulance. She was weary of all the talk of army preparations and transport.
Like Morgan, Gwenhwyfar was apprehensive about Arthur leaving for Gaul. The queen was troubled by no premonitions of disaster, however; she was nervous about the responsibility Arthur was delegating to her.
“Why not leave Cai to help Mordred?” she had asked when he told her she was to be co-regent.
“I want Cai to go to Gaul for me. Besides, if I leave Cai to help Mordred, the boy will never make a move without Cai’s consent. He will have more pride where you are concerned; he will want to appear to you as a capable and competent leader. And I want Mordred to have some actual experience of being king.”
“Then why name me at all?”
“He is completely untried, Gwenhwyfar. He needs someone. And I need to know there is someone knowledgeable at hand with the power to step in if something should go wrong.”
The glow of pride Arthur’s words produced had lasted her for several weeks. It was only now, with his departure so close at hand, that she was beginning to worry about the responsibility. “Don’t let him do anything foolish,” Arthur had said.
She hoped to God that Britain stayed quiet while its king was gone.
She had dismissed her women and was sitting up in bed, propped against a pillow, when Bedwyr finally came in. “You took your time,” she said crossly as she watched him coming toward her. “You could have spent the whole night with Gawain as far as I am concerned.”
He reached the bed, stopped, and looked down at her. A flicker of amused comprehension showed in his eyes. “Gawain isn’t as pretty as you,” he answered, and began to unbuckle his belt.
The lamplight picked out the gold in the handle of the knife he wore in his belt, and the gold in his hair. He dropped the belt onto the floor. Her body wanted him but she was still angry about the dinner, and so she said what she had sworn she would not say: “I don’t suppose you’re planning to sleep alone once you get to Gaul.”
He sat on the edge of the bed and began to untie the rawhide laces in his shoes. “What has that got to do with anything?” The shoes followed the belt to the floor and he stood up again. “You’re annoyed because I invited Gawain to dine with us. You know why I invited Gawain. After all, it’s your reputation I’m concerned about.” He stripped his tunic off over his head.
She stared up at his massive chest and shoulders. She hated the thought of his touching another woman. He would not promise her to be faithful; she knew it. “If you’re so concerned about my reputation,” she said furiously, “you can just get out of my bedroom.”
“You don’t mean that.” He was unperturbed by her hostility. He finished undressing and came back to the bed. His forearms and thighs were covered with the scars of the cavalryman. “You get more beautiful every day,” he murmured, and then he was bent over her, sliding the pillow out from behind her, his powerful body following her down to the bed. His weight crushed her. For a moment she knew the impulse to resist, to stiffen against him, to fight. Then his mouth closed on hers, and the old fire of burning passion blazed up between them. She arched her neck to feel the fire of his kiss on her throat.
What did anything matter when they had this between them? His body vibrated, taut and powerful with the extremity of his desire. She thought for a moment that she would faint from the intensity of the sensation he was creating in her body. Her nails dug into the muscles of his back and she said his name.
Afterward they lay together, returning slowly to life and thought from the mindless, shuddering, sensation-seared caldron of physical desire they had just been plunged into. Now was the time to be quiet together. On the nights that Arthur was away, Bedwyr would stay with her until dawn.
He propped himself on his elbow and looked down into her face. “What’s the matter, little bird?” he asked finally. “What is troubling you?”
She smiled a little ruefully. “Nerves. I wish Arthur had left someone else as co-regent.”
“There is no one better than you. Besides, we won’t be gone for long. What can possibly happen in six months’ time?”
Six months. She stared up into his face. His thick gilt hair was tousled from the touch of her hand. His eyes were absolutely blue. No one’s eyes were bluer than Bedwyr’s. “I’ll miss you,” she whispered.
“And I you.” He smiled. “I’ve grown quite like an old married man these days. I find I’ve lost all my interest in women who are not you.”
Her heart leapt. She was about to answer when there came the sound of noise in the corridor and then the door to her room was pushed open violently. There were shouts and a blaze of light and a single cry of triumph, and the room seemed suddenly filled with men.
She felt Bedwyr moving, reaching for his belt on the floor beside the bed. “No!” she cried, and hung on to his arm with both her hands and all her strength. She forgot for the moment that she was naked, that all these men were looking at her. She only knew she must keep Bedwyr from that knife or he would murder someone. “Bedwyr!” she shouted. “No!”
She felt his arm relax slightly and for the first time looked up to see who had broken in on them.
Agravaine was holding the lamp. She might have known. And behind him was Mordred, looking as if he were going to be sick. There were three others whom she recognized as princes from Bedwyr’s school.
Bedwyr, thank God, had got himself under control and was taking charge. He pulled the blanket over her and got out of bed. “Mordred, go and get Gawain,” he said.
Mordred stared at him, his gray eyes filled with disbelief and horror. “How could you?” he asked, his voice low and trembling. He looked at Gwenhwyfar and then back again at the prince. “How could you do this to my father?”
Bedwyr’s face was impassive. “Go and get Gawain,” he repeated, and this time Mordred left the room.
Bedwyr turned next to Agravaine and his followers. “Get out of here. Go and wait for Gawain in the little hall. I’ll join you in a moment.”
The habit of obeying Bedwyr was strong, and the three princes
began to move to the door. Their looks of triumph had changed to uneasiness. Only Agravaine stood his ground, and the lamp he was holding gave Gwenhwyfar a clear view of his face. There was still triumph there, but as he stared as if spellbound at the splendid naked beauty of Bedwyr, another expression appeared. Gwenhwyfar, watching him, realized with deep shock that Agravaine was looking at Bedwyr the same way she did.
Bedwyr said something else, which she did not hear because of the roaring of the blood in her ears, and Agravaine finally turned and left the room. The door closed behind him and Bedwyr turned to her.
She did not think she had ever been so frightened in her life. For herself, yes, but mainly for him. “What are you going to do?” she whispered.
“Have Gawain send for Arthur.” His mouth was a straight, ominous line. “It was Agravaine.”
“Yes.”
“But why?” He came to sit on the bed beside her. “Why, Gwenhwyfar, would he do such a thing? What purpose can it possibly serve?”
He did it because you love me instead of him, and he can’t forgive you for that. But she didn’t say it. Later, perhaps. Not now. “What will Arthur do?” she asked instead.
For a brief moment his big hand rested on her shoulder. “I don’t know. I don’t know what he can do.” He stood up and began to dress. “He’s the only one who can deal with this, though. There’s no hope of keeping it secret.”
“Keeping it secret was not what Agravaine had in mind.”
“No.” He pulled his tunic over his head. “Gods! And just when we were getting ready to sail for Gaul!” For the first time there was a note of despair in his voice.
“Arthur won’t keep you from going to Gaul with the army, Bedwyr. I know he won’t.”
He passed his hand over his face. “I don’t see how he can do otherwise, Gwenhwyfar. But we must wait for him.” His blue eyes met hers and it was as though he were saying good-bye. “I’m sorry, little bird,” he said. She did not answer and he bent to kiss her on the mouth, hard, and then he was gone.
Gawain followed Bedwyr’s advice and confined Agravaine and his friends to one room, the obviously distraught Mordred to another, and Bedwyr himself to his own apartment. Then he sent for the king.
Dawn was beginning to lighten the sky when Arthur rode into Camelot. He found Gawain keeping guard over all parties from the little court.
“What has happened?” Arthur asked tersely. Gawain, being cautious, had told the men he sent to Avalon nothing except that the king must return immediately. He told Arthur the story now, and watched the king’s face close, hard as a fist. “Where is Bedwyr?” he asked as soon as Gawain was done.
“In his rooms, my lord,” Gawain stammered in reply.
Arthur turned without another word, strode to the door that led to Bedwyr’s apartment, and went in. The door slammed shut behind him.
Gawain sat, solitary and miserable, as servants began to pass to and fro with fresh water for the bedrooms. The sky was completely light when Arthur finally emerged from Bedwyr’s room. Gawain felt slightly sick as he watched the king crossing the hall toward him. He would not be Bedwyr now for all the glory of Caesar, Gawain thought. Arthur had trusted him, honored him, loved him. And he had repaid the king like this! Gawain wondered if Arthur would kill him. And Gwenhwyfar too. He had refused so steadfastly to put her aside, even though she was childless. He would put her aside now. Nothing would ever be the same again.
“Where is Agravaine?” Arthur asked. “And Mordred?”
Gawain told him.
“Very well. You may go to your own quarters now, Gawain. The prince will be leaving for Portus Adurni within the hour. I am sending him to Gaul to buy horses for the army.”
Gawain could feel his eyes widening. “The prince is still going to Gaul?”
Arthur’s face was absolutely remote. “The prince is my cavalry commander. I cannot imagine launching a campaign against the Saxons without him.”
“No. Of course not, my lord.” Gawain could not meet those winter-gray eyes.
“You are to say nothing to anyone of what happened here tonight, Gawain. Is that clear?”
Gawain’s startled blue eyes flew to the king’s face. “Yes, my lord.”
“Thank you for your assistance,” Arthur said then. “If we can manage to save anything at all out of this night’s debacle, it will be largely due to your good sense.”
Gawain bit his lip, nodded, and fled before he disgraced himself by bursting into tears.
Next, Arthur went to see his wife.
It was the longest night of Gwenhwyfar’s life. Olwen had come in white-faced and petrified, and Gwenhwyfar had sent her back to bed. Then she had got dressed and done her hair by herself, taking immense pains to braid some gold thread into one long red-gold lock. That done, she sat and waited. And tried to think what she could do.
She was under no illusions as to the seriousness of what had happened. Adultery by the queen was a very serious matter indeed. A state matter. Agravaine had known that when he arranged his little visit this night. He had known he would force Arthur’s hand.
It had been an attack against her, and in one way it had succeeded. Arthur would have to put her away. There was no way now that he could honorably keep her as his wife. She knew that, and accepted it. Her greatest fear was for Bedwyr.
Arthur would never physically harm Bedwyr, but if he dismissed the prince from his service, he would destroy him as surely as if he had run him through with a sword. It would break Bedwyr, to be parted from Arthur and from his beloved cavalry.
Perhaps if she offered to take all the blame, if she offered to go into a convent, Arthur would not have to punish Bedwyr.
God, what was Arthur going to do?
He had trusted them to be careful, and they had failed him.
Dawn streaked the sky, but none of her women came in to do the usual morning arrangements in her room. Olwen must be keeping everyone away. They were all waiting, as she was, for the king. Finally, in the quietness, she heard a familiar light step in the outer room, and then Arthur was standing in the doorway.
She had risen as soon as she heard his step, and they stared at each other now, the width of the room between them.
“God, Gwenhwyfar,” he said. “I am so sorry. What an unspeakable thing for you to have gone through.”
Her vision suddenly blurred and her throat closed. She found she couldn’t breathe. Before she realized what was happening, he was across the room and was taking her into his arms.
She couldn’t believe that she was actually here, being held comfortingly against him. She shuddered and he only held her closer. She buried her face in his shoulder and broke into deep, wrenching sobs.
“I am so sorry” he kept repeating. “Gwenhwyfar, I am so sorry”
She had braced herself for that remote, forbidding look, and to find instead this warmth and sympathy . . . It broke her, as sternness would not have. “We have to talk, Gwenhwyfar,” he was saying. “Try to stop crying”
She made a heroic effort to get herself under control. “That’s my girl” he said, and guided her over to sit beside him on the side of the bed. He handed her a cloth and she blew her nose.
The first thing she said, when she was able to speak, was, “Arthur, you must not put away Bedwyr.”
His face was calm. “I have no intention of putting away Bedwyr,” he answered.
His calm was infecting her. Perhaps it was not as terrible as she had feared. Perhaps she would not have to go to a convent. “I will go home to my father,” she offered tentatively. Then, when he did not answer immediately: “Or if that will not do, I will go to a convent.”
For the first time he looked angry. “I have no intention of discarding you, either. We will see this through together, all three of us, the way we have always done.”
“But . . .”A strand of hair, wet from her tears, was clinging to her cheek and he reached out absently to unstick it and smooth it back. “But the scandal,” she said.
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“There will be no scandal. Not on the surface, at any rate. I am sending Bedwyr, Agravaine, and his friends to Gaul immediately. They will sail on the next tide. No one else knows exactly what happened here tonight except Gawain, and we can trust him to hold his tongue. Thank God he had the sense not to say anything specific to the men he sent to Avalon to fetch me. There will be talk, of course. The servants won’t keep quiet. But we will ignore it.”
She was staring at him with brilliant green eyes. “Are you certain this is what you want to do? You haven’t had much time to think it through if you only just learned the truth.”
“I’ve had a chance to talk to Bedwyr. And yes, I’m sure this is what I want to do.”
“There is nothing you can do to keep this story from going beyond the palace walls, you must know that. And it’s just the sort of thing any man who has no love for you will jump on.”
“I know there will be talk, Gwenhwyfar. But there will be no one left in Britain for anyone to question, except us.” He permitted himself a brief wintry smile. “And I do not think anyone is likely to broach the matter to you or to me. By the time the army returns from Gaul, the story will be an old one. It will be seen that Bedwyr is still my cavalry commander and that you are still my trusted and well-loved wife. I think the very fact that I am leaving you as co-regent will silence much of the talk immediately.”
They were sitting very close, shoulder to shoulder, and now he picked up her hand and squeezed it gently. “It will all come right,” he said. “I won’t allow a destructive little weasel like Agravaine to destroy what we have built so carefully for all these years.”
Quite suddenly words that Cai had once spoken to her sounded in her brain. “You will not find a better friend than Arthur,” Cai had said. “He will stand by you to the death.”