Guinevere's Tale

by Nicole Evelina

  At that moment, Galen and Pellinor joined us, completely unaware of what had transpired. They appeared to have been arguing as well, and their whispered disagreement continued after they settled into seats near the window. My back was toward them, but I could hear them well enough.

  “It has been four months,” Pellinor insisted. “You are content to eat my food and sleep under my roof, yet you make no promise to my daughter. What more time could you need to know that we are true? Surely Elaine has proven her virtue to you by now.”

  “That is not the issue and you know it,” Galen answered. “If you will not agree to allow my tribe safe haven in Dyfed, then I will not wed your daughter.”

  “But you have no need of my kingdom.” Pellinor was fighting to keep his voice down. “Leodgrance already assures safety in Gwynedd for all Votadini who desire it.”

  So that was Galen’s excuse for not yet signing the marriage contract—the only step that remained before he and Elaine would be formally wed.

  “Not anymore,” Galen said with more than a touch of bitterness.

  I considered the implications of that. If my father decided to no longer honor his agreement with the Votadini—yet another tradition that had died along with my mother—he could be courting war. It all depended on how much importance it held for the current Votadini chief and how loudly his people clamored for it.

  Isolde snapped her fingers in front of my face and called my name twice to summon my attention back to her.

  “Sorry,” I muttered. I moved one of my archers in position to take one of Isolde’s foot soldiers. “What are they squabbling about over there?” I craned my neck to see around Isolde. Lyonesse and Elaine continued to pick at one another as they both pretended to be saying their after-Mass prayers. I smiled at the irony of the situation.

  Isolde’s hand hovered over her king. “Lyonesse says she had a revelation while at prayer during Mass. She is worried that Galen is not the man spoken of in the prophecy because he is a foreigner. According to her, the prophecy makes no mention of the man being from another land.” She advanced her king on a group of my knights, proudly defending her mother’s marble queen, her most prized possession.

  I gave up on her foot soldier and moved my troops in position to defend against the advancing king. “What did Elaine say to that?”

  Isolde laughed. “She calmly replied that nowhere in the prophecy does it state that he must be a Briton, either.”

  “Good for her! I bet Lyonesse had no reply.”

  “No.” Isolde maneuvered her queen out from among her ranks and into conquering position of my queen. “But Lyonesse has started in on any little fault she can think of. It is like listening to two little girls quarrel.”

  I was fairly certain there was little I could do to defend my queen. I went to move a knight in between her piece and mine but rubbed my forehead instead. I was so used to using this game as a method of divination that the sight wanted to come to me now. It was taking all the strength I had to resist it; after what I had seen while I was ill, the last thing I wanted was more visions.

  When I looked up again, Isolde was watching Galen. “I think you may be right, Guinevere.”

  “About what?”

  “About Galen. I wonder if he can be trusted.”

  “Isolde, you are still upset because he left you.”

  “No,” she insisted. “He told me what you asked him, and I think you are on to something. Why is he here if not to marry Elaine?” Isolde reached for my queen.

  I began to relay what I had overheard moments before but was cut off by a bang when the door burst open, startling everyone.

  A messenger entered and strode over to Pellinor, handing him two letters. “Urgent messages for you, my lord.”

  Pellinor looked down at the rolls of parchment and then up at me. “Guinevere, this one is for you.”

  My heart leapt. This had to be the news I was longing for. It was Aggrivane—I knew it. The other would be from his father or my father, telling them I could return home because Aggrivane wanted to marry me.

  I tore at the wax seal without really looking at it. As I read, my heart sank. The letter was from my father.

  “My beautiful daughter, I miss you so very much. I was wrong to send you away in such haste. Please forgive me.”

  I wondered what had prompted his change of heart, especially given Galen’s revelation that Gwynedd was no longer a safe haven for the Votadini.

  “You should know that I fought with our king against the Saxons near the town of York. I am happy to report that we were victorious and are now constructing earthen dams to keep the filthy mongrels at bay.

  But that is not why I send this message to you. During the battle, I was grievously wounded.”

  My eyes misted over, and I had to remind myself that if he had written this letter, he was not dead. I scanned the page faster.

  “I would have certainly died, were it not for the heroic actions of our king. He saved my life, and I owe him a great debt.”

  I did not get to finish reading the last paragraph because Pellinor had finished his letter and jumped to his feet.

  “The king, he is coming here,” he stuttered. “He wishes to hold a tournament.”

  “Why? When?” Lyonesse seemed as frantic as Pellinor looked.

  “He did not give reasons. He is already in Gwynedd. He will arrive just before Lughnasa.”

  Lyonesse clapped a hand to her mouth. “But that is in less than a month!” she exclaimed, and then began muttering to herself. “I wonder why he chose not to stay in Gwynedd. Oh, Northgallis is much too small. Thank goodness, we have much more room for accommodations. A royal visit! I must tell my sister; she will be so envious!”

  Pellinor was already scribbling out a reply.

  “Ladies, come, we must prepare,” Lyonesse commanded.

  Isolde made her winning move and grabbed my queen before leaving the room. “Don’t worry. You’ll have plenty of time to win this back,” she teased, unfazed by the turn of events.

  I looked down at the last paragraph of my letter.

  “You will be seeing me soon, as King Arthur wishes to hold a tournament in Dyfed and I will accompany his party. He has already written to Lord Pellinor advising him of the situation. I hope to bring you good news when I arrive.”

  Good news? Perhaps all had been forgiven and my hopes were not in vain. All I could do now was wait.

  Chapter Twenty

  Autumn 496

  Chaos ruled Corbenic. With less than a month to prepare for the royal visit, plus all of the guests it would entail, every person was busy, all hands valuable. Elaine and Galen’s courtship was temporarily overshadowed as their attention was diverted to the tasks at hand. Lyonesse used Elaine as her right hand in overseeing preparations and training the additional servants that would be needed, while Galen assisted Pellinor in managing the lodging and security logistics that came with a royal visit. I had become a servant like Isolde, cleaning long-neglected guest rooms, scrubbing linens, baking countless loaves of bread, and doing whatever was asked of me.

  The king, his lords, and other visiting nobles began arriving during the week prior to the tournament, sometimes one household at a time, other times in caravans of two and three families who had traveled the long distance together for safety. The work only increased with their arrival, as there were more mouths to feed, more people to get in the way, and children and dogs underfoot.

  Time slipped away rapidly, and before any of us could catch our breath, Lughnasa dawned bright and clear. It was a beautiful morning, but the sunshine brought with it the promise of oppressive heat.

  My feet and arms ached from long trips to and from the market, laden down with bushels of supplies, and my hands were red and chafed from the lye used in the laundry. The last thing I wanted to do today was stand out in the sun and watch
a bunch of men attempt to kill each other; I wanted to sleep. As I dragged myself out of bed, I had to remind myself that today I would meet the king, a rare honor, one for which I should be grateful.

  Isolde seemed no better off than me. Deep circles rimmed her eyes, though she had not strayed from her bed at night in months. She seemed to sleep well, yet rest had little impact on the weariness that showed in her face.

  We dressed for the tournament quietly, trying to balance our display of finery with material that would not suffocate us in the stifling heat.

  Isolde was ready much too quickly, full of what I assumed was nervous energy. As she waited on me, she regarded herself in polished shield that was our mirror, brushing a hand over lackluster skin, frowning at her reflection.

  I caught her eye in the silver disk. “Are you unwell?”

  “I am fine, merely tired,” she answered with an uneven voice. “Have you found it easy to sleep with those men carousing all night?” When she turned to face me, her smile was forced.

  “If it matters, I do not believe you,” I responded to her first statement, ignoring her attempt at diversion.

  “It matters.” She gave me a peck on the cheek. “But you are still wrong.”

  Before I could answer her, she was out the door, and I was forced to follow, still fastening my belt as I ran.

  A meadow to the east of the castle had been cleared for the tournament. Grass stripped away, the horses pawed at the dirt, sending puffs of dust into the thick air. Clumps of early spectators milled about, angling to establish their claim on areas with the best view. We were directed to a raised dais, where we would sit with the king in a place of honor, as part of the host family.

  In the oval competition ring, men of all ages practiced their skills with a variety of weapons. Each was hoping to win the favor of the king and to be invited to fight with him against the enemies of the crown, which grew more numerous with each passing day. They would be given rank today, a segregation that would determine who would be accepted into the king’s inner circle of compatriots and friends, and who would be forced to curry favor from without. Those yet untested would show their skills to the king, and if they met his approval, would be invited to pledge their loyalty and be trained as knights. The younger boys, whose families wished them to be trained under Arthur’s tutelage, would fight in a cordoned area with wooden swords and blunted spears.

  I eyed Pellinor as he watched his own warriors sparring on the borders of the ring. Although it was an honor, this royal visit came at great cost to him. The expense to replace the candles, torches, and rushes, and build up the stocks of food, wine, ale, hay, and other items for the guests and their horses must equal, if not exceed, his yearly household expenses, yet he did not seem troubled. Though Lyonesse had nearly lost her voice by shouting orders at everyone, including him, Pellinor had never seemed more serene. I suspected that he expected something from the king in return for his generosity—and I had a feeling it somehow involved Elaine.

  While Lyonesse fretted over the cost of the visit and what such a high capacity of guests would do to her home, the surrounding town was thriving under the increase in revenue. Only the highest lords and their families were invited to stay at Corbenic; the others were taken in by lesser nobles from the surrounding countryside or lodged in one of the town’s many inns. This meant much needed income not only for the honest innkeepers and merchants, but for the thieves, beggars, and prostitutes of Dyfed as well. Pellinor’s security battalion was doing their best to keep order in the town, but even now, purses no doubt were being picked and unsavory propositions made.

  I spotted Guildford among the growing crowd of warriors. He was giving last-minute pointers to Liam, who caught my gaze and waved. I returned the gesture. I was surprised to see with him my cousin Bran, now a grown man I barely recognized, and a few of the boys with whom I had sparred as a child under my mother’s tutelage. With a smile, I wondered what the king would think if I stepped out into the ring and took up my own sword. The thought of Lyonesse’s horrified face made me laugh out loud.

  “What are you giggling at?” Isolde wanted to know.

  “Nothing.” I was struggling to catch my breath. “Only an amusing thought.”

  “And you are not going to share?” She stuck out her lower lip in an adorable pout.

  From far below, a voice carried on the wind.

  “Lothian, do not think victory will be yours this day. I shall not fall to your sword a second time.” The speaker was a tall, dark-haired man with tan skin and imposing features.

  “Who is he?” I asked Isolde.

  “Accolon, son of Uriens of Rheged. He is cousin to Lothian royalty. He is very handsome.”

  Rather than scrutinizing Accolon, my eyes eagerly sought out the object of his taunt, desperate to know to which of the brothers it had been addressed. Another tall, dark-haired man gave Accolon a rude gesture in response. It was not Aggrivane.

  “Oh heavens,” Lyonesse groaned. “Must those Lothian men be so coarse? Savage barbarians.” She turned to the ladies seated around her. “I wonder why Accolon is fighting for his father instead of Owain. After all, Owain is the elder son. It is his duty.”

  The ladies tittered in agreement. Lyonesse’s lips curled up in a slow smile as she began gently flapping a small hand fan of swan feathers, not so much to cool herself as to show off her latest purchase and the wealth it implied.

  Isolde rolled her eyes and whispered an answer to me. “Owain is the strategist in the family; Accolon prevails with the steel.” She explained this as plainly as if she was a member of their household.

  “Isolde, how do you know all of this?”

  She cast a sidelong glance at me. “I have my ways.”

  “You have your spies, you mean.”

  “Call it what you will,” she said airily.

  The sun was nearly overhead now; the competition was soon to begin. I swept the ring one final time, looking for Aggrivane. I finally spotted him with his father and brothers. Aggrivane’s back was toward me, but I breathed a sigh of relief knowing he was there, hale and whole despite whatever may have passed since we parted. I wanted to run down to him and wish him luck, but I knew better than to make such a foolish mistake.

  Seeing Aggrivane reminded me there was one other person I had not spotted in the crowd. “Elaine, where is Galen? He is supposed to compete, is he not?”

  Elaine looked startled that I had spoken to her.

  “I am certain he is here somewhere,” Lyonesse cut in. Her tone was cold and carried a warning that I should not pursue the subject further. She craned her neck to see over the massing crowd. “I cannot even find some of our own men in this throng.”

  Elaine looked worried. Actually, she looked like she was going to cry, and I instantly regretted my foolish question. Maybe Galen was right. Perhaps I did assume too much.

  My thoughts were interrupted as the low vibration from a trio of bronze horns announced the king’s arrival. Their commanding baritone rumbled in my ribcage as I turned with the rest of the crowd toward the entrance of the ring. One row at a time, we genuflected in unison as the king and his court appeared.

  I sucked in air and audibly gasped when I saw him. Even from a distance, Arthur was much more striking in person than in my visions. Towering over everyone in his party, he exuded an air of power and confidence that could not be mistaken. I fell into a deep curtsey but could not lower my eyes from his face. His high cheekbones, broad nose, and chiseled jaw were softened by kind, intelligent blue eyes framed by gently sloping golden eyebrows only slightly darker than his long, straight blond hair.

  “Remind me to thank the Goddess for creating him,” Isolde whispered breathlessly.

  I swatted her playfully as we all rose. Arthur was handsome, I would give her that, but in a carnal way that was at odds with my personal taste. I far preferred Aggrivane’s po
etic soul.

  Arthur stood before his place, only a few removed from my own, and gestured for everyone to be seated.

  “I wish to thank every one of you for attending these games today,” he began, his deep voice strong, clear, and calm. “As you know, I called this tournament to invite the best of my subjects to prove their mettle and show their desire to serve with me in defending our isle. We have enemies on many fronts, and even within our land.” His eyes rested briefly on Lot. “But today we are all friends.

  “The tournament will proceed as follows. To separate the wheat from the chaff, we will begin with a general melee involving all adult competitors. No blood is to be spilt; if you are hit, you are to fall to your knees, raise your hands, and yield. My men”—Arthur raised his hand, and several men on the field, each wearing a bright yellow sash, did the same—“will be assisting in judging. Anyone who violates the rules will be disqualified.

  “After that round of fighting, the names of the remaining warriors will be taken down, and each will fight in single combat until only two remain. In this round, you may draw blood, but you must stop before delivering what would be the fatal blow. The final ten warriors will be awarded prizes, and the winner will have the honor of assuming the role of my second.”

  A murmur echoed through the crowd, and Arthur paused to let them quiet.

  “On this, the feast of Lugh, the warrior god and Sun King, I wish you all blessings and the best of luck.” His full lips raised into a slight smile. “For my sake, try not to kill each other.”

  The crowd laughed, and Lyonesse grimaced, no doubt more at the pagan reference than at the inevitable bloodshed.

  Isolde and I eyed each other joyfully. This was going to be fun.

  The general melee was over surprisingly fast. When the horn sounded, men came at one another in a dizzying kaleidoscope that changed faster than I could follow. Oaths flew through the air, along with spears and javelins, as one after another, warriors sank to their knees and then trudged, disappointed, off the battlefield.