Guinevere's Tale

by Nicole Evelina

  Elaine smiled softly and took a deep breath. “If you believe I can do it, then I know I can.”

  I squeezed her shoulders and signaled to Arthur, who handed Elaine a green flag raised high on a pole.

  He raised his voice above the din. “Everyone who is leaving should follow the Lady Elaine and her green banner. She will lead you to safety across the channel.”

  The line moved slowly, inching single file through the doors of the keep and down into the darkness of the underground passages. When most of the crowd had disappeared, Arthur approached a score of women who stood, unmoving, near the gate. Octavia was among them.

  “You should hurry if you wish to keep up with the others,” he urged.

  “We’re not going,” said a black-haired woman wearing the apron and cap of a baker or cook. She crossed her massive arms, which could have rivalled most of the Combrogi’s and, I had a feeling, wielded a deadly iron pan. “If they get to stay and defend this fort”—she rolled her eyes at Sobian and her band of female pirates—“so do we. I have cooked for these men for twenty years. I am not going to abandon them now. Besides, who do you think will tend the soup pot and change bandages while you are giving orders? Mouths don’t fill themselves, and you’ve got no camp women to assist you here.”

  Arthur could not argue with her, so the women stayed behind under Morgan’s command, tending to the necessities of the fort while the rest of us waited on the ramparts, watching the fog slowly thin. I was grateful Elaine and her party would have some natural camouflage to bring good fortune to the beginning of their journey.

  It was nearly midmorning when shouts arose from the watchtowers. The valley below was becoming clear, but I had to rub my eyes at what I saw. Peeking out of the mists were the tips of hundreds of tents, smoke from the cook fires competing with the fog to obscure the enemy army from sight. Their temporary camp stretched as far as I could see, eventually melting into the trees on the horizon.

  There had to be nearly a thousand men camped in front of us—more than twice our number. How could they have made camp since nightfall without arousing any suspicion? Men could be ordered to be silent, but no matter how well-trained the animals, they whinnied and stamped as they willed, yet the guards who watched swore they’d heard nary a sound. It was as though they were phantoms from a previous war, there to reenact a battle long since decided. I shivered, wondering what magic they could have wrought to go unnoticed.

  The warriors looked so small from my vantage point, as though I was a god looking down upon the earth and could crush them under my thumb. But it would not be nearly so easy—that much I knew. As the view became clearer, I watched those closest to the outer palisade as they went about their business, clearly preparing for their first maneuver. Bushy-bearded men mended leather armor and sharpened spears of varying lengths while boys with long poles poked at the piles of grass and bracken, trying to determine the boundaries of the trenches. Several armored women were practicing attack and defense. On the outskirts of the camp, the ring of axes signaled the felling of trees for firewood and, I feared, the building of siege weapons.

  Not wanting to waste precious time, I took up my board of Holy Stones and arranged an accurate ratio of their troops to ours, accounting for the spears, swords, and stone hurlers I had seen plus the handful of archers they likely kept well out of view.

  I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the scene from their perspective. Even without the sight, it was not difficult to imagine how impressive the fortress must appear to an army used to battle in open fields. Directly before them was the span of broken grass, trampled as though under a hundred hooves. Beyond lay a ring of bright green grass, a seemingly innocent lot that put any fortunate enough to cross the chasm directly in the sights of our archers atop a long wall of sharp, thick wooden stakes that stuck out of the ground like hundreds of angry styluses. Three gatehouses flanked the main entry, with two more at intervals on either side to guard the indirect approaches. Beyond, the massive triangular hill dominated the landscape, its steep grassy slopes a formidable challenge for even the most experienced of climbers. From this vantage point, the thin silhouette of the fort itself rose like a rearing horse, surrounded by yet another ring of spiked timber.

  I left the stones on our side alone, indicating we would not change tack, and waited to see their response. Finally, I opened my eyes.

  “We still have a few days,” I told Arthur and Lancelot, who stood in the main gatehouse, sizing up their opponents. “They need to locate and fill in the ditch wide enough to get their men across then make their way through the outer fence. By then, our archers and slingers should have depleted their front ranks to almost nothing. The stones say it will buy us enough time for the outer flanks to be in place. . .but just barely.”

  “How did the Saxons get here so quickly?” asked Arthur.

  It was Lancelot who responded, pointing at the edge of the camp where some of the horses were being turned loose. “They traveled on horseback and carried provisions in wagons, but they do not intend to fight mounted. Those are tough-bred pack animals only. It appears the Saxons have no intention of leaving with them, so you can be certain they will fight to the death.”

  “But they will certainly die. There is no way an army on foot can take a fort such as this. That is why it was built. To even try is suicide,” I protested.

  Lancelot shook his head. “I have seen enough of war to know there is nothing stronger than a force determined their cause is in the right. And according to Mayda, they believe this victory is their destiny, so they will fight all the harder. We must prepare for a long, bloody fight.”

  “No, not yet,” Arthur said. “I may be able to buy us some additional time. Is there one bridge left intact?”

  Lancelot wrinkled his brow. “Oui, the western gate.” He indicated it with his finger.

  Arthur stormed off in that direction with me following closely at his heels.

  “Arthur, please, no. Why sacrifice yourself when we can wait?” I grasped at his arm.

  He shook me off. “Did you not hear me? I can weaken their leaders and stall them through a single action. All of their work will have to cease until the matter is settled. I indulge you in most things, but I will not in this. Kay!” he called, then added to me, “Either come with me or stay behind, but I will challenge them either way.”

  The gates creaked, and we rode single file across the bridge, Arthur in the lead. Kay and I followed, Lancelot bringing up the rear. Morgan had chosen to stay within the safety of the walls, preparing for any wounds that would need to be tended once the fighting began. We each bore a sprig of mistletoe, a sign of truce to Briton and Saxon alike, which hung in the rafters of every fort throughout the island for healing and as a signal of peace. Above us, on the wall, our warriors gathered to watch, their weapons lowered according to Arthur’s command.

  We stopped about thirty paces past where the grass had been trampled down. A clamor arose from the edges of the encampment as the warriors noticed our approach. As Arthur had predicted, all work ceased, and those at the forges and saws gathered in their tribal camps to gawk.

  “Alle, Octha!” Arthur bellowed. “Come forth. We bear Freya’s sign of peace, so I swear no harm will come to you.”

  The front line of Saxons picked up their spears and round shields, forming a defensive wall against any treachery we might attempt. They muttered and jeered in their own tongue, sure we could not understand them, but I needed no translator to know they were calling for our deaths. Slaying us would have been easy enough for them, but I wagered they feared the wrath of their gods, especially since Arthur had invoked their goddess of war. From somewhere in the crowd, a rhythmic banging erupted, and as those in front took up the motion, someone began chanting. Soon the whole of the camp was likely to surge and engulf us.

  Then a low horn broke through the clamor, followed by total silence. The crowd slow
ly parted, and two men emerged followed by Elga and a man who had to be her champion.

  The two men were brothers, both tall, nearly the same height as Arthur. They had muscular arms and broad frames that made it clear they could give a threatened buck a challenge before felling him. Alle, clearly the elder by several years, had a mane of white-gold hair twisted in odd knots and braids reaching nearly to the center of his back. His beard was decorated with golden baubles and twisted into a series of spikes that made him appear more demon than human. Octha, on the other hand, was shorter. His long flaxen hair, worn loose at his shoulders, nearly matched the hide armor protecting his chest from ribcage to clavicle. His skin was smoother and less weather-worn than his brother’s save a jagged scar winding from his left temple to his nose, just skirting his eye socket.

  Alle stepped to the front and addressed us in his language, which Arthur translated for the rest of us.

  “You come here, to our camp, bearing a token of peace. Are we to take it as your surrender?”

  Arthur chuckled darkly. “No. I come to challenge you by right of honor, as Aethelings, to single combat to the death. You cannot refuse without disgracing yourselves—that much I know.”

  “You mock our gods by wearing their tokens of truce yet demanding violence!” Octha yelled.

  “I do no such thing,” Arthur countered. “I bear the seed of peace only as a signal I mean no treachery. I seek to avoid the clash of armies and the loss of countless lives. How much bloodshed follows is in your hands.”

  Octha growled, but Alle remained impassive. The brothers conferred in hushed tones that were more like a series of grunts.

  Alle turned back to us. “We accept, but as there are two of us and only one of you, I will fight you alone with my brother as witness. Name your terms.”

  “We fight now, on the grass with its edge and the hidden ditch as our bounds. Two spears and a shield for each. As I have challenged you, you may strike first. The victor claims the fort but must swear he will not harm the others here present.”

  Elga eyed me suspiciously as Alle weighed Arthur’s stated terms. I doubted she liked these odds any more than I did.

  “Agreed.”

  Arthur dismounted and removed his mail armor, leaving only the leather undersheath so the two would be evenly matched. According to tradition, I had the right to inspect Alle for any weapons or hidden trickery that did not abide by the terms of the agreement. Elga did the same for Arthur, making a show of running her hands across his body and checking under his armor and in his boots.

  “Kay, why are we letting him do this?” I whispered, biting my thumbnail.

  Kay placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “His choice of weapons was no accident. He knows what he is doing. I promise you he will live.”

  The two kings took their places on the grass, careful to keep the invisible gorge at their sides. Arthur chose to begin with a single spear and shield, while Alle took up spears in both hands, shield slung over his left arm.

  The banging and chanting began again as the two faced off. Alle circled Arthur, testing him, trying to force him to turn his back on the fort. He struck with one spear at Arthur’s shield and hooked his other behind it, yanking forward to try to dislodge the defense. Arthur leaned back, narrowly avoiding the second blade, and pushed outward, using Alle’s own motion to unbalance him. The Saxon stumbled back, and Arthur swung his own weapon, piercing Alle’s thigh.

  The crowd grumbled and redoubled their clanging.

  Alle snarled and came at Arthur again, this time using his shield as a battering ram to force Arthur back. Arthur dug in his heels, trying not to slip, but his boots skidded along the grass against his will. Alle was pushing Arthur nearer to the center of the field, and Arthur could not attack since all of his effort was put into halting the assault. But without warning, Arthur bent double, sending Alle tumbling over his back.

  I expected the Saxon to sprawl onto the ground, but he was a better trained warrior than I’d anticipated. He recovered by rolling to a halt, spears held close to his body to keep them in hand. His shield had shattered as he hit the ground, and Arthur stabbed down at him, but Alle evaded and was quickly back on his feet. He punched his spear toward Arthur’s shield, aiming for a vulnerable area at the base of his armor, but Arthur anticipated him and raised his shield at the last moment so the tip of the spear lodged in the boss at its center. With a wrenching motion, Arthur relieved him of his now useless weapon.

  Arthur retrieved his unused spear from Kay so that he now held two and turned once again to face Alle. Alle twirled his remaining spear expertly, deflecting Arthur’s jabs with movements similar to a swordsman. Only once did he breech Arthur’s defense and slice his side, right beneath where his armor ended. Had Arthur retained the chain mail, he would have been uninjured.

  Arthur hissed and instinctively stepped back, going on the defensive until the pain, writ clear on his face, abated.

  The two were perilously close to the ditch now, avoiding its edges by sheer luck. Alle changed tack, turning his spear sideways to use the pole like a staff. Arthur mirrored him, holding his spears double to provide extra strength. Their dance reminded me oddly of the battle between the Oak King and the Holly King on Beltane, only this quest for power was very real.

  They were tiring, both bleeding, arms dropping lower and lower as the strain of the long battle fatigued them. Once, Arthur’s foot slipped as he found the edge of the ditch, but he was able to save himself and step away. But that gave him an advantage Alle did not have. Rallying, Arthur guided Alle to where the ground gave way and forced him onto his back, pinning both his shoulders to the earth with his spears. Alle’s screams silenced the chants of his followers.

  Arthur kicked aside Alle’s remaining weapon and turned to Octha. “I will let him live if you will retreat this instant, never to harass my people again.”

  Octha’s face split into a menacing grin. “You know I will do no such thing.”

  In stony silence, Arthur removed his spears from Alle’s limp arms and rolled him into the pit. Alle’s screams echoed up and over the field as his body was impaled on the stakes. While Octha stood motionless, Arthur limped over to his horse, and Kay gave him a boost into the saddle.

  “It is done. And you have lost. Return to your home,” Arthur panted.

  “By right of blood vengeance, we shall vindicate my brother and slay you all!” Octha called after us as Elga’s guard gave chase.

  “Burn the bridge!” Arthur yelled to the guards as we crossed.

  A shower of oil followed in our wake, then with the tickle of a torch, the whole thing was ablaze.

  “Now what do we do?” Kay asked.

  Arthur passed a hand across his fatigued face. “Pray the gods speed Owain and the others to our aid.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  It was no use telling Arthur he had made the Saxons’ hostility worse. That he realized as much was evident by his silence as Morgan cleaned and dressed his wounds.

  Spurred on by rage and grief, by nightfall, the Saxons had the trench revealed and a wide swath of it filled. Our archers rained down arrows and hurled stones on those who crossed, but Octha’s army was so large it felt as though for every man we killed, two more appeared.

  It took little battle training to know they would set the gatehouse and outer palisade ablaze at the first opportunity. So while Arthur slept, I slipped away to the first unoccupied place I could find—a deserted granary at the base of the keep. It was dark and still inside, the only light seeping in between slats in the wooden walls. I sat where the gap was largest—the only place I had a clear view of the stars—and prayed.

  I rarely used the gifts afforded to me as a priestess, but Arthur needed to sleep and to heal, and we needed more time to allow our backup troops to take their positions.

  Lady Morrigan, hear me, I prayed silently. My husband, a devo
tee of the soldiers’ god Mithras, has been rash, and I could not stop him. I fear our pride will cost us not only this fort but our very lives and the future of this isle you hold so dear. Do not abandon us, Great Mother, but hear my desperate cries for aid. I ask you to give us the time we need to turn this enemy from your shores. Aid me now, Great Lady, by bringing the elements under my command.

  I sent my consciousness down into the earth, closed my eyes, and raised my arms high. The wind whistled in response. Concentrating on the blackness behind my eyelids, I waved my arms, willing storm clouds toward me, pulling them on the howling wind until the stars were blotted out. Channeling all my guilt and rage, I twitched my finger and imagined a spark rising upward to charge the clouds. I brought my arms down hard, and rain pelted the roof, followed by a bolt of lightning and the answering peal of thunder.

  I had done what I could. The Saxons would be unable to set anything alight tonight, and no one would dare battle in the muck and mire quickly taking shape in the grass below the hill. I started to rise, but a wave of dizziness forced me back to my knees. It had been so long since I’d done anything of the kind I had forgotten what a toll it took. I lay down on my forearms as another wave hit me, and I closed my eyes in a vain attempt to steady the spinning room.

  The crack of thunder woke me from what I’d thought was a dreamless sleep. I stood cautiously, testing my legs. Finding them steady, I rushed back to Arthur’s side, images emerging from the fog of sleep with every step.