Guinevere's Tale

by Nicole Evelina

  Although capturing the king was the point of the exercise and the only way victory could be claimed, the queen—a red stone symbolizing the Goddess, lifeblood, and the power behind the throne—was the most important piece. Known by names such as the Sovereignty Stone or Lady Fortuna, the queen was the only piece that could move anywhere on the playing field. The queen also had the ability to sacrifice herself to save the king or “heal” captured troops and return them to the board, but no more than three times in any game. The only piece that could actively capture a queen was the opposing queen.

  Outside of Avalon and the Druids’ isle, Holy Stones was primarily a game of strategy for the wealthy and well-educated, and few knew its true power or purpose. Some of my earliest memories were of playing this game with my father. He often played it as a way to clear his mind when he needed to think. The tenderness and patience with which he’d taught his “little warrior” how to protect the queen on an oak board with polished gemstones was as clear to me now as when it happened.

  Today, however, it was more than a game. We were learning how to use this seemingly secular cover to reach out to the world beyond the lake and its marshes to gather information useful in advising those in power. We had each been given a different situation and were now asked to play it out and relay what strategy would most benefit our ruler.

  I was paired with Morgan. She sat across a long wooden table on which rested five sets of boards. In our scenario, High King Uther faced a challenger to his supremacy—one of his own lords from the Midlands who had recently allied with the Saxons.

  Morgan and I faced off just as they would have but played out our moves and counterattacks with stones instead of lives. We had taken about an equal number of each other’s troops, and I was waiting for her to make her next move. To my right, Grainne and Mona were moving their pieces at astonishing speed—forward, back, off the board, and on again as each of their queens asserted her healing power—eyes unseeing, concentrating on the visions that directed their every move.

  “Are you going to make a decision before the sun goes down?” I asked Morgan.

  “Be quiet and let me concentrate. I can’t help divination doesn’t come as easily to me as it does to you,” she sneered, fingers vacillating between two groups of stones.

  I was about to retort that the sight often passed from mother to daughter—an admittedly cheap dig at her unidentified maternity—when Argante drifted in our direction, checking on each pair’s progress.

  “Remember, ladies, true power, true skill is not about doing one better than one’s sister. All things thrive in balance, and for that to be maintained, each must focus on what she is best at and on her own destiny, not that of her sister.”

  She was speaking to the whole group, but her chiding glance was clearly meant for me.

  Argante noticed Morgan’s hesitation and paused behind her, placing a gnarled hand on top of the one Morgan held in mid-air. “Stop for a moment, Morgan. Do not try, just be. What you see before you is not a wooden plate and scattered stones, but two armies on the field of battle. You are the war goddess Morrigan, directing battle through the eyes of her ravens perched in the treetops and awaiting the final outcome. You know the strong and the weak. You call some to glory and others to death. Breathe deep, and tell me what you see.”

  Morgan’s eyes became distant, but I did not need to hear her words to know what images flashed before her, for I saw them too. On both sides, the soldiers were badly wounded and tiring fast. Blood streamed from gaping holes in chests and abdomens or congealed into dark patches around slashes to faces and limbs. Some collapsed from their injuries while others fought on without an eye, an ear, and even a hand. Beneath the soldiers’ feet, the ground was thick with bodies.

  I suddenly understood this was the turning point. The next few decisions would determine the outcome, whether the troops returned victorious to their wives, died in battle, or ended their days as slaves to foreign masters.

  Morgan’s hand shot out, and she advanced an archer, putting him in firing range of my foot soldiers but also leaving him unprotected.

  It was a decoy. The move was meant to draw my attention to the obvious kill and away from her increasingly vulnerable king. If I wanted a prolonged siege, I could have stayed back, picking her men off one by one, but I saw an opening. Her right flank was weak, and I surged forward, ignoring her archer. In this state of heightened awareness, I knew it was better to sacrifice a few troops to protect the many.

  The unexpected onslaught threw Morgan, who struggled to keep pace. She eventually faltered, leaving me free to replace her queen with mine and, in the next move, capture her king.

  We both sat back, breathing heavily. The visions had cleared, but my head buzzed with the exertion. Around us, the afternoon was advancing, the declining sun making the crystals scattered about our boards gleam merrily in the last gasp of day.

  “Very good,” Argante lauded us. “You have both done well. Remember, when we practice this way, one of you must always lose. But when you use this method of divination in real situations, be sure to control your sight so that you may see both your best advantage and your enemy’s every weakness. It is the only way to assure victory for your side.”

  Morgan threw her an acerbic glare, clearly displeased about losing, but fortunately for her, Argante had already turned her back.

  “Guinevere, I would like to speak with you in private.” She guided me to the shade of a nearby oak, leaving Morgan to sulk at the table. “I did not make this known, but each of the scenarios I set before you was a real battle, one I could use to measure your skills because I know the tactics that were used, as well as the outcome.”

  Argante leaned heavily on her cane. “The battle you and Morgan just completed was the one exception. We received word last night that King Uther was contemplating just such a move against an insurgent and wished to see the possible outcomes before advising him. So we set our two strongest seers in opposition—you and Morgan—and you have given us the key to the battle. Because of the number of casualties you anticipate, I will warn him to avoid any confrontation whatsoever. If he is foolish enough to defy my advice, at least I can tell him how to come out alive. Congratulations, Guinevere. You have just saved the life of your king and many of his men.” She patted my shoulder and hobbled back to the table, leaving me to contemplate her words in stunned silence.

  Morgan towered head and shoulders over me now, having shot up like a weed over the last lunar year, and she took no small pleasure in being able to literally look down on me. Mona too had grown, though she was still considerably smaller than Morgan, while it appeared I was destined to mirror my mother in petite stature. Even Grainne, so child-like in appearance, was slightly taller than me. Though I felt like a dwarf compared to them, I was glad to share the Neophyte Hall with those women. The rest of our sisters from the House of Nine had already left us, bound for marriage or ministry in the outside world, a world I scarcely remembered though I had called it home less than three years before.

  A year and a day—that was all that remained before our period of study ended. After that, the Goddess could summon us at any time to the mysterious ceremony that preceded our final vows. We all intended to remain on the isle and serve the Lady here, but that was not entirely in our control. If our families wished to have us back, they could call for us, or if Argante became aware of a need for our skills, we could be sent anywhere in all of Britain. As an uncertain future loomed before us, we made the most of our time together, taunting and teasing, fighting and laughing as though we were related by flesh and blood.

  Late one winter morning, Argante was summoned to High King Uther’s court in Carlisle by a rare personal invitation. Although she rejoiced at the king’s choice to consult the keepers of ancient wisdom in such turbulent times, the chill weather had taken a toll on her health, so she appointed Viviane as emissary in her stead. Late season sn
ows still clogged the passes and trails of the Mendips, which led north out of Avalon, so Viviane sent word that it would be several weeks before she could safely undertake the journey.

  To fill the time between, Argante commissioned a tapestry for the king in praise of his wise decision to include Avalon in his circle of closest councilors. The motif chosen was representative of the mysteries of Avalon, the very same mysteries Uther himself had sworn to uphold many years before when he took the Druidic oath upon his initiation into their mysteries. In this way, the tapestry would be not only a gift; it would also serve as a reminder of the old ways in a court increasingly populated by unsympathetic Christian priests.

  It could have been woven on one of Avalon’s many looms, but Argante insisted the tapestry be hand-stitched in ancient decorative tradition. She decided such a task would be perfect for the neophytes, and so Grainne and Mona were given the assignment of preparing and weaving the base fabric, while the elaborate embroidery would fall into the more dexterous hands of Morgan and myself. We worked for what felt like months, and as winter warmed into early spring, our labor was nearly complete.

  The evening before Viviane was to leave for the northern country, only two blocks of sewing remained. The pattern was rapidly taking shape, my tired hands sewing what remained of the Goddess’s gown. Next to me, a stool sat empty but for multicolored threads brushing the floor as Morgan had left them hanging the night before. Only one of the God’s feet and the grass on which he stood remained to be sewn; an hour or two more of stitching, and her wearisome job would be done.

  But Morgan was nowhere to be found. She had disappeared not long after breakfast and never showed up to complete her task. Where could she be? Not for the first time, I found myself resenting her ability to do as she pleased with little or no consequence.

  I will likely be the only one to note her absence as long as she comes to the evening’s ritual on time. One thing is for certain, I will not do her portion of the work for her. Let her feel Argante’s wrath for once. It would only be fair.

  The sun was just beginning to slip below the horizon when I buried the final knot in my section. Breathing a sigh of relief, I snipped off the excess thread and sat back, admiring the results of our work. Finally, it was all done, except for Morgan’s block. I stretched my aching arms, pinched out the candle flame, and made my way toward the door, intent on resting before the twilight ritual.

  I didn’t even make it out the door before Morgan came rushing up the stairs, face white, hair flapping wildly behind her.

  “Morgan, kind of you to make an appearance. Do you not think you are taking quite a risk? Many threads demand attention, but little time remains.”

  She threw a biting look in my direction in response to my mocking. “If you must know, Guinevere”—she said my name like it was bitter to her tongue—“I came to fetch your help.”

  I feigned surprise. “You are asking me for help?” I started toward the door. “You made your bed, Morgan; now you must sleep in it. I will not aid you one stitch.”

  Morgan’s hand clamped around my arm, forcing me to face her. “No, you silly cow, I do not need your help with the sewing. Ailis has found her way up a tree near the lake and cannot get down again.”

  How did Viviane’s young daughter manage to climb up a tree? There was little time for speculation. Viviane would have all our hides if her only child were to suffer any misfortune.

  “Where is Viviane? Does she know?”

  “I don’t know. I came here because you were closer—”

  I didn’t wait around to let her finish her excuse. My feet carried me swiftly across the plains of waving grass to the shore of the inland lake. I scanned the trees lining the water’s edge. Sure enough, there was the sobbing lass, a tiny version of her mother save for her auburn hair, clinging to a tree branch that stretched its fingers out over the lake.

  Morgan had been right to summon help. Ailis had not yet learned to swim, so if she fell, she would drown. And from the vise-like grip she had on the bobbing branch, I guessed she did not have the dexterity or courage to back down the tree either.

  “Ailis! Ailis, stay where you are. I will come and get you.”

  The girl did not respond, only continued to wail.

  Without a second thought, I scampered toward her, plowing through the foliage that separated us. The base of the tree was surrounded by clumps of tall plants with spiked stems and tooth-like leaves, whose berry-like purple and green flowers appeared harmless from a distance. Only now that I was standing in them, arms and legs prickling like I was being attacked by bees, did I recognize the plants for what they were—stinging nettle. No doubt I would pay for my good deed later with an itchy rash.

  Grumbling to myself that I should have known better—it was one of the plants we’d had to identify in our first herbalism test—I climbed up the tree, using the outcropping branches to support my ascent. I inched forward, wincing as the skin pricked by the nettles was irritated by the tree bark, until I had the wailing child in my arms and we were once again safely on the ground.

  Even before I set Ailis down, the tiny poisonous teeth hooked into her dress told me she had been playing in the nettles long before I arrived. Not wanting to expose anyone else to the irritating plant, I bathed Ailis in the lake, hoping the water would lessen the severity of her outbreak. As her tears slowly subsided, she began to tell me about the colorful songbird that had caught her attention, inspiring her to scale the tree to have a closer look. Once she was dry, I returned her to Viviane’s care, but only after making her promise never to do such a thing again.

  The sky was almost completely dark by the time I neared my quarters, so I would not have enough time to change my clothes before the ritual began. As I passed the weaving room, I heard Argante speaking with Morgan and peeked my head in to see her reaction to my earlier work.

  At first, I could not understand the distress and concern etched in Argante’s face. But then I looked down and saw its source. All of my long hours of stitching had been ripped out of the hanging as if I had never completed them, and the lower left corner—Morgan’s block—was burned, pieces of blackened thread and crumpled cloth the only testaments to the tragedy. Nearby, a soot-stained taper lay in a pool of wax, as if someone had franticly flung it away from the tapestry.

  “What happened here?” I asked incredulously, crossing in front of Morgan to finger the thread that made up all my missing stitches.

  “Your irresponsibility caused this girl’s work to be ruined,” Argante growled coldly. “That is what happened here.”

  “What?” My astonishment echoed off the stone pillars and silent loom.

  “When I came in, some of the ribbons were hanging down from your block, dancing precariously close to the candle flame,” Morgan explained, picking up a charred thread as evidence. “I tried to intervene, but a gust of wind tipped the flame, igniting the cloth. All I could do was put it out.” Her wide blue eyes were filled with innocent astonishment.

  My blood boiled. How dare she blame this on me! Did Argante really believe that story? Surely she could see through Morgan’s lies.

  Struggling to contain my rage, I faced Argante. “But that is not . . . I am certain I extinguished the flame—” I began, unable to collect my thoughts.

  “No, I will hear no excuses from you, Guinevere,” Argante cut me off. “Look at you, scraped and covered in dirt. If you had been here doing what you were supposed to be instead of cavorting through the hills, none of this would have happened.”

  I listened to her berate me in utter shock. So that was how it happened. Morgan needed a way to blame her absence on someone else, and the child’s peril proved a convenient means. She might even have encouraged Ailis to climb that tree. Now she was turning her thoughtlessness on me. I had to make Argante understand.

  “Lady, please listen to me. I did no such thing. Morgan—”
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  Argante turned on me with steely eyes. “I said no more!” She clasped her hands and surveyed the burned material. “The damage is unfortunate, but it is repairable. As you know, Viviane leaves at first light for her meeting with the king, so all the work must be completed by then. Guinevere, you will stay here and mend what your carelessness has ruined, as well as complete your allotted portion of the embroidery. Morgan will assist me in tonight’s ritual in your place. In addition, to ensure you learn to take your responsibilities seriously, you will scrub the sanctuary stairs in the morning.”

  I opened my mouth to protest once again, but Argante ignored me and walked away, as did Morgan, but only after casting a wicked grin in my direction.

  So that was it. I had no choice but to endure Morgan’s punishment while she plied everyone else with lies. Damn her! I raged inwardly while I completed the tedious work. The moon rose and set, the stars shone brightly and paled into dawn, and all the while, my heavy eyes squinted at endless rows of stitching until at long last, the final thread was knotted and hidden away.

  Argante woke me with a gentle pat just after sunrise. I had no memory of falling asleep, but she said I had done so a few hours earlier. She inspected my work, nodding approvingly as she ran her fingers across the needlework.

  “Your stitching is well done,” she commented, inspecting a complex pattern.

  I began to pack away the spools of thread. Slowly, I became aware of Argante’s silent gaze and looked up.

  “Where did you get those?” She gestured to the trail of red, inflamed blisters that wound their way up my arm.

  Involuntarily, my face flushed. “Yesterday, after I finished my sewing, Morgan came rushing in, telling me Ailis was trapped in a tree and in need of my rescue. I rushed to help her without paying heed to the plants at its base. It is—”

  “I know what it is,” Argante said, clearly irritated. “Most of Ailis’s body is covered in blisters. At least now we know where she was exposed to the plant.” The old woman sighed. “Now if you will excuse me, I need to speak with Morgan.” She stopped in the doorway and turned. “Mona has gathered all you will need to tend to the stairs. In the meantime, make a poultice of sorrel and mud to apply to your rash. It will help relieve the itching.”