Guinevere Forever

by M. L. Bullock

  “You dare speak his name,” she said in a low tone. “The only man in all of Camelot that you could not seduce?” Her hand slammed the table, and I heard the wood crack under the force of it. “Give me the sword, Guinevere. It does not belong to you and never has. You may have lain with a Pendragon, but that does not make you one.”

  I did not take the bait. “Camelot is lost. You saw to that. The time of the Pendragons is over, Morgan. You cannot wield the sword, and I will not release it.”

  Her eyes glittered with that old familiar lust. So she had not changed. Had I expected that she would? “Excalibur is mine to do with what I will. Give the sword to me, and I swear I will let you go. But if you refuse me, you will die…once and for all.”

  “You think I fear death? He is a familiar friend, sister. I have delivered many souls into his hands. He would welcome me with open arms, I think. Thanks to you.”

  Morgan hovered near the table again and watched my every move. I paced the floor, unsure whether to kill her or listen to her further. My red hair was a wild mess, my clothes were little more than rags, and I couldn’t remember the last time I bathed. It had seemed such a meaningless human thing to do. I regretted that now.

  “Maybe so, but you would not wish the same fate for Arthur…or Lancelot. Or do you no longer care for either of them?” My hand wrapped around a pewter statue of a stag, an old treasure that I kept for some sentimental reason. What could she mean? With Morgan, the truth was always hidden.

  “You speak to hear yourself talk, Morgan.” Even as I said this, dread crept up my spine.

  “Do you remember that night, my queen? I imagine you must. How desperate you were to die. That was your sin, Guinevere. You thought you could escape the consequences of your actions; you sought the path of least resistance. If you had not put your lips on the vial, if you had not taken a sip, you would not be what you are now. You did this by your own hand! I did nothing.”

  “I never wanted to become a monster. Your trickery did this. You sent the girl; I know that now. I sought only to die, not to become this! Say what you have to say—speak plainly!”

  Suddenly, a clock appeared on the table beside Morgan. It was not a modern clock but an hourglass full of red sand. Morgan turned the hourglass upside down and the sand began to fill the bottom half. “Tick, tock, tick, tock. You see this, my Undead Queen? The sands represent the seconds of your life, and not your life alone. When these sands disappear, when they are all poured out, the curse will end. It was a strong curse, as far as curses go, don’t you think? Seven hundred years is impressive; I am sure even Merlin would agree with me.” I purposefully revealed no emotion when she mentioned his name, and she continued, “Sadly, all good things must come to an end. I stretched it as long as I could, and I hope you have enjoyed your time, but now you must go down into the darkness forever. Unless you are willing to give me Excalibur.”

  “You know I am not. And I never will!”

  Her face twisted into a picture of spite. “Then your fate and the fates of your lovers are sealed!” She banged her fists on the table, breaking it now, and stood in front of me. “For you see, this curse touched not only you but Arthur and Lancelot as well. I did not lie to you, Guinevere. While you have spent your time in darkness, they have come again and again into this world and you never knew them. But now they will die the final death and go wherever it is they will go. As for you, Undead Queen,” she said as she grinned and her overly large eyes widened with excitement, “you will disappear into the darkness, never to be remembered again by any of those you love. You will be forgotten by all. And if someone does remember your name, they will think it a curse and not a blessing.”

  “You have already seen to that,” I growled as she gave me a mock curtsy. She waited to hear my answer. What should I say? I knew Morgan was not here for her mere amusement. She had a plot in mind. “Morgan, stop this madness! All we have fought for, all we have fought over, has ended. Your brother and Camelot are gone, and they will never rise again. The time for such things is over. The world is a different place.”

  Like a wild cat, Morgan let out a scream that stunned me. She moved as fast as one too. She now stood on top of my tomb, and she’d moved faster than I could think. “Do you think I care anything for Camelot? Do you think I care about the passing of knights and Round Tables? You know what I want. Give me Excalibur! It is within my power to let you die in whatever way you choose. And as a kindness, I will not harm Arthur or Lancelot du Lac.”

  Maybe she was telling the truth. I had noticed that my hunger had faded recently. Could it be a sign that the curse’s magic waned?

  What should I do, Arthur?

  Long ago, Arthur had been everything to Morgan; she had been his greatest champion until Lancelot arrived. Perhaps that was her true reason for hating the knight so—her unrequited love. I had come to believe that had been the reason she spread those lies about Lancelot and me, for I know she was the one who sowed those seeds of rumors.

  In the beginning. Before they were true.

  “I know where he is, Guinevere. I know where Arthur is.” She flashed a disturbingly sweet smile. “He is handsome, as handsome as he was before. He looks much the same, in fact.” I stared at her as she giggled like a maid gossiping over a new suitor. “This new Arthur, he could rule Camelot if he had the sword.”

  My heart sank at hearing her talk so freely of Arthur. “I am not giving you the sword, Morgan. For no price would I give you Excalibur, and I would never believe you desired it for Arthur.”

  She tapped her black painted fingernail on her narrow chin. “I am beginning to think you do not have the sword at all, Guinevere. I think you lost it, or you gave it to that buffoon conjuror, Merlin. You are lying to me, Undead Queen. You do not know where the sword is—I can see the truth just there behind those dark eyes.” As she accused me, I began to read her mind. But as soon as I walked into the room of her memories, she slammed the door on me. She wagged her finger at me and said, “No, no, no. That’s cheating.”

  “I will not give you the sword, and that is my final answer. Leave us alone, Morgan, or you will pay!” Then I felt her mental probing, and I shut the door on her too.

  “Clever queen…so you have learned a few things. But it won’t do you any good. I know you, Guinevere, like I know my own self. You are the other side of me, I think,” she said in her childlike dreamy voice. Then her fury came back. “I will find the sword, for it will also be close to its master.” Morgan’s face brightened at her own revelation. “Yes! Excalibur draws close to the Pendragon! It will find him. Never mind…I do not need you after all.” She walked toward the locked door. “I think I shall go pay my brother a visit. I doubt he will remember me, not at first, but then again maybe he will. And perhaps he will remember you and your Great Betrayal. I wonder, will the Bear of Britain have the heart to forgive you, Undead Queen? I am happy that I do not require your help after all; that is a great comfort to me.” With that, she waved her hand and the door opened. She walked out and slammed it behind her, again without touching it.

  My mind reeled with what I had just learned. First, it was possible to read Morgan’s mind, yet in doing so, I left my own mind open for her to plunder at will. Second, she did not know that I had seen Arthur many times, in many incarnations, over the years. Yes, I had managed to keep that to myself. It had been only in the past hundred years or so that I stopped seeking him out. I had to put an end to torturing myself. Had I made a mistake? It would seem so—now Morgan had the advantage over me. She would find Arthur, hold him until the sword found him, and then kill him as she had always planned. This time, she would not have Accolon around to do her dirty work.

  No, Morgan would do her own blood work. For some reason, I did not think that would be a problem for her. There was nothing human left in Morgan. Like me, she was a creature through and through.

  And she was coming for Arthur.

  Chapter Three—Guinevere

  I headed to th
e Saint James Museum, an odd, out-of-the-way facility that had been the location for town hangings in the thirteenth century. Too much blood had been shed in the village of Saint James; it had never been a happy place. But now, it was a place where I sometimes sought the company of others—from a safe distance, of course—and I appreciated the exhibits here, which were often unseen by the masses. This I also appreciated. I continued to be drawn to the old paintings and various artifacts that occasionally made their way to the dusty halls of the three-story building. I was like one of these relics, very old and largely forgotten. But that was a good thing for a vampire, wasn’t it?

  I thought again of the original Saint James village as I made the short trip out of the Wells building and to the museum. The Warwick family, its founders, had been a suspicious lot, but they proved themselves noble and true to the Pendragon right up until the end. During the beginning of my time as Queen of Camelot, this area served as a training field, a field for jousting and weapons practice, and many died here. I always hated watching the jousting tournaments and never understood why men would risk their health and limbs just to unseat another man from his horse. What glory was there in that?

  “There is no substitute for readiness,” Arthur would remind me. “The warriors of Camelot cannot fall idle, Guinevere.” Strange that I would remember such a thing tonight of all nights.

  What do I do now, Arthur? I have not readied myself at all. Never would I have believed I would need to do so. How do I protect you?

  I stepped inside the building unworried that anyone would notice me. Hardly anyone visited this museum, especially at night. But I remembered to keep my face hidden with a scarf, as my paleness surprised people sometimes, especially when I had not taken blood. Tonight, my hunger did not compare to my worry over Arthur. What was I going to do? Risk revealing my husband to the enemy of his soul or stay away and hope for the best? I practically flew up the metal stairs and walked so lightly I hardly made a sound. I paused on the landing to watch a professor, a man named John Faraday, who worked late here nearly every night. This evening, he obsessed over a cache of coins given to him by a curious schoolteacher who had discovered them in an old wooden box buried in her garden. Faraday never noticed me. His mind was so easy to read, but I liked that about him. He was an innocent, one of the few left in this world. Obsessed with the past, Faraday believed he had been born in the wrong time. And maybe he had been. Through the ages, my views on such things had changed dramatically.

  I walked past his doorway and hovered outside a small room used for housing a rarely visited exhibit. The lights in the room were out, save one dim lamp. It was sometimes left on for whatever reason; it was on now, yet the door was closed and locked. That was a new development, but it wouldn’t deter me. I was strong. I gripped the handle, twisted it and opened the door as if it had never been locked. The sparse room was bathed in cold purple light that filtered in through high windows. A seven-foot statue stood in the middle of the space, leaving room for only one bench used for viewing. To my surprise, the statue room had another visitor. I paused in the doorway and considered the implications—what human would sit in a room with a statue behind a locked door? Yes, she was definitely human of some sort. I could smell her blood and hear her heart racing. Whoever she was, she believed she had a reason to be here. And she seemed to be expecting me.

  I stepped back, saddened that I would not be able to spend time alone with the statue that so reminded me of my lost love, Lancelot. I came here from time to time and consulted him in all manner of things. Not that statues could speak, and I did not believe that it was Lancelot in stone, but being here comforted me.

  “No, wait. You do not have to leave. I will not be here long,” a soft, feminine voice called to me.

  I answered tentatively, “I did not mean to interfere.” Was this friend or foe?

  “Come inside. Come closer.”

  I closed the wooden door and stood by it, unwilling to look up into Lancelot’s face in the presence of another. She did not seem to notice, for her eyes never left him.

  “This plaque says he is Odo, Duke of Kent, but that is a mistake, isn’t it? I have known many men of Kent and none as handsome as this one; his face is…exceptional. Such honesty and valor displayed in every feature. Don’t you think he has a handsome face?” The girl in the blue cloak did not turn her attention from the statue, and her face was obscured by a hood. I felt a sting of jealousy, but for what? And for whom? Why should I feel jealous?

  The girl pushed back her soft blue hood, which suddenly seemed quite familiar to me, and stared up at me from her spot on the bench. My heart could not believe what my mind told me. For hundreds of years I had seen familiar faces in crowds and heard voices I knew from my own time, and now I was looking into the face of someone who should not be here. The voice fit the face, and the face matched the one in my memory down to the last detail.

  This was Elaine, the daughter of King Pellinore, my former lady-in-waiting and the wife of Lancelot. She smiled up at me, the dimples in the corners of her mouth on full display.

  “Yes, quite handsome,” I answered quietly. Elaine touched the statue’s hand, and I noticed her clothing. This was not modern attire; she wore a gown of the softest blue with bell sleeves that laced at the shoulders. There were faded ribbons at her bosom and in her pale hair, which was woven into a small braid that encircled her head. In all these years, I had seen ghosts on rare occasions. If she was a ghost, she would be an unusual one because I swore I could hear her heartbeat and smell her blood. And if she was Elaine, why would she come here now?

  “A face to die for, wouldn’t you say?” the woman with Elaine’s face asked without a trace of a smile. Suddenly, she was all seriousness but so far not threatening. Protective, but not threatening…so like Lady Elaine.

  “Who are you?” I asked, still unsure who stood before me.

  “You do not know me, my queen? That is disappointing after all we went through together.” Her voice saddened, and her eyes turned back to gaze upon Lancelot’s face. “After all we fought for. After all we shared.”

  “Elaine,” I said. It wasn’t a question. It was certainly her, or some form of her.

  “Why have you come here?” she asked accusingly. “You come too often.”

  “You have seen me here before? Why have you not come to me? He is not here, Elaine.” That old feeling of protection welled up within me. Elaine had always been a fragile creature, one we all wanted to protect. We had been friends once.

  “Yet, you are here. I ask you again, why have you come, Queen Guinevere?”

  “Because visiting him…visiting here gives me strength. I have to…do something,” I confessed with a truthfulness that startled me.

  “Still leaning on Lancelot for strength,” she said with a frown.

  My eyes focused as her image faded slightly. Elaine was losing strength. The heartbeat sound had stopped—I now realized it was a trick of hers—and I could no longer smell blood. There was no one living in this room. The dead Elaine wasn’t nearly as strong as I, but I could not find it in my heart to treat her unkindly. Not after all this time. “I never meant to hurt you, Elaine. You were my friend.”

  Her image brightened slightly, but she did not fully materialize. She remained by Lancelot, her hand on his. “Why are you here?”

  “I am here for Arthur. Morgan has returned. She wants Excalibur in exchange for Arthur’s safety…and, she says, Lancelot’s.” There was no sense in mincing words with Elaine. She was beyond my help now, and if she could help me, I would not refuse it.

  Elaine’s round face darkened slightly. “There are no answers here, Queen Guinevere. Only emptiness. But as you say, Lancelot is not here. Go to Arthur now. It is him you must shield from Morgan’s plot.”

  Feeling desperate and strangely excited at speaking to someone who knew me, the real me, the words gushed forth. “I cannot right the wrongs of the past, Elaine, but I cannot allow harm to come to Arthur or Lancelot
. Not after all this time. I’m not sure what I should do.”

  Elaine again stared at Lancelot. Her absolute devotion to him, even after all this time, surprised me. “If you have come to inquire of Lancelot, you already know his answer. Lancelot would protect Arthur with his heart, his body and his blood; he would always protect his king. He was the bravest, the strongest and the most loyal of all the king’s knights. He would stay with Arthur—no matter what it cost him. You needn’t linger here to ponder what you already know, Queen Guinevere. My husband gave his life for Camelot and Arthur…and you. Go now and leave us be. You have no right to ask anything else of us.” In a flash of dim light, Elaine vanished, but I sensed her eyes watching me. Her presence hovered, still not threatening but protective of her husband.

  “Elaine…” I pleaded with her, but then I changed my mind. What would that accomplish? She was but a ghost, perhaps even a figment of my own guilt and imagination. Lancelot was not here; he could not be consulted. I had no reason to believe he had not returned as Arthur had, but I had never seen him despite my attempts to find him…and much to my dismay. I would never have believed in such things when I was alive. Father Patrick would certainly never have instructed us in these matters, but now here I was still alive while he was ashes in the grave. Better than to be like me. Eternally dead. It was time to leave. Coming here had been a sentimental, foolish mistake. And I was wasting time.

  The room was quiet now, but a sound from outside the door caught my attention. A stirring of the air, as if someone had opened a very large window. Elaine was right; I had no time for languishing here with this statue—Lancelot was indeed gone. And I needed to go now, but where? Would I really risk contacting Arthur? What good was a disgraced queen with no allies? What if Morgan was waiting for me to reach out to him? Moving silently through the museum, I sailed toward the exit. Not the front door this time but the side entrance that led out to the alleyway. Faraday still pondered over his coins, but he would be leaving soon. I resisted the urge to pay him a visit. Such a gentle soul did not deserve to die at my hands.