“What do you think I was like?” she parried lovingly.
He thought for a while. “I think you must have been the joy of your mother’s life, the daughter she wanted for herself and the land. As you grew up, you must have been worshiped more than courted, for who would feel free to approach the daughter of the Queen? So you were lonely a lot, and not understood.”
She pressed his hand in silence. Yes—you’re right.
A strange sorrow overcame her.
“Don’t be sad.” He drew her to him and stroked the outline of her face. “You must have known you were born to outdo all other women one day.”
She snuggled into him, rubbing herself against him like a cat. “How?”
“In beauty. In divinity.” He laughed fondly. “In needing to be praised.”
He stroked her neck and played with the front of her loose gown. His voice thickened. “But you do not need to seek compliments, lady; they will come to you.” Roughly he tugged at the gown’s fastening and pushed the soft silk aside, exposing her breasts. “See, lady, see?” He bent his head and brushed her nipple with his lips. “You excel all other women in the glory of the Great One who has made you as you are.”
Her nipples lengthened and hardened under his kiss, and she felt herself grow wet. He reached out his hand to her breast, and she was already moaning for his touch. With a soldier’s haste, he pulled her to her feet. “You are the woman of the dream. Come back to bed, lady, for I want to see you arching beneath me, and have you in my hands!”
CHAPTER 58
Gods, what a woman she is—and she has chosen me—?
Lancelot struggled with the mystery at the heart of womanhood as he armed himself and prepared to speak to the men. Lying languorously in bed, supporting her head on her hand, Guenevere watched him with the open interest he still found hard to understand.
“I have to leave you now,” he said gently, “only to take command of Joyous Garde to give orders for the night.”
Guenevere nodded moodily. She knew he had to order the men and get to know the guard, to forge the band of knights he had found into a new fellowship. When they buried Malgaunt, many would leave, out of loyalty to their former lord. Those who stayed would have to be drilled in the jousting yard and tournament field that Lancelot was their leader now, and worthy of their faith.
As soon as he left, Guenevere found herself as changeable as a child. She could not doubt his love, and she was angry at being foolish, but she could not stop herself wanting him back at once.
Suddenly she was haunted by thoughts of Lancelot’s former mistress, Queen Aife. She was sure that he had loved her only from afar. Yet when he returned, she could not prevent herself from questioning him about the Queen and her court. “What was it like? What did you learn there?”
“She and her maidens taught us swordplay with willow wands.” He laughed ruefully as he threw down his gauntlets and unbuckled his sword. “A cut from one of those was as painful as any blade!”
Guenevere’s sight grew faint. Suddenly she saw Lancelot, flushed and laughing, at play in the midst of a group of lovely girls, teasing and sporting together in the abandon of youth. “What else did the Queen teach you?” she said coldly.
He thought for a moment, and smiled. “How to use our wits. She used to say that the battle is won in the head, before the sword is taken in hand.”
“Oh, a philosopher too?”
His face darkened, but he pressed on. “Women give new life to the world through the pain they bear. So it’s right that they teach men the secrets of both. Women are masters of the subtle arts, because they are closer to the Otherworld. So who better than a woman, who has less strength than a man, to show men how to make full use of the power they have?” He sat on the bed beside her, playing with her hand.
“Yet she must have been strong, if she was a warrior queen.”
He smiled. “Oh, she was.”
She did not like his smile. “Was she as tall as me, or taller?”
“Taller. Her legs were longer than yours, and her muscles were well developed, from all the weapon-work she had done.”
Guenevere could not help herself. “Then she must have been too tall for a woman, and very manly too!”
He gritted his teeth and ran his hands through her hair. “She was neither. She was a queen among queens, and a woman far above other women in the eyes of every man. On feast nights, she wore a crown and mantle of gold, and her maidens shone around her like the stars when they greet the rising moon.” He turned on her in exasperation, and took her in his arms. “But none of them shone in my eyes like you!”
WHY COULD SHE not be satisfied by that, and stop this madness, this cruelty? Why was she envying every woman who had ever been touched by his shadow as he passed? Was she trying to make him hate her? Dragging him down beside her on the bed, she hid her face from him. “I am an evil woman!” she wept. “How can you love a woman like me?”
He shrugged. “You are what you are.”
“What am I?” she cried desperately.
She could feel him stifle a sigh. “You are yourself.”
“What’s that?”
He thought for a moment. “You are like the flowers, like the birds in the trees, you are like nature, beautiful and free. So you have the power to find and fulfill yourself, not deny your inner nature to live another’s life.”
She settled back, soothed.
But he went on. “You are a dangerous woman, and love makes you cruel.”
“What?” She could feel the tears rushing to her eyes, the blood stampeding through her head.
“I fear you!” He caught her hand and crushed it painfully to his mouth. “But I fear even more the loss of you.” He tried to smile. “Command me what you will. I am yours.”
“I do not command you!”
His smile was even sweeter. “I am your knight. Who else should you command?”
She groaned, aching with love. “I want you to command me! Isn’t that what love is?”
“Love? Ha!” He tossed back his hair and laughed. “Command you? You cannot be commanded! It is against your nature; you yield to no man. And who but a fool tells a woman what to do”—he bowed his head to hide another smile—“let alone a queen like you?”
A queen like me? Goddess, Mother, what does he mean?
She had had enough of this. “Oh, hold me, kiss me, talk about something else!”
“Something else?” He looked at her quizzically.
“You know what I mean!” Her temper flared. “Think of something else! That’s a command!”
“Lady!” He burst out laughing, and moved his body toward her with purpose in his eyes. “That you will never have to command!”
FOR THE WHOLE of that day she lived for the stirring of his lean brown length in bed. For the whole night she slept in the comfort of his arms. Then at dawn she awoke in a cloud of hovering dread. For she knew she could not delay their return to Camelot.
He nodded when she told him, and made no other sign. Together they gave orders for their knights and servants, men and maids and dogs. Then they rode back to Camelot under a sulky sky on a sad and clouded day.
TO THE BOY tending his pigs on the edge of the forest, it was as if the long lost knights had ridden out of fairyland, and in their midst, all robed in white and gold, the Queen of the Fair Ones herself. Gibbering with fear, he took to his heels and ran. “The Queen! The Queen!”
By the time they reached Camelot, all the people were lining the streets, cheering themselves hoarse. They wound their way uphill through the dense throng, with girls rushing out to kiss Lancelot’s stirrup, and women tossing rosebuds in their way.
“The Queen! The Queen!”
“Sir Lancelot saved her!”
“Sir Lancelot saved the Queen!”
All the bells of the town were pealing deliriously overhead. The cheers of the people had reached a frenzy now. A loud cry rose above the noise all around. “Guenevere!”
On the palace steps Arthur was peering forward, white-faced and wild-eyed, King Leogrance and Taliesin at his side. Behind him clustered black-robed monks, not the two or three he used to have, but a whole troop. “Guenevere!” he cried piteously as she drew near.
Leaping down the steps, he reached up to pluck her from her horse and fold her inside his cloak, raining kisses on top of her head. She could feel the eyes of Lancelot boring into her back, and she hid her burning face against Arthur’s chest.
“Guenevere!” Arthur sobbed openly now as he clutched her, and kissed her on the mouth.
And she wept too, for a sorrow she could not name.
HOURS LATER, ARTHUR was still marveling over the tale of Malgaunt’s betrayal and Lancelot’s revenge. He must have wrung Lancelot’s hand a dozen times, while Lancelot stood pale and tense, brushing aside his thanks. Standing behind Lancelot, Bors and Lionel were gripped with the same unease, and Kay’s dark face was more closed than ever. None of them looked at the others, or at Guenevere. Nothing was said. But it could be no secret from his cousins and Kay, his brother knight, Guenevere had to accept, where Lancelot had spent the last night.
But Arthur was impervious to any undercurrents stirring beneath the surface of his joy. “What a miracle you found her!” he was saying fervently to Lancelot. He waved to his silent band of attendant monks. “I have given orders for a thanksgiving mass. Of course I came back as soon as they sent for me, but I was in despair here; there was nothing I could do.” He turned to Guenevere. “See, Guenevere, what it means to have your own knight!” He laughed joyfully to Lancelot, and the sound was horrible to her ear. “I can never thank you enough for all you have done for the Queen!”
“Do not thank me, sire!” Lancelot protested through white lips. He dared not look at the King. If Arthur truly knew all he had done for the Queen—and to the Queen—and with the Queen—
Oh, it was foul. He was foul. He could not live with this! Lancelot knew that he was flaming from head to foot and that his brown skin had turned an ugly red with shame.
FOR ALL YOU have done for the Queen …
Goddess, Mother, if only Arthur knew …
Guenevere raised a damp hand to cool her burning face. She saw herself as naked as a willow wand lying in Lancelot’s arms, and she thought all the world must be able to see it too.
Lying in his arms—and lying about it now—
Lies upon lies …
She looked around and felt her stomach lurch. Agravain was staring as if he could read her mind.
“Sir knights, welcome your Queen!” Arthur cried ebulliently.
“My lady!” Lucan was the first on his knees, kissing her hand.
“Majesty!” Gawain’s big face was bright with happiness.
“Oh, madam, the Gods be thanked who have brought you back!” The tears stood in Gareth’s eyes as he spoke.
One by one they all pressed around Guenevere to kneel and kiss her hand. And with a sudden start she saw that all three of Arthur’s Orkney kin who were still squires when she left now wore the gold torque of knighthood around their necks.
She felt an unpleasant sensation she could not name. “So, sirs,” she said awkwardly. “Sir Agravain, Sir Gaheris, and Sir Gareth now, I see. Congratulations to you all. When did this happen? When were you made knights?”
Agravain bowed, his dark face alight with memory. “After the battle of Le Val Sans Retour.”
She turned to Arthur, transfixed. “So you took the castle! Was Morgan there? And did you find—”
“No,” said Arthur in a strange voice. His eyes were like milk.
“No?” Her nerves were screaming.
Gawain stepped forward, faithful as ever, coming to Arthur’s aid. “The King means that we did not take Le Val Sans Retour.”
Lancelot let out a short laugh of disbelief. “Why not? If the siege was correctly laid—”
Agravain turned color. “You were not there, Sir Lancelot,” he said venomously. “If you had been, of course we would have won.”
“Won?” Lucan took a step forward, fingering the hilt of his sword. “Gods above, Agravain, who wins in the Welshlands, especially against a witch?” He turned to Guenevere. “Queen Morgan raised the worst fogs of the season, my lady, and shrouded the place in mists and drizzling rain. She darkened the sky till we could hardly see our hands before our eyes!”
“It was hard for our soldiers too.” The shadow in his eyes told Guenevere that Bedivere was still troubled by their defeat. “The whole garrison there was composed of the King’s men. So when we attacked, our troops were fighting their own comrades, men who had been their friends. Cruel, it was.”
Guenevere turned to Arthur again. “So you did not take the castle?” A huge weariness gripped her bones. “You never found out if she or her child was there?”
“On the contrary, madam.”
Guenevere’s nerves were snapping. Gods above! Why does Gawain have to answer for Arthur every time? “What do you mean?”
“One night there came a terrible black storm, when it seemed all the devils of the earth were at loose in the sky. The next morning the defenders threw down the drawbridge and invited us in. We searched the castle from top to bottom. There was no trace of Queen Morgan at all.”
She looked at Arthur. Did you find my mother’s scabbard, the scabbard I gave you on our wedding day? The scabbard she stole to punish both of us? surged into her mind. But she knew very well what the answer would be.
She wanted to scream. Morgan, Morgan, tell me where you are.
Never fear, the answer came to her. You will know soon enough.
“Madam?” Gawain was standing before her, anxiously searching her face.
“Ah, Sir Gawain!” She made a feeble effort to take control. “No trace of her, you say?” she persisted hopelessly.
“None.”
“Nor her son?”
Gawain nodded bleakly. “Nor her son. None whatsoever. They are gone, my lady. Gone for good, is my hope and prayer!”
SOMEHOW THEY MADE a night of it, feasting the whole court, receiving the courtiers’ clamoring welcome home.
“A toast to the Queen!”
“The Queen!”
“And to Sir Lancelot, the finest knight in the world!”
And somehow she endured it, knowing that if she could not be with Lancelot, she would soon be on her own.
But as they left the Great Hall, Arthur took her hand and drew her urgently to his side. “I want you!” he whispered hoarsely, pulling her toward the King’s apartments. “Oh, Guenevere, you must be with me tonight!”
Panic seized her. She threw a glance over her shoulder, and put out her hand, as if to ward Arthur off. “My lord—”
Behind them the train of lords and knights, Lancelot among them, began to melt away. She opened her mouth, and closed it hopelessly. There was nothing she could do, nothing to say.
“Oh, Guenevere! And to think I nearly lost you!” he muttered as he hustled her into his quarters, waved away the servants, and closed the door. He pushed her onto the bed and started fumbling with her gown. “Oh, Guenevere!”
Lancelot never fumbled; he seemed to know the way with buttons and bows …
Lancelot—oh—
Don’t think of him—don’t think of Lancelot now …
She lay unmoving as Arthur clambered on the bed beside her, struggling to throw off his clothes. Then he pushed up her skirt, and his hand closed on her thigh so roughly that she cried out. He stroked the wincing flesh. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to hurt you—but it’s been so long, oh, Guenevere, so long!”
He lay alongside her, fumbling now with her, now with himself. Time stretched between them, and she lay rigid with tension, ready to snap. At last she heard a long-drawn-out, bitter groan. “It’s no good, Guenevere, I’m no use to you. I’m no good at all. You must wish you’d stayed with Malgaunt! He at least could do what a man should do!”
She shuddered. “Arthur, no!”
He h
eld her very hard. “We still have something between us though, don’t we, Guenevere? There’s still some love left, say there is! I wanted to die when I thought you were gone. You won’t leave me, will you, Guenevere? Promise you won’t leave.”
“Arthur, I—”
“Swear it!”
“Please—”
A fit of shaking seized him, and he trembled from head to foot. “Swear! I beg you, swear!”
And she swore. Then he held her and kissed her, and touched all her secret places till he fell asleep.
Then all night she lay and listened to Arthur as he moaned and tossed in his sleep. Her prayers were short, and she had all night for them.
CHAPTER 59
The night was very long. Dawn found her lying stiff and cold in Arthur’s bed, as far away from him as she could get. An unwelcome smell he had never had before hung over his sleeping form, and the stink of incense breathed from his tangled hair. As daylight came she edged out of the stale sheets and slipped away while he was still sunk in sleep, mumbling to himself.
Hovering like a wraith in the half-light, Ina was forlornly waiting when she got back to the Queen’s apartments. “Oh, madam!” she said. Guenevere nodded. What was there to say?
All she could think of was Lancelot. How could she face him now? But if she could not, how could she survive?
She could not rest for the mad urge to see him now. Pacing the floor, she counted the minutes till his page came to see how she had slept, as the boy did every day. Then she could send him back to beg Lancelot to come to her.
But the boy did not come.
“Never mind, lady!” Ina cried with forced gaiety. “That means Sir Lancelot will come himself.” Her wan face lit up. “Oh madam, let me get you ready; we don’t want him to catch us unawares!”
So Ina brushed her hair, and touched up her lips, and brought some color to her cheeks. She dressed her in a gown of gleaming silk the color of foxgloves in a glade. She put on her veil, arranged the silvery lawn under the gold coronet, and tweaked her this way and that a hundred times. And still he did not come.
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