A faint smile appeared on Cai's lips. "Very good. Arthur will like that. He thinks much about the common people."
"He will think more if they can speak to him," Guinevere said, eyeing the shields and weapons on the walls of the great hall that emphasized the king's might, rather than his benevolence.
And so the common people began to bring their petitions to the king, and Arthur was pleased.
After he had decided the case of a man whose land had been stolen from him by a neighbor, Arthur turned to Guinevere.
"How many troubles people have," he said. "I wish that I could hear all such cases, though I cannot. What good is a kingdom without justice?"
She smiled at him. "That is true," she said, letting him hear the pride in her voice.
It was good to be part of a reign that was more than an excuse to accumulate wealth and hold fine feasts.
A lady struck a serving woman's cheek so resoundingly that Guinevere could hear it down the passageway. The serving woman fled from her mistress.
Guinevere hurried up to the pretty, fair-haired lady. "How could you do such a thing, Calpurnia?" she demanded.
In her father’s dun, servants had been beaten rarely, only for stealing excessively or injuring one another. Guinevere had never struck a serving woman, nor had her mother.
"She deserved it," Calpurnia snapped, eyes glaring. "But if I offended you, I beg your pardon, Lady Guinevere," she added, in a tone that pretended contrition.
That evening, Guinevere spoke to Fencha, as the serving woman combed her hair so she would look well for supper. "I saw Calpurnia strike her serving woman today. Do many of the ladies do such things?"
Fencha sighed. "The Lady Calpurnia is not kind, my lady, but she was in pain herself. She was married young to her feeble, old husband, and she seeks from other men what he cannot give her. She is fond of Gawaine, and was sorely vexed to discover that her serving woman had been with him also. Gawaine is the cause of many of the quarrels among the ladies, and the serving women, too. He charms many of them, but each likes to think she is his favorite."
"Indeed. What a lecher." Guinevere set her lips.
"Don't be too hard on him," Fencha said, smiling as if she, like everyone else, was fond of Gawaine. "The poor young man has been married twice, and both wives died all too soon, in childbed."
"That excuses nothing," Guinevere said, shuddering at the thought of such a death. She felt sorry for the women, not Gawaine. He might have spent a little time mourning them before bedding other women. Nearly all the noblemen she knew, her own father included, had mistresses, but Gawaine's venery seemed excessive. She had thought him kind when he played gwyddbwyll with her, yet now she thought his kindness was nothing but the charm of a practiced seducer. Of course he would not dare to try seducing the queen, but perhaps he thought she would be another of his many admirers.
She determined that she would be cool to Gawaine. Let him learn that some women saw through him.
"I wonder how the serving women bear it here," Guinevere asked as Fencha plaited her hair. "The men are always after them."
"It's much like anywhere else, my lady," Fencha muttered, appraising the state of the braid and then redoing it. "At least here they are not supposed to force or beat the women. Lord Arthur does not like that."
"But there are so many more men here," Guinevere observed.
The old woman worked carefully, not pulling the hair. "Not many ladies think of it as you do, Lady Guinevere. Most of them think that pleasing the men is just part of a serving woman's work, or something that doesn't concern them. As for me, by the time I came here I was too old to interest any of the men."
Guinevere winced. Being at the beck and call of many men seemed unimaginably awful. It had been only a generation or so at best since most of the serving people had been called slaves, and many still were. As for the others, there hadn't been much change in condition. The word "slave" had gone out of fashion, that was all, Guinevere thought. Many of them were small and dark-haired, like the Old Ones. Or like herself.
That night, Gawaine asked Guinevere if she wanted to play gwyddbwyll.
Guinevere frowned. She did not want to play games with a man who saw women as toys. She said "No" in a tone of such disdain that he pulled back in surprise and stared at her.
A few nights later after supper, a pretty young serving woman passed Gawaine's chair and he pulled her onto his lap. The girl laughed, kissed his cheek, and went back to work. Serving women often threw their arms around Gawaine, kissed him, or flung themselves in his lap for a moment.
Guinevere looked at him with contempt.
He saw her look and turned away from her.
Guinevere decided that she would always give him looks that showed her disapproval of lechery.
One morning when Fencha came to help Guinevere dress and fix her hair, she noticed that the serving woman's eyes were red.
"What is the matter?" Guinevere asked in her gentlest voice, which she seldom used. "Has someone dared to speak harshly to you?"
"No, Lady Guinevere. My only daughter died ten years ago this day." A few tears dripped down her cheek and caught in the furrows of her wrinkles. Her hand covered her mouth as if to suppress a sob.
In an instant, Guinevere's arms were around her. Imagine going through the pain of bearing a child and then seeing it die. So many women lost child after child. She had no idea how they endured the loss. "That must be a grievous hurt," she said.
"It is that. Why couldn't the Goddess have taken me instead of her? Why, I keep asking myself?" Fencha said, in a voice as heartbroken as if her daughter had died only a month earlier.
"How did it happen?" Guinevere asked, sitting down on the bed, gesturing that the woman should sit beside her and holding the wrinkled, spotted hand.
"It was a fever took her," Fencha recounted, rubbing her eyes. "It happened so quick. She was still a girl, and so bright. You never saw such a bright girl."
"That's very hard," Guinevere said, listening. Here was someone who felt real things, and said them, unlike so many at Camelot, who said only what they thought would please the king or the queen. "Tell me more."
"My sons are dear to me," Fencha said, "but sons soon go off to fight with the other men. Two of them died fighting the Saxons. The other two still live, but they don't know what to say when they see me. My daughter I could talk to. We could chat all day and not know the time was passing. She had such a cheerful laugh, she did." The old woman smiled through her tears.
Sitting there holding Fencha's hand, Guinevere could almost picture laughing with a daughter.
After the conversation was over, she carried the image with her.
In the courtyard, she watched Lionors, wife to Bors, run after her young son and daughter, both of whom had darted off to follow a disreputable-looking mongrel. Lionors caught them in her arms, laughed, and tousled their hair.
"Your children seem to be a handful," Guinevere remarked.
"They're such a joy," Lionors said. "They grow too fast."
The boy tugged away from her and ran after the dog, which took him through a mud puddle and a pile left by a horse.
"You wicked child!" Lionors cried, but her voice still was warm.
There was something after all to children, besides bearing them in pain, Guinevere reminded herself as she walked slowly back to her room. Was she missing something grand? Would she love them although she did not love her husband? Perhaps many women preferred their children to their husbands.
Lionors did look sweet holding her little ones. Could Guinevere enjoy such moments? Had she been born with no tenderness? Was she made all of bones with no marrow?
Then she imagined handing a girl of about sixteen over to some ally of Arthur's to bind the alliance, and she dismissed the daughter's picture. Why bear a daughter to be as unhappy as she was? And she pictured a little boy, cheerfully running about the caer, then spending his days with savage men, learning how to be like them. If she died giving birth, she could n
ot influence such a son. Even a nun like Valeria had told Guinevere that she did not need to be simply a tree bearing fruit. Was that not a kind of permission not to give birth to an heir for Arthur? What child could rule better than Guinevere herself? She continued to drink Fencha's potion. But she had doubts.
Guinevere woke to the sound of Arthur tossing and turning in his sleep. She did not quite dare to wake him, but she wondered whether she should.
He woke and wiped sweat from his brow.
"Are you well?" she asked him.
"What a dream." He trembled. "I keep having the same dream. It is so terrible that it shakes me more than a battle."
"Would you like a warm posset to drink?" Guinevere asked.
"Do not summon a servant. I hate for anyone to see me like this. Could you get me some of the wine on the table?"
"Yes, of course." She slipped out of the bed, poured wine into a goblet, and brought it to him. She sat on the bed beside him. It shook her to see the High King of Britain so unnerved by a dream.
Arthur sat up and drank the wine. He moved his legs so that he was sitting beside her.
"Pray light candles."
Nodding, she went back to the table and lit some of her beeswax candles.
"I must tell you of my dream," he said.
Guinevere wished that he wouldn't, but it was a wife's duty to listen. She worried that his fears might spread to her and she might have similar dreams about whatever monsters disturbed him.
But she sat on the bed and said, "Of course, Arthur. What is it?" He stared beyond her at the candlelit shadows.
"I dream of an infant," he whispered hoarsely. "An infant son."
Her heart sank.
"The child glares at me with unnatural ferocity," Arthur said, shuddering. "Then he leaps at my throat and tears at it with his teeth."
Guinevere gasped. She dug her nails into her arms.
"I push him away, but he comes back again and again, attacking first my throat, and then my heart. My blood pours out." Arthur's voice quavered. "I grab up my sword, strike at him and kill him. He vanishes, but he is not gone. He attacks me when I least expect it. Finally, in desperation, I order that all baby boys in the land be killed."
"That is King Herod's command!" Guinevere cried. "You are not King Herod. You must not listen to this evil dream." It took all of her strength not to leap up from the bed and dash across the room to get away from him.
"But it keeps recurring. What if it is a prophecy?" He shook his head. "What if my son will kill me?"
"Infants do not murder their parents. Try to be calm." Guinevere attempted to keep the terror out of her voice. "You should talk to a priest about this."
"No, no. I cannot tell a priest." He waved his hand in dismissal. "I have asked Merlin." Arthur paused. "And he says it is possible that I might have a son who would kill me."
Guinevere felt as if a blast of cold blew through her. "Anything is possible." Her speech faltered. "But he should not have told you that and fed this terrible imagination."
Arthur stood and paced about the room. "No, if anything, he was sparing me, Gwen. I believe that he sees it happening."
She wished that Merlin were at the bottom of the sea. "My lord, have you been reading the Greeks? This sounds like the story of Oedipus. The difficulty was not that he was born, but that he was sent away."
"I see the resemblance to Oedipus and to Herod," he said. "As always, I am glad that you are so well read. We must discuss this intelligently, my dear." He tried to smile at her, but there was no happiness in the smile. He took her hands.
Reluctantly, she allowed him to hold them.
"I fear this evil dream," Arthur said. "I think it may be best if we do not have a child. I fear that a son might murder me, and I do not know how I would treat him. Of course I would not deny you the conjugal acts, my dear, but I think that at least for a time I should try not to get you with child. I hope that no one will blame you for that, but they may. I am sorry to disappoint your natural hopes with this burden."
Guinevere's head reeled. "It shall be as you say, my lord," she managed to tell him.
He put his arms around her, but she was relieved that he did not want anything more intimate at the moment.
She redoubled her vows never to bear this man a child. What man could think of murdering his own son?
She could not tell this secret to anyone, not even Fencha. Guinevere thanked God and Mary that she had the potion.
But Guinevere did ask her old serving woman, "Are you sure the potion will continue working?"
Fencha took the liberty of patting Guinevere's hand. "My lady, there is more than a little magic in the potion. It cannot fail." Guinevere did not believe in magic, but the old woman's strong certainty reassured her.
One morning, when Fencha came to her room, Guinevere continued to sit on her bed instead of rising to be dressed. She looked in the old woman's face, which held such maternal warmth that it gave Guinevere the courage to speak.
"I have learned to be guarded with everyone here, but I am becoming fond of you. Foolishly, I wish that there was one at least with whom I could be honest. If you served Morgan and loved her, can you truly be fond of me?"
"Do you doubt it?" Fencha's voice sounded offended, but she sat on the bed beside Guinevere and took her hand. "You are not the one who hurt her. Have you never had more than one friend, Lady Guinevere?"
"Do queens have any? I'm glad if I have you." Guinevere leaned to embrace her.
"I am your friend, my lady, and I want to let you know a secret." Grinning, the old woman went to the huge hanging on the wall and pulled it back, revealing a hidden door. "This room has a secret passage because it was intended for Lady Morgan. That way, the king planned to visit his sister at night without anyone knowing. Perhaps someday you might need the passage."
Guinevere laughed and shook her head. "I might not mind escaping, but I have nowhere to escape to. Many thanks, though."
The thought that she had a secret way to leave did comfort her. She smiled to herself, imagining darting out in the middle of the night, getting on her horse, and riding away. In truth, she was a little afraid of the dark, but she still could enjoy her dream. She also pictured having a visitor – Morgan herself – pass through the secret door. Fencha sometimes brought Guinevere messages from Morgan.
Guinevere devoured the Latin words on the vellum, as if they were food that might sustain her, although they were cryptic and generally brief. Morgan addressed her as "sister," but thinking of how it was that they were related, Guinevere flinched at that.
She spent days pondering her responses. She tried to turn the lines into poetry, but failed.
Could she write of the redness of the lady's hair, or the greenness of her eyes? No, not when Morgan did not write her in that manner.
Could she tell of the emptiness of the court, and the shell of her marriage? But Morgan apparently had found joy where she found none, and perhaps envied her what she most disliked.
She decided that she must be brief.
Dear Friend,
I am doing all I can, which includes working on the accounts with Cai to be sure that no lord is cheating on his taxes. I ride as much as I can, though I am always supposed to have an escort.
Truly, a woman’s lot is hard. I watch the women at court bear children year after year and wonder how they can keep on.
I think often of the women's councils in Ireland you told me about. It would be a good thing if we could have such gatherings here.
Would women squander their sons' lives in warfare as recklessly as men do? I doubt it. We would fight the Saxons, of course, but not other Britons.
The men here speak of little but warfare, the women of little but their children. But surely they could learn greater wisdom.
If only I could speak with you, I know that we would find much to discuss.
I hope for that day.
Your friend
So she wrote of women's troubles, but trie
d to make it seem as if they were not her own. Some weeks later, an answer came.
Dear Sister,
As well as meeting in women's councils, Irish women join in their own clan councils to discuss important matters – taxes, for one, and so you would know well what to say. And you could teach many others your wisdom.
But who knows what may happen? Perhaps one day you will be even closer to the throne than you are now. Couldn't you decide matters as well as he can? You were raised to be a queen. Do not let anyone persuade you that you need to produce an heir. Who could succeed him better than you could? Such an outcome would not be unprecedented. After all, my Aunt Morgause rules Lothian, and all the world acknowledges that she is a better ruler than King Lot was.
I rule my little Tintagel with a firm but gentle hand, and the people of Cornwall love me.
Of course I do not believe that a woman's hands were made only for holding infants.
Your sister
Guinevere smiled to herself at the compliments. She was pleased at the thought that perhaps she could rule after Arthur's death, although that day was no doubt many years distant. How good it was that another woman understood that a queen was capable of ruling. And the thought of Queen Morgause was reassuring, though Guinevere had heard that fear of witchcraft might be the reason no one challenged Morgause.
Much as Guinevere liked the letter, she wondered whether Morgan hoped to be the one to rule. Burning Morgan's letters hurt, though Guinevere quickly learned the words by heart, for they were all that was hers. But clearly Morgan would never love Guinevere as she longed to be loved.
Guinevere liked some of the women at Camelot, and others less, but she saw none who stirred her heart. She stopped thinking about what it might be like to love. It was foolish to pine for what you could never have.
9 Queen of Light and Darkness
Pelting rain did not diminish Gawaine's happiness in the least. He was back in Lothian, on his way to visit his mother, who had ruled Lothian and Orkney for the past several years, since his unlamented father had died. He was determined to enjoy seeing his mother and being in his own country.
Lancelot- Her Story Page 12