Guinevere woke. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Now she was sure that this marriage would kill her. She would have to bear a child and die. There was no escape. Perhaps if she had wanted to marry Arthur the pain would not seem so needless.
Oh, let him find some other woman he longed to marry, let him end the betrothal, even if everyone would think Guinevere disgraced forever.
Spring came to everyone but Guinevere. The sight of the first violets and primroses angered her, for they seemed to promise a happier world than the one she knew.
The months had not calmed her ire over her impending marriage. She could barely refrain from snapping when her ladies cooed over the new garments they made for her.
New leaves were greening the trees, but the spring was winter to her on the journey to Camelot, the High King's caer. If the journey had a different purpose, she would have enjoyed crossing the hills of Powys and heading south, but Guinevere held back tears at the thought that she might be seeing her home country for the last time. She insisted on riding her horse – no litters for her. Even when rain drizzled on her party, she did not complain. There was nothing worth complaining about but the dreaded marriage, and she could say nothing about that.
Her guard included many of Leodegran's men-at-arms who were being sent to Arthur as part of her dower, and some of the High King's men he had sent to escort her. They were led by a gentle-faced warrior named Bors.
When she said that she wanted to stop and spend the night at a convent where a friend of hers was a nun, Bors looked at her reverently and nodded.
"How good it is that such a holy maiden will become queen, Lady Guinevere."
Guinevere had little mind to ask the solemn man much about the court, but she decided that the question she most wanted to ask would sound only courteous.
"Is the king's sister well?"
Inexplicably, Bors turned pale. "What, have you heard of her? Don't be troubled, my lady." Shuddering, he made the sign of the cross. "She is long since gone from Camelot, thanks be to God."
"Gone? What do you mean?" Guinevere felt as if someone had struck a blow to her stomach. Could the beautiful lady be dead?
"The king sent her away. She's a witch. She's no fit subject for decent conversation, my lady," Bors replied, crossing himself again. "Keep your heart serene and do not think on so terrible a subject."
Guinevere found these words exceedingly troubling, but she saw that she could not ask any further questions of him. More wretched than ever, she rode through the forest without taking in its beauty. Though she noticed the many patches of bluebells, she did not enjoy them.
Guinevere was in no cheerful mood when her party approached the gray stone Convent of the Holy Mother.
She bade good-night to the men who had accompanied her. They would camp outside while she rested in the convent.
Seeing Valeria might be pleasant, she thought, but perhaps her friend had changed and they wouldn't like each other any more. Besides, nothing could cheer her as she went off to this marriage.
But a plump sister opened the great oak door and exclaimed, "God grant you good evening, Lady Guinevere!" so pleasantly that Guinevere could hardly refrain from smiling.
The convent was like others she had seen, except for the statue in the passageway, which was of the Virgin holding a book in her hands instead of an infant. Guinevere noticed it with amazement.
A tall and dignified nun swept in, and said, "Welcome, Lady Guinevere, I am the Abbess Perpetua." Thick eyebrows and an aquiline nose made her look a little fierce, but she smiled. "We shall do our best to make you welcome. Our Sister Valeria will be so glad to see you."
Guinevere was shown to a small and plain room where she washed, and then a sister led her down to the refectory, where, after only a few prayers – to her relief – supper was served. Good fish had been prepared, as well as wheaten bread and honey, and Guinevere wondered whether they always ate like that, or the food was in her honor.
The sisters dressed in black and white, which suited Guinevere's mood. Although Guinevere had no great desire to retreat from the world, she wondered whether it might be better to live in a convent than to be touched by a husband she did not want and risk her life to bring him children.
A hanging on the wall depicted the miracle of the loaves and fishes. She wished a miracle would make another bride appear and take her place.
To Guinevere's great relief, no one talked about her marriage. She had not been free of such talk since she had been betrothed. The abbess discussed Ireland, which had been her place of birth, then gradually shifted the conversation to books. She asked what Guinevere had read and nodded with pleasure at her answers.
Valeria — now Sister Valeria — was permitted to sit next to Guinevere at the long oak table. It was strange to see Valeria in that setting. She said little, but smiled and squeezed Guinevere's hand. Guinevere had expected her friend to be thin from fasting and have a downcast look, but instead Valeria was plumper than she had been and her eyes sparkled. Could nuns be happy? She wondered whether she would be able to talk with her friend alone.
Toward the end of the meal, the abbess looked Guinevere in the eye. "You will be living in a large court. You must not let yourself be swayed by gossip, flattery, gowns, and jewels." Her voice was stern but not unfriendly.
Guinevere nodded in agreement. Surely such things were far from her mind.
"You will be a queen," the abbess said, "and being a good one will involve much work. You must always think of the poor as well as the nobles."
"I shall," Guinevere promised in a steady voice. "I know that is the true work of rulers."
"The true work of each person, whether ruler or peasant, is to keep her own soul whole. Remember that always." The abbess looked as if she could see into Guinevere's heart.
"I shall." Guinevere clasped her hands together under the table. She did not know how she could keep her soul whole while she belonged to a man she did not want, but she vowed to try.
The abbess nodded. "And we shall pray for you, to help you do that."
She rose from the table. "Now we must do our evening prayers. You may go to you room to rest."
Guinevere bowed her head in response and wished that she had many more days to listen to the abbess. She was relieved to have a room to herself, and bade her serving women go off to their own room and leave her alone. Whecca had not come with her because she loved a young man who worked in the stable, so Guinevere had said she could stay in Powys, and Macha was too sickly to accompany her. Saying farewell to the old woman had tested Guinevere's determination not to weep.
Guinevere sat on the hard little bed, and thought she would prefer it to a fine bed shared with the High King.
There was a knock at the door and a plump old nun entered. She was wrinkled, but the lines on her face seemed like works of beauty. Guinevere had hoped her visitor would be Valeria, but tried to keep her disappointment out of her face.
"I am Mother Ninian," the nun told Guinevere. "I can see that you are one who will find no temptation in gowns and jewels."
"That is true." Guinevere nodded, relieved to be understood.
"Mother Perpetua could see that about you too, of course." Mother Ninian smiled. "She has already told the nuns to copy books for you, so your mind will not grow dull."
"How kind!" Guinevere's heart pounded with gratitude. But then she recollected that the books would probably all be religious tomes that told how women were lesser than men, like the books Father Jerome had given her.
"The books will not just be religious works." The old nun seemed to read Guinevere's thoughts. She touched Guinevere's hand. "For you know some Greek and can therefore read plays and philosophy that most never see."
"Thank you a thousand times." Guinevere held the wrinkled hand, which was even stronger than her own.
"The true temptation is bitterness. You must never succumb to that," Mother Ninian warned her. Guinevere was too astonished to speak. How did the old nun guess
that she might be bitter about her lot, which most women envied?
"Learn all you can. Blessed are those who ask questions—and who can bear the answers," the old nun said. Then she quietly departed from the room.
What questions must she ask? What answers should she seek? How fearsome were they? Guinevere wondered. At the moment, the question most on her mind was whether she would see her dear Valeria.
There was another knock on her door. This time, Sister Valeria walked into the tiny room.
Guinevere leapt up. "I didn't know whether I'd have a chance to see you alone. You look so content." She was unable to keep the surprise out of her voice. Her friend had been so sad at the thought of entering a convent.
"I am." Sister Valeria smiled more brightly than Guinevere had ever seen her smile, even when they were young at Leodegran's caer.
"So you have become pious after all. Perhaps I should, too."
"You don't seem so happy." Her old friend gave her a tender look.
Guinevere laughed sharply. "I'm not. I would give anything to escape this marriage, but I cannot. Perhaps I'd have been better off in the convent like you, never thinking about love."
"Oh, Gwen, I do have a love." Valeria blushed.
"It's Sister Fidelia, did you see her? The tall one with the gray eyes and the beautiful voice who said the blessing."
Guinevere stared at her. Her head spun, and she sat on the bed to keep from falling. Could women love other women? If they could, then she was one such woman. That was why she found the Lady Morgan's beauty so much more compelling than King Arthur's handsome face. "Of course I noticed her. You love a woman? I thought I was the only girl who thought much about women." Her voice was full of longing. Now she could see why she had grieved so much when Valeria had left.
Valeria smiled the more, and said, "So you feel these things, too? And we never knew it." Sitting on the bed, she put her arms around Guinevere, and Guinevere sank into them, and wept on Valeria's shoulder.
Guinevere thought of all the years they had slept in the same bed, snuggled up together, and wished that they had known then what they knew now. She longed to kiss Valeria's lips.
"Do all the nuns have such loves?" Guinevere asked.
"Only a few of us, and we love privately. I think the abbess might guess, but I would never speak of it."
"She bade me keep my soul whole, but how can I do that if my duty is to go to a man I don't love and risk my life bearing his children?" Guinevere swallowed her tears.
Valeria hugged her. "You are not a tree whose only purpose is to bear fruit, or a creature whose purpose is to bring forth its young. I am sure you have other work. You have always tried to learn as much as you can, and I am sure there is other work you can do. I am not as clever as you, but I take joy in copying books."
"But you live in a community with other women who do the same." Guinevere complained as she would be ashamed to do with anyone else. "You have a dear friend. I am so alone."
Valeria stroked Guinevere's hair. "I believe that my friend would understand, Gwen, if just this night. . . "
Guinevere clasped her. It wasn't too late, then. She still could kiss Valeria.
Guinevere turned away to undress. She did not put on her woolen bedgown, but left herself unclothed. Embarrassed, she lay down on the bed and pulled the rough wool covers over her.
Valeria climbed in beside her and kissed her mouth. Guinevere thrilled at the soft touch of her lips. Valeria's tongue entered her mouth, filling it with sweetness. Valeria's hands covered her, and then her tongue touched her in ways that Guinevere had never imagined. Tears of joy moistened Guinevere's cheeks.
When she loved Valeria in return, she was the more amazed that the power had passed into her, and that Valeria moaned in joy as she had.
Why, touching and being touched could be grand! It was like the ecstasy spoken of in the psalms, only more real. At last she knew it was possible to know joy in this world. But her time with Valeria was so short.
After Valeria had fallen asleep, Guinevere lay awake, listening to the sound of her friend's sleeping for the last time, and wondered whether she would ever have a love of her own. She wasn't sure whether it was a blessing or a curse to learn what she really wanted.
6 Lancelot Alone
One morning Lancelot woke to see that snow had fallen during the night. She roused herself from bed and pulled on her boots and her cloak so she could be the first to ride through the snow.
But when she was leaving the villa, her father followed her.
"I'd like to go riding with you," Marcus said, yawning. "I want to try out my new horse."
Lancelot was pleased because her father so seldom enjoyed anything. His face had long since wrinkled into a frown.
When they went to the barn to get their horses, Duach the stablehand was sleeping. Marcus shook him. "Who is to keep watch over the horses if you sleep?"
"I'm sorry, my lord." Duach jumped up and rubbed his eyes.
Lancelot gave the man a smile. Surely no horse thieves would dare to come to her father's stable. She had routed the brigands for miles around.
She and her father rode out across the snow. Marcus's new horse, a fine bay gelding, pulled ahead of Lancelot's Arrow.
The horse stumbled on the slippery ground, and Marcus flew off, landing in the snow. Lancelot dismounted to help her father, but she saw that he had fallen at a strange angle. His neck was twisted. He had fallen so many times before. How could it be fatal now? She could scarcely believe that she had lost another parent. This time she did not sob or scream, but stood frozen like the world around her. Then she knelt in the snow beside her father and prayed.
Lancelot walked listlessly to her daily session with Dinias. Every room reminded her too much of her parents. Her mother's chair. Her father's sword. Why did she have to outlive both of them? At times it seemed there was little to do but follow them to the grave.
She sighed as she passed the window where Rathtyen used to sit, until she died of the ague. Now no one Lancelot loved was still alive, except for Creiddyled. She respected Dinias and Father Matthew but she did not love them.
Everything she saw, her parents had also seen, except for a few animals that were born after they had died. Every spoon she touched had been used by her mother. Every book had been read by her father. She sighed again.
Every view in the woods they had also seen. She thought it might be pleasant to ride in a forest other than the one where her mother had been killed.
She remembered resenting her father's gloominess. She told herself not to follow his example.
She greeted Dinias and picked up her sword. At least she had that routine. After they had practiced for some time, the fighting master said, "Enough sparring for today."
He put down his sword and wiped his face.
"I'm getting too old to spend all day fighting with you."
"Nonsense. You're far more skilled than any of the young men I've fought," Lancelot protested. "You don't look any older."
She believed that lie was innocent. The fighting master's hair was much grayer than it had been.
"So you always thought I looked ancient." Dinias chuckled. "None of the younger men will enter contests with you.They're tired of losing."
He poured some water from a jar in the practice room and drank deeply. "Why don't we go riding?"
"A grand idea." The thought made Lancelot feel as if the wind already blew through her hair. She could never turn down a chance to go into the forest, which of course was where they would ride.
The leaves were drying on the trees because the summer had been hotter than usual. But even the wilted grass was finer than the stone floors of the villa, or so she thought.
They rode for some distance. A hawk called out, and Lancelot wished she could soar far away. Then she saw smoke, off in the distance — far more smoke than could come from a hearthfire.
"Perhaps some brigands have set fire to a peasant's hut," Lancelot cried, making her h
orse gallop as fast as it could along the forest path towards the smoke, which she could smell even when she could not see it. Dinias followed.
But when they reached the source of the smoke, they found a group of men slumped on the ground, resting by a hut with one blackened wall.
"Have you put out the fire?" Lancelot asked.
A stoop-shouldered man she recognized looked up at her.
"Yes, my lord. My son dropped coals on the straw bed, but by good chance my neighbors came running and put out the fire before it destroyed the whole house."
"I had feared that brigands had set the fire," Lancelot said.
"No brigands will come this near your lands, Lord Lancelot," the man told her.
"Yes, you've driven them all away," said Dinias, whose horse had just pulled up in the clearing.
That was good, of course. Lancelot thought she must be wicked to wish that she had some other challenge to face.
7 The Queen Courted
Camelot's gray walls jutted against the sky. It was much larger than Leodegran's caer. This caer stood on a high hill, with a commanding view – at least when there was no fog.
Guinevere drew near late in the day, as an evening haze was settling in. Several dozen warriors rode out to greet her party and escort her inside the town walls. Perhaps she would never again go anywhere without men in mail escorting her. She nodded to the warriors.
The huge gates in the outer walls stood open. In the caer's cobbled streets, farmers and tradespeople cheered her. Ladies and children, along with a still greater number of warriors, also crowded the streets. When Bors helped her dismount, the people cheered still louder. "Huzza! Guinevere!" they cried. "Our new queen!"
At last she was saluted as a queen. Guinevere's heart throbbed over that as it did not thrill at the thought of Arthur. She smiled with dignity, as was appropriate for a queen.
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