I got up while he was still sleeping and sat by the window, looking down at the little garden below. Before tonight would be today, and today Lancelot was bringing Isolde of Cornwall and this Elaine into the city. I had a cold dread lingering in my stomach despite the warmth of the day. Through the open window I could smell the lovely roses and little honeysuckles down in the garden. I could hear the chatter down there, soft and bubbling like a little stream over pebbles, of Marie, Margery and Christine. I wished I was down there with them, not waiting up here for one of them to bring me whatever dress I would have to wear to greet Isolde like a proper queen. The proper Breton queens would have greeted others dressed in leathers and armed, like the vassal kings of Britain came before Arthur, but if I did that here, they would know me for a barbarian, a savage. It was more savage and strange, I thought, all those heavy layers of damask and samite, all the strange ceremonial bowing and waving. But Isolde was born in Ireland. Maybe she, too, was the blood of Maev. Maybe there was someone coming into the heart of Camelot who would be like the women I remembered from home. Christine and Marie, too, had changed themselves for Camelot and I often missed the sights of home.
At last, it seemed, though perhaps it had not been so long, because the sun was still fresh and pale in the sky, not yet climbing up towards noon and the midday heat, Arthur woke, and left me with a glancing kiss to make himself ready for the arrival. Marie and Christine hurried in then with some lovely, sweet fruits for me to eat, and clothes for me to wear. The dress was, mercifully, thin summer silk in a light sky-blue and embroidered all over in little silver thread flowers, close down to the wrists and across the bodice, and cut low and square at the neck. The skirt parted in the centre to show the white silk underskirt beneath, and little peeps of it glimpsed through the lacing of the bodice at the front. Marie tied up my hair and wrapped it in the little gold net, pinning it into place. The crown they brought was the crown of snakes and I waved it away. I did not want to look at it again; it seemed like bad luck. I took instead the little circlet of ivy leaves I had come with. Perhaps if Isolde were as I hoped, she would recognise it. In any case, it was the only one I had that was not too heavy.
I squinted into the silver mirror Christine held up before me. I had no idea if I looked right, if I looked queenly enough. I had never really seen another British queen, except Morgawse, and I knew from what people said that the northlands were considered rough and barbaric. Oh, and Morgan, while her old husband had lived; but she had always been dressed like a druid, and I did not think I too ought to paint myself with woad. Besides, there was no right way to look before Elaine. I would rather have come before her in my leathers and armed. Meeting her, I was ready to meet an enemy.
When trumpets sounded the arrival of the visitors, I walked down the stairs with Marie and Christine, dressed in the finest dresses they owned, and Margery came to join us from my little public room, still missing its little book of Ovid. She had a little white silk cloth wrapped around her hair, and I wondered if we should do the same. I was dimly annoyed that Margery, who was the one who knew the customs of Logrys as her own, had not come that morning.
At the bottom of the stairs, Kay and Gareth were waiting. Kay took my hand and kissed it lightly. I smiled to see him. At the least, he was always cheerful, and somehow having him by my side made me feel better. It was the comforting sense of the Otherworld about him, which was my feeling, partly, of home, of my father’s study and the table. I somehow felt that he would be an ally to me against this woman who came bearing Lancelot’s child. I could not have said why. He did a little bow, which was only half-sincere.
“You look lovely, my queen.”
Gareth bowed as well and said the same. I laughed.
“You don’t have to do that in here, where no one is watching,” I replied.
We went out into the courtyard, where Arthur was standing with Gawain, Lamerocke and Dinadan. Percival would be in the chapel, where he was almost every day. When that man was not fighting, he was praying. I did not think I had ever seen him smile.
I went over to Arthur with the others and he took my hand with a little incline of the head. He was learning fast this new role of a grand king, though I was sure he would not lose the part of him that was a warrior. He knew peace was good, and ceremony and power, but I was sure that something inside him would always yearn for battle.
I turned towards the gates, where I could hear the sound of horses from outside. I felt the nervous flutter in my stomach. I would see, now, the woman who had taken my place. The sun was hot against my face, rising towards its zenith, and I could feel in the heat, sweat gathering in at the base of my back, on my brow. The knights in armour around us shifted uncomfortably, and I suspected Arthur would for once be glad of his ceremonial brocade surcoat, red with his father’s dragon sewn in gold, rather than the iron of platemail.
At last the gates came apart. At first I saw only Lancelot, who had slipped away back to his camp last night, so as to arrive with the women he brought, riding on a huge armoured warhorse. Behind him, I could see two lovely white ponies, and flashes of coloured silk on top of them, the two women. He rode without his helm, though he was armoured, and the sight of him again was a wonderful relief to the part of me that felt I had dreamed him in my room last night. He slid from his horse, giving it to Gareth to take to the stables, and came before Arthur and me. Arthur pulled him into a rough embrace and slapped him heartily on the back. They kissed each other on each cheek and embraced again.
“You have been too long away,” Arthur told him, and he nodded and smiled.
He turned to me, and kissed my hand with a little bow and a soft, “My lady.”
The touch of his hand on mine sent a shock through me that I did not expect. I felt my face flush and my head spin for a moment. He moved away without meeting my eyes, but I felt, as though it was burned into my skin, the touch of his lips on the back of my hand. It was not long, not long now. It would be easier when longing was transformed to secrecy, I felt sure of it. And I needed only to wait until tonight.
He returned to the women on the horses. One of them was already sliding off hers, but awkwardly, one foot caught in a stirrup, making her pony stumble a little. All I could see of her was a flash of pale blonde hair from her bent head, with a little golden coronet on top, and her slender figure dressed in a gauzy dress of light pink silk. She must have been Isolde. The other woman Lancelot went to first and lifted down from her horse. I felt the ugly prickle of jealousy within me, and I knew I could not look on her without hating her. Seeing his hands around her little waist lifting her down from the saddle made me feel sick, feel raw with an anger that was beyond words, and I knew there was nothing I could do. She was small and doe-eyed with soft brown hair wound up at the nape of her neck. She was dressed simply in a green silk dress, and under the hand that rested on her stomach was the unmistakable early swell of a child. Where my features were strong and proud, hers were ladylike and delicate, and where I was lean and lightly muscled I could see the demure little frame of her body move with a perfect grace. Perfect lady she may be, I thought, but she does not look as though she would win if it came to a fight. This gave me a wicked little thrill.
Isolde came forward towards us first and I was sorry to see nothing of Maev in the girl. She was beautiful, for sure, with big blue eyes like pools, and full pink lips, and soft, full breasts that the draping fabric of her dress made obvious, but it seemed that Kay was right in his estimation of the girl as simple. She seemed sweet enough and kind, and curtseyed to Arthur and me, graciously accepting his avowal of her beauty and a kiss on her cheek with a decorous little blush. I was disappointed that the sight of Isolde was not a little glimpse of home, but I was resolved to be kind and I took her hand in both of mine and bid her welcome. Her smile was warm and trusting, her kiss of my cheek dry and papery. I was not sure if her seeming simpleness was just the result of innocence, because up close I could see that despite her shape she was many yea
rs younger than I was, perhaps younger even than when I had married Arthur. I was pleased to have her stand beside me. It made me feel stronger as Lancelot approached with Elaine. I could hear people whispering. I could hear Marie and Christine whispering in Breton. I should have liked to have been whispering with them. I heard Marie use the Breton word for ‘witch’.
Arthur took Elaine’s hand and kissed her on the cheek.
“Camelot is lucky to receive two such rare beauties today,” he told her. So Arthur thought her beautiful, too. He grinned past her at Lancelot, and I knew he was not just being courteous. She slipped her hand from Lancelot’s and walked over to me, as Lancelot talked with Arthur. I imagined Arthur would soon want to lead him away, and hear all of the stories he had longed to hear, of the fighting and the adventuring, and perhaps also the story of Elaine, though I doubted it was one that Lancelot would be willing to tell. He was not, I suspected, a very good liar.
I took Elaine’s hand with a smile I was sure must have seemed brittle and cold, but when I met her eyes – lovely, dark and gentle – I had a sickening sense in the pit of my stomach that I did not think had anything to do with jealousy. Witch. It only lasted a moment, but it was an almost unbearable sensation of the darkest place of the Otherworld. It was the smell of death that hung around the barrow-lands. It passed in a moment, the acuteness of the sensation, but the sense of it lingered about me. Surely I could not have imagined it out of irrational hate? The girl seemed benign enough, with her big eyes and sweet little mouth. She was, though, almost a head shorter than me, and tiny as bird, like Marie, so I did not know how Lancelot had mistaken her for me. I was beginning, looking at her, to doubt his excuse. She was nothing like me, and any man would have desired her for her own charms.
I kissed her on the cheek, and she did the same. I moved through the courtesies, detached, my mind elsewhere, as she did the same; we commended each other on our beauty and curtseyed.
I was glad when I could suggest the ladies repair to my little walled garden. Servants had laid out silk rugs and little cushions, and there was already a minstrel with a lute. I would have preferred to lie on the grass and feel its little stalks against my skin, smell its light, fresh smell, and read my Breton books with Christine and Marie, but the greatest ceremony must be given for Isolde of Cornwall I supposed. We did not want to appear rustic or simple.
I invited her to sit beside me, patting the little pink cushion I had reclined beside and she came. I was happy to let Margery chatter with Elaine on the other side of the garden, where I could watch her out of the corner of my eye. I suddenly wished that Kay was with us. He would know. He would be able to feel it, too, and tell me if I had imagined it. I did not know why, if it were truly so, that she was a creature from the depths of the Otherworld, and I had felt it only for a moment.
The lute player began a tune, and a song that I knew well enough about Brutus driving the giants from Britain and giving it his name, and I lay back with a sigh against the cushions, closing my eyes against the bright heat of the sun. I wished I was with the men. I wanted to be hearing about giant-killing and adventure, or hunting in the forest. I did not want to be sat in my little walled garden avoiding being polite to Elaine.
I put a hand over my eyes to shield them from the sun, and peered at Isolde. She was watching the lute-player with rapture. Cornwall must have been rich, because her golden coronet was studded with sapphires from the far east, and lots of lovely shimmering pearls, and around her neck hung a long sapphire pendant. She was young. Fifteen, sixteen perhaps? Even younger than I had thought her at first. Her skin was pure white and perfect as marble, her light blonde hair glowed in its thick glossy plait that trailed down past her shoulder and rested on one breast in the midday sun. She was lovely, there was no denying that.
“Was your journey pleasant?” I asked her.
She turned to me as though she had been jolted from her thoughts and a slow smile spread across her face. She leaned in close to me, and whispered.
“Very pleasant my lady. And you should know, they say there are but four great lovers in this world, Sir Tristan and myself, and Sir Lancelot and Queen Guinevere.”
I pushed myself up onto my elbows, the nerves jangling within me.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I replied, coolly. What had Lancelot said? What she was saying was dangerous. I knew Sir Tristan as her own husband’s nephew. So what Lamerocke had said had been true. And what Kay said. The girl was simple.
“Of course, my lady.” Isolde lowered her eyes from mine, but not without giving me a dumb smile of complicity. I had to get her out of court. If she was going to be jabbering to people like an idiot about lovers then I could not have her here. It hurt all the more how much I wished it were true.
“Where is Tristan now?” I asked eventually, desperate for any distraction.
She smiled broadly, as though she had been waiting for the question. It was as though dawn had broken across her face, it was so written with joy. The girl was no born liar, lacked any ability to hide her feelings. That shocked me suddenly, that I was looking on her honesty with scorn. I was proud already of my ability to lie, to hide, to be two women at once. This simpleton was a better woman than I, honest in the truth of her feelings. But she would not survive on it, surely. Though the reach of Mark’s revenge would never be so broad as that of Arthur, I was sure.
She leaned close again, excited.
“He waits for me at Joyous Guard.”
Joyous Guard. That was Lancelot’s castle, out on the borderlands to the west. So he was helping her play this dangerous game. But it was no castle for lovers, it was a siege fortress. Perhaps Tristan and Isolde would survive with Lancelot’s help. I could not imagine Mark even with all the might of Cornwall being able to fetch them from Joyous Guard.
I nodded, and patted her hand with mine.
“I hope you two will be safe there.” I could not help but smile at her. The world was simple to her. Her husband was cruel, so she would run away. And Mark was cruel. Or seemed so from what people said. In a jealous rage he had already tried to have her burned at the stake once in a year of marriage, and often he locked her away. Mark must be more than twice her age. I suppose I could not blame her if the young nephew was more to her liking, and if she too desired the right to choose. But she had been rash, and she had been reckless, and she had brought her danger home to me.
“Do you sing, Isolde?” I asked her.
She nodded, shyly.
I wanted to distract her, to stop her talking, and so I asked her to sing for us. The lute player knew the tune she asked for, and she began to sing. Her voice was lovely, soft and low, more complex and mature than I would have expected, full of light and shade, and she sang beautifully. Partly, it was her innocence, as she closed her eyes with the song, but it was also a deep and knowing understanding of the music. Her soft pink lips moved invitingly as she sang and I could see why men found them so attractive. I did not think my angry little red mouth could ever have looked so enticing.
Then, a few minutes into the song, I heard giggling in the corner of the garden. I turned to see Elaine and Margery whispering together. Elaine was laughing and Margery was smiling with her eyes wide. I felt the rage flare within me. Elaine clearly felt she had the right to everything that was mine. I stood and strode over. I expected Isolde to stop singing, but she was lost in the music, and in part I was glad of it. I felt Christine’s eyes on me in warning as I went, but I ignored her. I grabbed Elaine by the arm and pulled her to her feet. She made a pitiful little face of pain that I did not think was entirely sincere. Margery jumped to her feet, too, nervous and wary.
“What amuses you two ladies so?” I asked, my voice bristling with forced courtesy that did not match my actions, my hand still clamped around Elaine’s little arm. Margery’s mouth flapped open and shut, like a fish’s.
“Forgive me,” began Elaine, fixing me with her gaze, and there I saw again what I had expected. No i
nnocence there, but a dark pleasure in her gaze, and a malicious knowledge. Good. I was ready for a fight, and an innocent opponent was no opponent at all. “I was telling Margery of the love of Sir Lancelot.” The girl even managed to force a demure blush. “I know I should not speak in public of such things, but he was so tender. So,” she drew her breath in, enjoying herself, “manful, I –”
Before I realised what I had done, I slapped her hard across the face. I was not sorry. As my hand made contact, I felt the empty space of the dark Otherworld inside her, and I knew I was right. Margery gasped, but Elaine smiled, a smile just for me, full of perverse victory and wicked delight. She would not smile that way for long. High on her cheekbone, her olive skin was already reddening.
I realised that Isolde had stopped singing, and there was quiet all around us. I let go of Elaine’s arm and stepped back. Isolde’s mouth hung open, in a big round ‘o’. Even her surprise was picture-perfect. I raised a hand to my hair, patting it gently in place, and breathed in slowly.
“I think I will retire to my chamber,” I declared.
But I did not go to my chamber. I went to Arthur’s room, to fetch Excalibur. I was relieved he was not in his room, but there Excalibur was, beside the bed. I was the only one the guard would let up to this tower alone, so he felt safe leaving it there, and he liked to have it beside him as he slept, afraid always of losing it again. I slid it from its sheath and looked at it. Arthur held it in both hands, as though it weighed as much as all the other broadswords, but I could lift it easily in one. Excalibur had been forged in the Otherworld, and the sword recognised the Otherworld blood in me, yielding its strength to my touch. If I had ever held the false sword, I would have known it for what it was, but I knew this one was true. I slid it back into the scabbard and slipped down the stairs to Arthur’s council chamber and the Round Table. I hid the sword behind one of the chairs at the back, where I would know where to find it. Tonight, I would bring Elaine there, and with the sword and table I knew I would have the power to make her give up her secrets. Somehow bringing her, and the child that ought to have been mine, back to the Round Table felt like the right thing to do.
THE WARRIOR QUEEN (The Guinevere Trilogy Book 1) Page 17