Later, sometime later, Arthur’s sister had stolen Excalibur rather skillfully. Thanks to a loyal friend, her deception was soon discovered, but not before Arthur left for Camlann. Once I had the sword again, I knew what I had to do.
Excalibur must be hidden, for whoever held the sword ruled Britain.
Yes, the vultures at court were circling. Many in the court wanted to see how things would go at Camlann before declaring for me, but then they had circled even before Arthur went to battle. Lochlon’s parentage was openly questioned now, accusations were made, and then word had come that my husband had been wounded on the battlefield. The false blade, Morgan’s careful reproduction, had failed Arthur as Morgan knew it would. There was no time—I had no chance at returning Excalibur to him. And Arthur had not prevailed. Morgan’s husband, a minor king named Accolon, had stolen Excalibur at her command sometime in the night, and it was only thanks to a faithful friend that we learned the true weapon’s location so quickly. But it would do little good at Camelot when Arthur and Mordred were fighting at Camlann. The sword needed to return to Arthur’s side, but who could I trust with such a task? Lancelot was with Arthur already, and I would not speak to Gawain since his accusations at the Round Table, even after his humble apology. No, the only thing I could do was hide the sword. If Arthur did not survive, it must go to Lochlon. This had always been Arthur’s wish.
It had been night when Alwen and I rode out for the Church of Saint Albans. Fortunately, it was only an hour’s ride from the keep; with all the confusion at court, it was ridiculously easy for the two of us to disappear. No one noticed us leaving.
Or so I had believed.
The brothers at Saint Albans did not question their queen’s arrival. They believed me when I said Alwen and I sought a silent place to pray for the king. They offered to join us, but I demurely refused and pretended that the wrapped sword was a precious icon, too precious and rare to be revealed to anyone, save Alwen and myself.
Why now do you think of such things? It was not like me to ponder the past, but I had time to think as I lay on the dusty floor in a corner while the sun continued to retreat from the approaching darkness and all the creatures that dwelled within it. Including me.
Once upon a time, waking up in the blackness would have terrified me; indeed, I think it did drive me mad for a time, living in the shadows for long stretches, sometimes days and weeks. Surely that had been Morgan’s goal, to drive me mad. I knew Morgan hated me, but I never set out to betray Arthur. Indeed, I had always been a faithful wife. But after the false news came that Arthur had fallen into the sea and was lost, I found comfort in Lancelot’s arms.
I always knew Lancelot loved me, even before he married Elaine, but it did not matter then. I was pledged to Arthur, and I loved him deeply and with the heat of a thousand suns, to borrow a later phrase. But the grief that Lancelot and I shared over the loss of Arthur was great, and we found comfort with one another. Until Arthur returned.
Morgan had loved Lancelot too, even more than Accolon loved her. I suppose she saw my love for Lancelot as a betrayal, doubly so because of Arthur. But perhaps not. She hated her brother more every day for reasons I could not fathom. The sun disappeared, and the cellar became a vacuum of shadows.
Yes, darkness, my companion. Here I am.
I rose from the ground and dusted off my blue dress. I began removing the furniture from the doorway and I thought of my last friend, Nimue. If it had not been for Nimue and her knowledge of the secret shee cave systems, an ancient underground roadway hidden in the countryside, I would surely have perished either by the sun or at the hand of any number of knights who slowly acknowledged my unholy existence. Through the shee caves, I could cover great distances in a short amount of time; I could dwell in great darkness at temperatures not feasible for mere humans. In those first years, I wreaked havoc on the villages; I could not be stopped from taking blood when I needed it. In the beginning, I killed many. I traveled through the caves to escape capture many times and more than once dawdled late thinking that I would let the sun incinerate me into oblivion. But some invisible force, perhaps a sheer will to live, drove me to hide night after night. And so it had been for nearly seven hundred years.
And Nimue would come. She ignored my frothing mouth, my unintelligible ramblings. Nimue would speak my name and remind me of who I was, who I would be once again, and for a time I believed her.
Where are you, Nimue? So many have returned, but not you. Not you. Not Alwen. Not Lochlon.
I moved the hefty wooden table and paused before opening the door. Getting to the sword…that would be the tricky part. This place was much more crowded than it had once been, the streets narrower, more winding and confusing. But thankfully, the catacombs beneath old Saint Albans remained intact and unchanged. It had been Alwen’s idea to hide the sword there in the catacombs. Sweet, lost Alwen. Like me, my daughter hoped that eventually the Lords of Britain would come to their senses and see that Lochlon was the true King after his father. But before she or I could return to claim the sword, Alwen was taken from me, stolen from my arms by an unknown kidnapper, surely at Morgan’s command. Morgan must have believed that Mordred would be victorious at Camlann, that he would take Camelot, and then he would need a bride. What better way to solidify his hold on the throne than to marry Arthur’s own daughter? It was a shrewd move and certainly the strategy Morgan would choose. She believed in the Old Ways. Take the queen—or in this case, the princess—and you win. Yes, a marriage to Alwen would have shored up Mordred’s claim, but my nephew had not survived the battle.
And then what happened to my daughter? Morgan, I still intend to make you pay!
I shivered even now thinking about what may have happened to her.
Alwen used to come to me in my dreams and beg me to find her, to rescue her, but I had not been in my right mind in those early days. And then the dreams ended. Why had no knights searched for Arthur’s daughter? Of course, many of them gave their lives for Arthur in that battle with Mordred. All those men of renown, brave knights who would gladly give their lives for the King, were now dead. And so was Alwen. She died without ever returning home. I failed her as well.
It was up to me alone to save Arthur from whatever evil plot Morgan’s devilish mind had conceived. Clearly, she wanted Excalibur, as she had always lusted after it and the power that came with it. But the sword belonged to Arthur, and I had no doubt that it would know him in this new incarnation just as I knew him.
The sword would know him, and what better place for Excalibur than in the hands of the man for whom it was designed? With Excalibur, Arthur would defeat Morgan once and for all and I would be relieved of my duty as keeper of the sword. It has been a heavy burden, Arthur. A heavy burden indeed.
I pulled the door open and expected to flit down the alleyway unnoticed, but a figure blocked my way. And not a human figure.
Our eyes met, and even though his face had changed I knew who he was. I would know that penetrating stare anywhere.
Merlin!
Chapter Twelve—Guinevere
Lightning fluttered in the distance, illuminating the face of the ghost from my past. Moving faster than even I could, Merlin slipped past me into my temporary sanctuary. We did not speak but circled one another. I could not read his mind, even though I tried, and I got the distinct impression that he could not breach my mind either. Once we did our dance of power, I spoke first, anxious to learn the reason for his unexpected and unwelcome visit.
“It is true, then. Arthur has returned.”
“Why do you ask me what you already know? Why else would you be in Saint Albans if not to retrieve the sword? There is nothing else here for you, except memories.” His answer surprised me. To think that the Merlin of Britain would be standing in front of me now, I could hardly believe it.
“Memories are all I have now,” I snapped back at him. “What do you have, Merlin?”
He appeared impatient with my question as always, or at leas
t with me. I did not really wonder at his sudden and unexpected appearance at all. I knew Arthur had indeed returned, but I also knew there was no other reason for Merlin to seek me out except for Arthur’s sake. And that infuriated me. Did that mean my husband’s most trusted adviser had always known where to find me? Nimue and I had searched high and low for him before Arthur’s battle at Camlann, but he was noticeably absent from all his usual haunts. And then when Arthur needed him the most, as the poison did its ugly work on him, Merlin again did not appear. It was almost as if he had given up on his pet project. Now here he was, ready to intervene once again on Arthur’s behalf. What of mine?
“How did you find me?” I demanded from him.
“Does that matter?” He shrugged away the question as unimportant.
“It matters to me. What do you want from me, Merlin? Speak plainly—no double-talk. I have no patience for it…or you.”
He stepped toward me in a challenging manner, and I watched his current façade melt away to reveal the Merlin I had known. Tall, with a toned physique and olive skin, Merlin gazed down at me as if I were a bug he would like to squash. He had a slightly aquiline nose, which further betrayed his Roman heritage, along with thick, dark hair and even darker eyes. A giant in his time, Merlin was no less imposing a figure now. The revealing made my heart sink. Yes, he had returned, and he had never been my friend.
“Plainly speaking, then, Queen Guinevere, Morgan has Arthur. And the king is at a disadvantage because he does not remember himself, not fully. He has been asleep a long time, but make no mistake…she will kill Arthur—after she toys with him a bit. She waits for you to offer her the sword.”
“Morgan has Arthur?” My soul shrank at the news.
“Yes, and I am ashamed to say I could not prevent it.”
A frown settled on my face. “Why? Is Morgan so strong now that you cannot stop her?”
Like before, Merlin did not answer the question I posed to him. It was that way with him. The conjuror never admitted his own failures, but he had a keen eye when it came to pointing out others’ faults. Especially mine. “A partnership with me might be repugnant to you, but it is necessary to achieve our purpose.”
How did he know what I intended to do unless he had been watching me? “All this time, you knew that I remained…” I almost said alive, but that was not what I meant. “You had to have known that Morgan’s magic had worked its evil in me. You know what I am, what I can do, yet you never helped me. And Arthur, even after you abandoned him before Camlann…he lay dying still believing you would come, and yet you refused him your help.” I raged at him and scratched at his face with my fingernails, leaving bloody cuts on his cheek. “You failed us, Merlin! Why would I trust you again?”
His face darkened as he shouted at me, “I never abandoned Arthur or you! I had no choice! There are many things in this world that are more powerful than I.” Blood flowed down his face, and he made no effort to stop it. Instinctually, I sucked the blood from my fingernail, but it did not satisfy and I did not enjoy the taste. He narrowed his eyes and asked, “Did you meet the one whose blood you drank, or did Morgan give the blood to you another way? In wine, perhaps?”
My body felt cold, and the blood hunger returned as I stalled in giving him my answer. Not feeling particularly willing to tell him my shameful secret—that I tried to take my own life and failed miserably—I turned his question back on him. “Why do you ask what you already know?” Merlin’s square jaw moved as his eyes narrowed. He was always one who kept his own counsel. Why should I confess my sins to him?
“I am not your judge, Queen Guinevere. You loved Arthur, of this I have no doubt, and it is that love I call upon now. But I must warn you that the danger to you has not ended.” We stood in an eternal moment until a car horn blew down the street. The wind picked up outside, and the scent of rain rode the air. A storm would be good for me. I would be able to travel to the church without being seen. I wanted secrecy above all else.
“You call on the same love that you warned Arthur about? I will help Arthur myself!”
“For all your blood-fueled strength, Guinevere, you are not strong enough to defeat Morgan alone. And there are other obstacles as well. You will need my help—as I need yours.” Of this I had no doubt. Merlin did need me, or else he would not have deigned to visit me this night.
“I find it ironic that you would ask me for help, as it was you who advised the Pendragon to choose another wife. The White Death, that is what you called me, if I remember correctly.”
“Ill-chosen words, my queen. I saw, but I saw imperfectly. Stop fighting me! Or are you completely without human feeling now? Have you drunk so much blood, killed so many that you no longer have empathy or love, even for Arthur?” He reached for my hands and held them now. He was strong, as strong as I! “Guinevere, Queen of Camelot—wife of Arthur, it is to you I speak now.”
For reasons unknown to me, his words sent shivers through my body and I found myself falling. I grasped at his clothes as I fell, and his strong hands caught me. I clung to Merlin as my body convulsed and confusion filled my mind. He stroked my hair and held me, and I eventually stopped shaking. Merlin whispered in my ear, “Perhaps it is not Arthur who needs to remember what once was, but you. You, Queen Guinevere, the Undead Queen and the Keeper of Excalibur.” He whispered again to me, speaking kindly in the archaic Druid language he used when performing his work on the hills behind the keep. Memories of those long-ago days flooded my head. I could see Merlin standing before the Sacred Fire; I was there with Arthur, the antler-crown upon his head, and my maids heaped my arms with flowers.
Taking my head in both hands now, he looked into my half-closed, pain-filled eyes and whispered the sharp Druid words, “Remember, Queen Guinevere, wife of Arthur, mother of Lochlon and Alwen. You are the true and rightful wife of our Pendragon and Queen of all Britain. You must come back to yourself, Guinevere. Remember everything.”
Suddenly the room filled with light and Merlin vanished. My ladies laughed with delight as they ran toward me, wearing their wreaths of flowers and ribbons.
I had returned to Camelot!
Chapter Thirteen—Guinevere
After yesterday’s wedding formalities, I was happy to hide away from the crowds that filled Camelot’s many rooms and hallways. Arthur and I had not yet consummated our union—many of the king’s advisers, of whom Merlin was chief, warned against our “joining” last night as the stars were not auspicious or some such thing. The news had not pleased my husband, who apologized profusely in private, but I put his mind at rest. I could wait for him another day. Or a hundred if required. He liked that answer and assured me that I would have to wait only one more night. I did not know how to respond, so I kissed his hand and allowed him to kiss my cheek. I could still feel his lips on my skin. How could I deny that I wanted him as hungrily as he desired me?
Needing a distraction, I spent the morning playing with a feisty kitten I had rescued from a castoff basket earlier in the week. I laughed at his antics as I teased him with a bit of yarn, but my mind traveled elsewhere. Such a strange yet deeply moving affair, my wedding to the Pendragon. Arthur had been dressed in a soft green tunic with tan breeches and soft leather boots, and on his head was a crown of gold. All things went as I expected until the sword was revealed. Until the moment I was asked to kiss the blade. That was the first time I encountered true magic. The touch of steel on my lips sent a shock through me, and I saw Arthur smile. My eyes widened as we then kissed—the most chaste of kisses, of course. It was as if I married not only Arthur Pendragon but also Excalibur.
“Come now, Queen Guinevere. You cannot postpone this forever. We have to dress your hair and prepare you for tonight!”
“Very well,” I agreed, trying to sound bored with the whole thing. With the evening would come my wedding night, and I would no longer be simply the daughter of a minor king. I would be the queen of Britain, the High Queen. My fingers shook as I tied a bow around the black kitt
en’s fuzzy neck, and I watched as the ridiculous creature tried to free himself from his silky prison. I felt a bit like the kitten. Although I found Arthur appealing in every way and loved him, the events swirling around me left me feeling powerless. But this was my fate. I would be High Queen even though I never dreamed this for myself. Before me, there had never been a High Queen in Britain except for Arthur’s mother, Igraine, and she had reigned only briefly.
The black ball of fur growled at the end of the ribbon. He rolled it into a ball and chased it repeatedly. Feeling merciful, I tugged at the ribbon and set him free. I decided then and there that I would name him Sir Spitfire and that he would go with me on my journey. I would insist on it. As he pounced on the ribbon and dragged it under a table, I closed my eyes and bathed in sunlight. How I loved the sun! I had forgotten how to enjoy the warmth of it without fear! I stood and spun around the room, laughing at the freedom I now experienced. I was free from the darkness!
“Why do you daydream, Queen Guinevere? Come now! You cannot stay a maid forever.” My ladies giggled at Broca’s words, their pink lips curled with excitement. And how could we not feel excited? This was the beginning of the age of chivalry.
I lost myself in the welcome memory, for surely this was only that, and I could not help but smile back at them. I was so delighted to see them after all this time. Their joy and laughter quenched any sorrow I felt. I sensed another standing near me and could in fact see his shadow beside me. Merlin! If this is a pretense, a memory, let me stay here, Merlin!
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