Guinevere

by Sharan Newman

  “But I always thought Gaia hated him!” Mark said.

  Timon looked at him in wry amusement. “If she had hated him,” he replied, “she probably would have married him twenty years ago. But then I would have had to find something else to do with my life not nearly so pleasant as living up here. Please don’t mention this. I only told you so that you will be prepared for her and not mind her so much.”

  They promised to be considerate of Gaia and, having gotten that off his mind, Timon proceeded to make them comfortable. It was well that they had been warned, for on Gaia’s return the gaunt sorrow on her face would have shocked them otherwise. As it was, they showed no surprise and spent the evening conversing politely about other matters and making plans for their visit. Timon offered them a corner of the hut to sleep in but Mark said they would rather lie under the stars since the night was so mild. He did not wish to inconvenience them. Timon smiled with understanding and gave them several thick woolen coverlets and a sort of mattress stuffed with wild herbs and grasses. They took these a little distance from the hut and made up their bed.

  Much later, Alswytha lay watching the moon rise through the trees. She assumed that Mark was asleep, but he rose on one elbow and put his other arm around her.

  “What are you thinking of?” he murmured tenderly.

  She turned in his arm to embrace him but then playfully pushed him away. “For the moment, not of you. I was worrying about that poor woman in there. I cannot understand how she could purposely destroy her own happiness.”

  “I have known her all my life, but it has never been clear to me either.”

  “She wants me to be baptized in your religion. But I do not see how I could accept a faith that could cause such sorrow.”

  “The sorrow is of her own making, Wytha, my love. God had nothing to do with it. But you do not need to become a Christian. I have told you that before. There is nothing in you that would deny you entrance to heaven, I am certain. And I want nothing greater to believe in than what I have before me now.”

  She drew him back close to her and felt the warmth of his breath upon her neck. All her life she had heard that the forest night was full of wild beasts and horrible ghouls. The earth itself was a constant battle between forces, none of them caring about the humans involved. But at last she knew that these stories were lies, only fireside tales for children and fools. There would be no more battles for her. Even death could not frighten her. Alswytha had found her place in the universe and there was a still, clear feeling inside her which assured her that she would never be an exile again.

  Chapter Eighteen

  As the months passed and January approached, it became clear to everyone that this was not simply to be a marriage ceremony, or even a union of two houses. It was a political event; a social phenomenon; a rebirth of society. Guinevere, fortunately, had no private plans or wishes about the matter, and so all arrangements were handled by her elders. Only occasionally was she told about the progress of events, when it was necessary to remind her of what she was to say or do. She didn’t care. She had no idea of exactly how much preparation and fuss was going on.

  The family remained at Cador for a time. The spot on the Saxon shore was better for sending messages and organizing a wide variety of people. Guenlian threw herself into the planning with a grim intensity, hoping to forget her disappointment in Mark. It had been agreed that the best place for the nuptials was London. It had not been damaged by Saxon raids. There was a small but thriving community and a church. It was accessible not only to those coming from all over Britain but to those returning from Armorica.

  This last group delighted Arthur so much that he was reconciled to his wedding becoming a national event. Leodegrance had sent messengers to various families who had emigrated long before, telling them of the new order and requesting them to return for the festivities and to help rebuild Britain into what it once had been. The news came at exactly the right moment for the homesick Britons. The tribes of the Franks had, in the past few years, overrun all of the northern part of Gaul. Trade had fallen off and many of the younger members of the families were becoming disenchanted with their self-imposed exile. Each day brought word that another group was returning, at least to survey their old estates and decide if it would be feasible to settle there again. Those who didn’t wish to see Britain again were eagerly sending younger sons and nephews who had no land of their own and were willing to start again in the abandoned homesteads. Here was the sort of manpower Arthur had dreamed of; educated people who knew the old ways and would accept the old authority. He could hardly wait. His head was so full of plans that he took to wandering about the countryside, talking to anyone who would listen about the new society he would give them. He couldn’t stand being kept in the castle, doing nothing. When he was back there, he paced the floors like a caged lion.

  Only Guinevere could calm him. Just looking at her made him feel peaceful and comforted. She radiated serenity and he bathed in the quiet of it. Each evening he was there he sat with her and told her, again and again, of every intricate detail. First the roads would be rebuilt, then the towns could be linked and trade would grow and then government could be established, all of it answerable to and centered at Camelot.

  “Camelot? Where is that? What a strange name. Isn’t it a kind of cloth?”

  “No, that’s what I mean to call my new city. It isn’t built yet, but we will do it together, you and I. I want you to advise me on everything. I’ve found just where it should be, near Glastonbury. There is a high, level hill. There is plenty of room for buildings and shops there but the whole thing will rise above the plain.”

  “Glastonbury? Isn’t it rather marshy there? The damp air is not good for the chest, you know.”

  “A bit,” he admitted. “But Merlin has a plan of draining some of the swampy areas and planting grain. Also, it’s a very defensible place. Of course, I don’t want it ever to need defending, but I still tend to see things from a military viewpoint.”

  “That’s very sensible of you,” she assured him. “I shall feel quite safe there.”

  One day he surprised her with a large package. It was a wooden box wrapped in oilcloth and leather to keep it dry. On the cover were strange designs that she couldn’t decipher. With difficulty she pried the lid off. There was more oilcloth inside. She carefully unwrapped it and then stared in wonder at what she had revealed.

  “Oh, Arthur,” she breathed.

  “Is it all right?” he asked worriedly. “I sent for it myself, months ago. I didn’t tell anyone for I was afraid it wouldn’t arrive. If it’s not what you want, I will send it back. I just wanted so much to have something to give you myself.”

  “I have never seen anything so beautiful,” she said. She slipped her hands under the rich material and held it up to catch the light. It was a thick silk of midnight blue, threaded with strands of pure gold. Beneath it in the box was another bolt of white silk, thinner and stronger than anything she had ever worn.

  She just held it for a moment in wonder. Then she threw her arms around him. It was the first time she had done so of her own accord.

  “How did you ever think of it? Not a woman in Britain will have a dress so fine! I was so afraid I would shame you by having to be married in rough, faded robes. Thank you, Arthur! You are so good to me!”

  She scooped up the box and ran to show her mother, leaving Arthur groping in the air for her. But in his life he had learned patience and he reminded himself that after the calends of January he would be able to hold her all he wished.

  A few days later, another messenger came to the castle. He told Sidra that he had come all the way from Gaul with a present for the Lady Guinevere and had been charged with powerful oaths to deliver it to no one else.

  When Guinevere arrived, the man studied her closely before he would give over his package.

  “Yes, you must be the one. His description couldn’t fit another woman,” he finally decided.

  Guinev
ere laughed. “Who was this person who can picture me so well?”

  She held out her hand for the gift.

  The man drew forth a small packet from a hidden pocket in his cloak.

  “He wouldn’t tell me his name,” he explained. “It was at a court in the east of Armorica that I met him. He was some sort of man at arms for the household of this lord, although his rank may have been higher. He seemed to have some reputation as a horseman. I delivered my invitation to the lord of the place, as was my mission. They were not interested. They have a good life there. But as I was preparing to leave, this man came up to me and gave me this, charging me to deliver it to the Lady Guinevere and no other. I have kept my word.”

  Guinevere took the small package. She couldn’t imagine who could send her a gift from so far away. “What did this man look like?”

  “Oh, I thought I told you. Well, if I had been home, I’d have said that he was one of the oldest people. Small and dark but very strong, and with that glow in their eyes that they’ve got, sort of like a cat.”

  Guinevere quickly ripped off the outer layers of cloth and found a small hard object, wrapped in parchment. She unrolled it and out dropped a pearl, perfectly pear-shaped and of the most lustrous sheen. She held it in her palm, fearing it might magically vanish. She knew who must have sent it, but couldn’t believe it was possible. Then she noticed that there was writing on the parchment. Still carefully cradling the pearl in her hand she smoothed the parchment out on her lap. There, in large, painstaking letters were the words “Caet Pretani.” How could it be? How did Caet get so far from home, and who had taught him to write his name? Even more, how could he have come by such a rare and beautiful gift? Yet there it lay, like a frozen tear. Guinevere finally remembered the messenger.

  “Do you remember the place where this man lived?” she asked.

  “Of course,” he replied scornfully. “Would you like me to return there for you?”

  “Yes. Don’t worry, I will pay you well. He must know that I have received this. You must take this to him.” She pulled a few strands from her hair, bound them with thread and wrapped them again in the cloth. “There. Now he will know that it came to me. Tell him that I have no other way to thank him for this treasure, but if he should ever return, I would be terribly hurt if he did not come to see me.”

  Guinevere had the pearl set on a gold chain to wear with the robes sewn from Arthur’s gift. Sidra disapproved.

  “There is something strange about this. Even if he was raised in your house, he was only a stable boy, hardly a companion of yours. And they say that the old ones have never given up their struggle to drive us from this land. Perhaps there is some spell attached to it. Pearls are for grief, they say.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Guinevere insisted. “Caet only sent me this to remember him by. It is beautiful and I will wear it, if Arthur agrees.”

  “Arthur would agree to anything you say just now,” Sidra sniffed.

  “I don’t remember Caet well,” Arthur said when she showed him her present. “I only was with him on the trip we took with Mark. He didn’t say much then. But he was with us when we saw the vision of the Holy Mother. She wouldn’t reveal herself to anyone evil. I see no reason why Guinevere should not wear it.”

  The day finally came when they set out for London. It was late autumn again, with bone-chilling rains and thick mud. But everyone was well wrapped, and the route had been planned to require only a few hours’ travel every day, with stops at various villas and small towns. The company would be excellent, for people from all over the entire country were slowly converging upon London. As Arthur and Guinevere’s caravan approached the town, the roads became crowded with people of all classes. This marriage was an event to tell one’s grandchildren about and no one was going to miss it.

  Geraldus and old Plotinus lumbered along, both draped in dozens of blankets. The singers flitted beside them, still clad only in their thin robes despite the raw weather. He confided to Guinevere that they had been practicing an epithalamium in her honor, and he only hoped it would be better by the day of the wedding.

  “I simply can’t manage the tenors,” he mourned. “They never would listen to me.”

  Gawain was so muffled up that only his nose was visible, but he was cheerful, too.

  “Arthur has promised me that on the day of your marriage, he will make me a knight of the Round Table,” he gloated.

  “What is that?” Geraldus wanted to know.

  “Oh, something he has invented. I’m not too sure of it, myself, but he assures me it is something very important. He was most impressive when he told me about it. I am greatly honored. Are you sure we will only be traveling until early afternoon? I’m freezing.”

  “Probably not even that long, if this weather continues.” Geraldus shivered.

  Before they left Cador, Guinevere had gone down to the beach for one last meeting with her unicorn.

  “You have neglected me recently,” he chided her.

  “I know. I am sorry. There was so much to do, so many people demanding my time that I couldn’t get away to you. But after this wedding is over, I will have time again. Won’t you come with me to London? Then, as soon as all the people are gone, we can have a lovely walk.”

  “A wedding?” his eyes whirled in thought. “I do not know this word, but it frightens me. What is it?”

  “It is nothing bad. It only means that I will have a husband and I will be a wife. It doesn’t matter, though. I will still love you as I always have.”

  He shook his mane and salt water splashed across her face. “I do not know what is wrong. I am very tired and I feel that something important is about to happen to me. I cannot understand it, but I see myself in a small garden surrounded by walls. It is very cold and everything in the garden has died. Do you think that it is London?”

  “I don’t know. I have never been there. You are very cold now.” She drew away from him, puzzled.

  They were silent while the world spun them closer to their fate. At last the unicorn spoke again.

  “I think I will see you in London.”

  She didn’t notice the grief and exhaustion in his words, and so she left him with a light heart, certain that she would soon be with him again.

  The last few days before the ceremony were a blur to Guinevere. Much later, she was to remember a bewildering crush of people everywhere she went, all trying to say something to her. Some of them had such strange accents that she could barely understand them. Guenlian seemed to know everyone and was always greeting someone with a cry of joy and insisting that they be introduced to Guinevere. Arthur was always busy with these strange people too, and barely saw her. Even at dinner, he was kept busy talking to someone far down the table from them. He was aware of it, at least, and promised her in a husky whisper that it would soon be over and he would never leave her again. She hoped so.

  The day itself was awesome in its pageantry. The only thing that stood out in her mind before the actual ceremony was Gawain wishing her happiness and in the next breath crying out: “Oh no! Mother has come. I never thought she would be here.”

  Guinevere followed his pointing finger and saw a middle-aged lady, rather plump and dressed much too gaudily. She was not the siren Guinevere had expected. With her was a boy of twelve or so. He was very striking. His skin was so pale that it was almost a translucent blue and his hair was a mop of red as bright as Arthur’s once must have been.

  “Gracious,” she commented. “Is that one of your brothers?”

  “Oh yes, that’s Modred. He’s the youngest. I haven’t seen the others but they must be about. I’ve often wondered about his father. He’s as odd-looking as I am.”

  But Guinevere at that moment passed on to other wellwishers and soon forgot about her sister-in-law to be.

  In order to provide as much entertainment as possible, a long processional started the proceedings, and then various speeches and sermons ensued. But at the heart of it there was a b
rief moment when Arthur and Guinevere stood alone upon the dais, and suddenly the crowded church was soundless. The candles sparkled in the winter mist around their heads and more than one person wondered if he ought to kneel before them.

  Guenlian had a sharp pang as she watched. She felt as if Guinevere were about to go through a door into a world where she couldn’t follow. She wanted to call her baby back, to stop everything and rush her home in her arms, safe and protected forever. She was ashamed to find that she was crying.

  Guinevere gazed down into the hundreds of faces. Each one held an individual secret for her and she wondered what they were thinking about all this. Far on the edge she noticed one man towering over the others. She caught his eye and he smiled encouragingly, gesturing to show that he had brought Mark and Alswytha with him, as promised. Then the priest muttered something and Guinevere faced Arthur. He slid a ring on her finger and repeated the priest’s words, and then she recited what she had been taught. Then she was looking into Arthur’s eyes and he was kissing her. There was wild cheering, which was ineffectually hushed by the priest, and she was somehow conveyed out into the streets where even more people cheered and called out blessings on her. Through all the tumult, Guinevere suddenly heard singing. It was the most beautiful music she had ever heard, full of hope and joy and certainty. She looked around and around for the source and finally saw that it was Geraldus. He was directing his chorus, which was floating above his head. He had a seraphic smile on his face, and for once the whole chorus was standing together and singing in tune, for her. Nothing that had happened so far had affected Guinevere so much.