Guinevere's Tale

by Nicole Evelina

  Kneeling, I took the pot of salve from Lancelot, suddenly needing to occupy my hands. “Arthur did mention having another life planned before he became king.” My hands trembled as I spread the thick ointment on his thigh. “I suppose now he has everything he ever wanted.” Despite my best efforts to breathe and appear calm, my voice betrayed me, shaking with every word.

  Lancelot stopped me by placing a hand on mine, which was perilously close to his manhood. “You do not need to continue to act the part here. Not when it is only us. Unless”—his voice grew husky—“unless you wish to do so.”

  I looked up at him, realizing only then how my hands had transgressed. For a moment, I considered his offer but quickly rejected it. It would be a long time before I could lie with a man after what Malegant had done. Besides, I would not betray Arthur even if he had done so to me.

  Laughter bubbled out of me from some deep, hidden place, quickly turning to sobs as the full weight of what Lancelot had said hit me. I laid my head on his knees and wept. With one hand, he stroked my hair as I cried; with the other, he finished bandaging his wound. As soon as he was finished, he slipped an arm under my knees and carried me to the bed.

  I clung to him, feeling awash and adrift. He was the rock keeping me from drowning in the darkness. When finally no more tears would come, I curled up in a ball within the warmth of his arms.

  “What am I now?” I asked in a voice that sounded small and fragile even to my own ears.

  He brushed a stray lock of hair from my face. “You are who you’ve always been—our queen. She is nothing to you.”

  “But he has pledged himself to me. What of that?”

  “So have I. No matter what, I will not leave you.” Lancelot kissed me gently on the forehead, as a mother does her child. It was oddly reassuring. “I cannot lessen the sting of betrayal you must feel, but know this: no one—and I mean no one—will deny you your true role now that you are safe. If they do, they will have to face me.”

  I smiled into his chest, mood lightened by degrees despite the overwhelming heaviness threatening to engulf me. This man had not only rescued me from my tormentor and defended my life, now he was promising to help me through a terrible transition back to my life with Arthur. Merlin’s fears be damned. Choosing Lancelot as my champion was the wisest thing I had ever done.

  The sun was setting two nights later when we approached Cadbury. The fortress could be seen from a long way off, silhouetted against a red sky. After six months of fearing I’d never see home again, I practically ran toward the gatehouse, heedless of the steep climb up the terraced side of the hill. At some point my energy would give out and I would collapse, that much was certain, but right now, all I wanted was to be within its sheltering walls and see Arthur again.

  Lancelot struggled to keep pace with me as we ascended the hill. “Guinevere, slow down. You will injure yourself even more.”

  “I don’t care. I’m home. I’m free. It’s over!”

  “There is one thing you should know before—”

  Lancelot never got to finish his sentence. The guards in the towers spotted us and raised the cry, “Lancelot has returned with the queen.”

  Soon the cry was taken up by the other guards and the townspeople. Before we knew it, we were being ushered inside on a wave of people, some of whom I recognized, others who were strangers, but all were equally joyful. I smiled and waved to them all, so relived to be home, to be safe.

  “Make way for the queen,” they cried one after another until the doors of the great hall opened.

  I was prepared to run into Arthur’s arms, but what I saw stopped me cold. Morgan stood next to Arthur, her sly, catlike smile in full effect. Her hands rested on the shoulders of a boy of about four years who was watching me curiously. Arthur was sitting in his usual place, an uncomfortable expression on his face.

  “Morgan—I—you are the last person I expected to welcome me home.” My voice sounded false even to my own ears.

  “Welcome to our home,” she corrected, looking up at Arthur with affection.

  It took me a moment to process this. Morgan was in the place of the queen—in my place. What had Lancelot said? Arthur had married someone he’d known before he met me. But that woman couldn’t possibly be Morgan. She had been in Avalon—at least until the incident with the poison. . . then I remembered the vision I’d had as I looked into Merlin’s eyes at Corbenic when he told me of Morgan’s fate. It was this exact scene. Morgan had been standing with her hand on her son’s—their son’s—shoulder.

  Arthur finally stood, arms outstretched, and came to meet me. “Guinevere! The gods be praised. I thought we would never see you again.”

  As he embraced me, I was wooden, unable to return his affection in such an odd situation.

  It was Morgan who finally drew us apart. “Nor did I.” Her voice was tinged with regret. “We are blessed beyond measure. Is not that right, husband?”

  Years of living with her had attuned me to the subtle sarcasm Arthur probably missed. Her use of the word husband, the one which should have been rightfully only mine, stunned me more than if she had delivered a swift blow to my head. Suddenly, it all made sense. He had married Morgan. He had known her before, perhaps during the time she went missing after her banishment from Avalon.

  I looked at the boy. It was as Lancelot had said. No one who saw him could deny he was a younger version of the king right down to that particular shade of straw-blond hair and the cleft in his chin. He had Morgan’s bright blue eyes, watchful and unnerving. He smiled at me innocently.

  My heart and mind shattered. Here in front of me was the life I had always wished to live. Arthur with his heir, a handsome boy who favored him so strongly, but the woman playing the role of wife and mother was my worst enemy. Suddenly I recalled the day in Argante’s hut when she had quizzed Morgan and me on elements of the law. A man takes a second wife, she had said. She’d known even back then when we were merely girls this day would come to pass. The world tilted. I grabbed Lancelot for support to steady myself.

  “Guinevere?” Arthur asked, holding out a hand to me. “Are you unwell?”

  I stepped back and began to cry uncontrollably, rage tinting the edges of my vision red. “How dare you ask me that? You have no idea what misery I have felt! Now I return to find you married to her.”

  “Calm down,” Arthur said. “I can explain. I did not know about Mordred”—he indicated the boy—“but Morgan was pregnant before you and I wed.”

  My whole body was shaking. “Of course. If you had known, you wouldn’t have married me.” It was a statement, not a question.

  In a flash, the sight showed me an alternate life, one in which I thought I was marrying Aggrivane but was given to Malegant instead. One in which Morgan was queen and I lived the life of a slave only to die at Malegant’s hand. When my sight cleared, I looked at the family in front of me.

  I wheeled on Morgan. “I suppose I am to be grateful to you for consoling my husband in my absence or for saving me from my captor, the murderer who was to be my husband.”

  Morgan looked at Arthur, forehead wrinkled. “I do not understand what she is saying. Do you?”

  Arthur shook his head and took my hand. “You have had a great shock. Perhaps you should lie down, then we can discuss this.”

  My heartbeat quickened into a deafening pounding, and my eyes clouded over with black and white spots as anger overtook me. “No. I do not want to lie down or be calm.” I jerked my hand out of his grasp. “I want to hear you say it, Arthur Pendragon! I am your wife, not her. You chose me, remember?”

  Arthur regarded me warily, as if I were a beast about to strike. “Yes, you are my wife. But so is Morgan now. I assure you we can sort this all out later.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it later.” I flexed my fingers, itching to attack. “You!” I yelled at Morgan. “You are nothing but a
manipulative, backstabbing whore. You always do what you can to ruin my happiness. I will kill you for this.”

  I lunged at her and knocked her to the ground, intent on tearing at her eyes. Morgan fought me, but she was no match for a woman who had been tormented as I had. I was about to punch her in the face when Lancelot pulled me off and wrenched my arms behind me.

  Arthur helped a stunned, bleeding Morgan to her feet. “What has happened to make her this way?” he asked Lancelot. “This is not the woman I married.”

  “She has been through a great deal—” Lancelot began.

  “I am your wife,” I yelled amid hiccupping tears. “Do not speak of me as though I am not here in front of you. You wish to know what has happened to me? I will tell you. I was kidnapped, raped repeatedly, and beaten nearly to death by one of your men while you faithlessly took this woman to your bed. Lancelot and Sobian saved me. But now I see I may have been better off dying at Malegant’s hand.”

  I wrenched free of Lancelot’s grip to scratch wildly at my own skin, which suddenly pricked painfully. I fell to my knees as my sight clouded with memories of Malegant, and my time in his tower mingled with Morgan’s triumphant expression at Arthur’s side. I held my head and screamed. It was all too much.

  From somewhere far away, Arthur called for Grainne and ordered her to take me to Avalon—now.

  As Lancelot dragged me from the room, I looked at Arthur through strands of wild, tangled hair. “What did I do to deserve this?” My voice was small now, all the fight gone out of me.

  “Nothing,” he answered, concerned.

  “And everything,” Morgan added.

  The last thing I remembered was hearing Mordred ask in a small, scared voice, “What is wrong with that lady?”

  “She is ill,” Arthur answered kindly.

  “She is a madwoman,” Morgan clarified.

  When the darkness came, I welcomed it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Summer 501

  When I opened my eyes, I was in my old priestess’s chambers in Avalon. Around me, grayish stone walls gleamed in the summer sunlight. I blinked, taking in the room that was both familiar and foreign. Little had changed even though dozens of women must have called this room home since I was last here. A tall wardrobe stood open against one wall, a handful of blue robes and cloaks visible on pegs inside. A small table with a jug and wash basin, mirror, and comb was on one side of the bed, another table with a tray of bread and a steaming cup of tea on the opposite side.

  Warm, sweet breezes wafted in from the eastern window through which I could see the holy Tor, but I had no desire to be out in them. I pulled the fur blanket closer, seeking warmth I feared I would never feel again. I was still shaking, my mind racing with hundreds of terrible thoughts. What if Arthur didn’t accept me back at court? Was that the real reason I was here? Would I never return home? What if Morgan was right and I was a madwoman? Would the whole of Britain come to hate me? I curled up in a ball, trying to fight the sensation that my skin was peeling off, that some feral version of me was slowly emerging from it, red and raw and wounded beyond repair.

  The only memories I had of the journey were fragmented. The rocking of a cart, Imogen’s kind touch reassuring me everything would be well, the bitter taste of some brew I now knew to be drugged, and the darkness of a mind that could take no more pain.

  I lay in bed, breathing deeply for a long time, willing the shards of my mind to coalesce, but the harder I tried, the more they fractured.

  “You should have stayed with me,” Malegant’s voice said. “I could have spared you all this.”

  I sat up, looking around, but I was alone. Malegant and Aine were dead, but they were haunting me, their voices the only disruptions in my waking nightmare.

  “You caused this,” I said quietly, answering the imaginary voice.

  “We did not,” Aine responded. “Where is your husband, your mate, your support? Is he not supposed to see you through times like this?”

  “Stop!” I yelled, tears springing from my eyes yet again. “Leave me alone!” I pulled at my hair, trying to get the voices to quiet.

  Viviane appeared in the doorway, pausing before rushing to my side. “Guinevere, be still. Be at peace. You are in Avalon. You’re safe.” She sat next to me on the bed, one arm wrapped protectively around me.

  “No, I am not. I will never be whole again,” I sobbed.

  She let me cry and rocked me like a babe, stroking my hair and cooing softly. “May the Lady grant you peace. May she bring you all the love your heart needs, and may you heal in time.”

  Once my tears dried up, she helped me drink the tea. Normally I would have fought the effects of the herbs, but today I embraced them. Rather than making my eyelids heavy as I’d expected, they washed over me like an ocean wave, leaving an eerie feeling of peace in their wake. I felt like myself again if only for a short time.

  After a few days of the herbs, the voices faded and the shaking stopped. I still felt raw, as if I was walking around without my skin, but at least I could get out of bed. The pain and betrayal were still there, but my mind was clearer now. I could think about my situation more rationally. Grainne took on the role of my personal attendant, and I was grateful for her constant presence.

  We were walking through the flourishing herb garden one morning when I asked her, “Do you think Arthur hates me?”

  She smiled at me, her golden hair catching the sun. “No. I think you surprised him. He really never thought he’d see you again—even after Imogen showed him your ring and offered him a small shred of hope. Then you showed up like an avenging ghost, all vitriol and fury. They grieved for you, mourned for you, truly.” She took my hand. “Lancelot, too. Just when our lives were beginning to feel normal, you came back. It will take time for everyone to adjust.”

  I stopped and pulled a weed from between two stems of bright green lovage. “He didn’t even wait a full year, Grainne.”

  “He didn’t have to,” she said gently. “Under the law, he could have married Morgan at any time, but he never thought her worthy of being the king’s wife—she was an orphan, after all. But when you were thought dead, Morgan told him the truth about Mordred.”

  We stopped on the porch to Viviane’s rooms. “But how did he know her? That is one thing I cannot understand.”

  “That is a conversation you should have with Viviane, not me. She has answers beyond my ken. I only know what Morgan told the rest of court, and that I have relayed to you.”

  I hugged her. “Thank you for your constant support and friendship.”

  She smiled at me. “From your first moment in Avalon to our last breath. You know that.”

  I knocked on Viviane’s door as Grainne meandered off to help the others, who were preparing the island for midsummer. Unlike Argante, who as Lady of the Lake had lived in a crude hut fashioned from saplings much like Diarmad’s home, Viviane retained the stone quarters she had occupied as Argante’s second. These days, that role was filled by her daughter, Ailis, the girl I had rescued from peril in a tree many years before.

  I was expecting Ailis to answer the door, but when it opened, I found myself looking at Nimue, the daughter of my maid, Octavia. Nimue had been sent here to escape my father’s wrath five years earlier, and though she was only eleven, she was tall and thin, her haunting green eyes betraying an intelligence far beyond her years. “Guinevere, come in.”

  I watched her as I made my way inside. She was dark haired like her mother but had the pale skin of her father. I had no doubt that beneath the placid surface she so carefully cultivated bubbled the temper she had displayed upon being told she was to leave her mother’s home. I looked forward to getting to know her better while I was here. I leaned down so Viviane could embrace me.

  “Welcome, daughter.” She gestured for me to sit in a wicker chair across from her. “Nimue, you may go.”<
br />
  The girl gave a slight curtsey before bouncing off.

  “She shows exceptional promise. Ailis and I have been giving her special lessons. She craves knowledge like no one I’ve ever known,” Viviane explained as she poured hot water into two cups and added different herbs to each one. “But enough about Nimue. How are you today?”

  “I am feeling better, thank you.” I studied her face, the same blue eyes that had first captivated me when she came to Northgallis after I started showing signs of the sight. They were framed by a few more wrinkles now, but they were no less kind. Her brown hair was pulled back in a complicated knot that left only the locks in the very back trailing down to her waist. She had been Lady of the Lake for many years now, but I would never get used to seeing the triple moon symbol of the high priestess on her brow.

  “What troubles you?” She had been studying me too and clearly saw in my expression something she didn’t like.

  I cleared my throat, trying to summon the courage to ask her the same question I had posed to Grainne. But this was more difficult for I knew Viviane would give me an honest answer. I had to be certain I was prepared to hear what she had to say.

  I took several sips of tea and waited for the numbing warmth to flow through my veins before I spoke. “Viviane, I need to know. How did Arthur and Morgan know one another?” I bowed my head and stared deep into my cup as though I could divine the answer from the leaves within.

  “You are in an awful hurry to have answers,” Viviane noted. “Would it not be better to heal from the abuse you’ve suffered then face the changes in your home?”

  I shook my head. “I want to know it all. That way I can piece it together in my own time.”

  “You have always been a headstrong girl.” Viviane took a deep breath. “Do you remember when the Kingmaker appeared in the sky? Merlin told us it meant a great king would soon assume power. That king was Arthur. He was the Sacred King.” She watched me, waiting for her words to sink in.