Guinevere's Tale

by Nicole Evelina

  In the dream, which was beginning to feel more like a vision, I’d stood at the entrance to the subterranean passage leading out of the fort. At first I saw the dark, uneven walls of the tunnel that had swallowed Elaine and the residents of Aque Sullis only hours before. Then there were figures within, only shadows, but instead of moving away, they were coming toward me. We had made arrangements to have food and supplies ferried in through the passage if the siege was drawn out, but it had been only a day since the Saxons made camp, so why anyone would be using the tunnels to get into the castle made no sense. Unless—yes. As they came toward me, I saw the glint of steel in the low light.

  “Arthur, Arthur!” I shook his shoulder, but he did not wake. Damn that sleeping draught Morgan had given him.

  I spun around, trying to remember where Lancelot or Kay were lodging. I knew not, so I wandered the empty halls searching for someone, anyone, who would listen to my fears. In the dining hall, I found Octavia curled up by the fire, and I gently roused her.

  “Octavia, we have to find some of the men. I believe we are in danger here.”

  When she’d gathered Kay and Gawain, they listened to my story with somber expressions. While others would have laughed at the imaginings of a silly, frightened woman, these men had enough respect for the sight to take me seriously.

  When I was finished, Kay sighed. “It is possible. Similar things have been done in Rome and other places, though I would hardly credit these barbarians with being cunning enough to conceive such a plan.”

  “You saw them today. Alle and Octha are hardly backward fools. There is strategy behind all they do, and that makes them a double threat.”

  “We should take a look just to be certain,” Gawain decided.

  The rain had slowed to a drizzle by the time they reemerged from the tunnel.

  “We have been halfway down and saw no signs of recent occupation, but it is hard to tell what footprints were made by those fleeing yesterday,” Kay said. “If you have any reason for concern, we should seal it up. But we don’t want to wake the entire barracks with our hammering. I will stand guard until the morning.”

  I went back to Arthur’s room and climbed into bed next to him, wondering as I listened to his breath if I was a fool. The tunnel was our only method of escape if things went badly. Tearing down a wall would only slow our egress. But if I was right. . . I shuddered and drew closer to Arthur, willing sleep to carry away my fears, founded or no.

  The rain had done its job. Three days later, we were still at an impasse, the Saxons prowling impatiently outside the castle, our guards trading shifts with equal unease behind the safety of the wall.

  Not only were the timbers soaked and the ground turned to mud, the ditch had filled with water during the storm, washing away much of the debris the Saxons had used to fill it.

  So as dawn broke on the first clear day, I rejoiced that I had not only bought us time but set them back a bit as well. Or so I thought.

  By midmorning, knots of Saxons were placing long, wide pallets of tightly nailed planks over the gorge. Though they tried to defend with their shields, our arrows and stones found targets while men and women emerged from their protective cover to cross the bridge. But the number of Saxons successful was still small compared to their total.

  From the gatehouse, Arthur yelled, “What are you waiting for, you fools? Burn them down.”

  But his command went unheeded as a second Saxon battalion split down the middle and a great rumbling like an earthquake shook the ground. The sound of grating wheels and creaking wood reached us before the thing emerged from cover, but Arthur knew well enough what it was.

  “Fall back!” he commanded, and all but those expressly required to stay with the gate retreated up the hill to the safety of the second palisade.

  I caught only a glimpse of the battering ram before Arthur grabbed my hand and pulled me along to safety. It was little more than a pointed tree trunk suspended by rope over a wheeled base, much like the bottom of a cart. A crude roof had been built over the top and covered in hides, ostensibly to protect it from fire.

  It crashed into the gate before I’d reached the base of the hill, and its reverberating boom knocked me off my feet. Again it came, but this time I was ready. By the time I reached the second palisade, the archers had killed most of the warriors keeping its pendulum in motion, and as the second group took up position, the archers let fall a cauldron of oil, which quickly caught fire and killed everyone around it. But it was not enough to save the wall, for what damage the ram had begun, the fire finished, incinerating the guards who had sought to stop the Saxons’ progress.

  “Light the signal fires!” Arthur commanded.

  As Saxons streamed across the trench into the courtyard at the base of the hill, archers fanned out along the last remaining wall. Some fired on the advancing Saxons while others let fly a volley of flaming arrows, one group toward Lansdown Hill to the west and the other toward Dean Hill in the south. At the summit of each hill, large bonfires flared to life in response.

  “Now we must pray the kings will do as we have asked,” Arthur said to himself.

  I scanned the countryside for signs of hope. At first there was nothing, but then I saw them, small as ants—the northern troops riding at full speed to cut off the Saxons’ left flank.

  “Arthur, they’re coming!” I shouted, but my voice was drowned out by screams within the keep.

  I raced inside, sword drawn, to find the tower in chaos. People were running through the halls, some bleeding, some seeking to escape injury. Others lay dead, crumpled where they had stood. How was that possible? The Saxons hadn’t yet gained the terraces. How could our people already be fighting for their lives? I fought my way through the fleeing servants to find Sobian battling a Saxon woman wielding a war hammer. That was when I understood. I had been right. They had been here all along.

  “There are about fifty of them,” Sobian said between slashes. “Hid in the cellar, as far as I can tell.”

  Together, we dispatched the woman, and I took her armor, not having had time to don any. We followed sounds of distress to the kitchen, where a pair of Saxons were menacing three of the servants. It was a cramped space, but one servant was holding her own with a frying pan while another made do with the spit from the fire and the third wielded a knife resembling a small sword. Taking a cue from one of the maids, I grabbed a wooden serving tray and tossed it to Sobian to use as a shield.

  Amid the maids’ clamor, the Saxons failed to hear us approach. Sobian had one’s throat cut before the other could react, and as soon as he dropped his defense, I ran him through.

  One of the maids whimpered.

  “Will you be all right?” I asked, and she nodded, obviously horrified by the violence she had witnessed.

  The keep was once again quiet by the time Sobian and I made it to the ground floor, doing our best not to look at the corpses we passed and praying they were no one we knew.

  But near the front door, Sobian stopped short. Sprawled on the floor was one of her girls, a long slash down the front of her chest. Sobian knelt next to her and cradled her head.

  “I will find the bastard who did this to you, Bonnie, and rip out his entrails. I swear it to you.” She kissed the younger girl’s forehead and stepped over her body, determined to continue.

  Outside, the tumult was deafening. Some of the Saxons had gained the hill and were using makeshift ladders to try to scale the walls surrounding the keep while stones and arrows flew in every direction. Sobian darted off, and I ducked into a gatehouse for safety. Leaning against the wall to catch my breath, I had an unobstructed view of the fighting far below. The Saxon numbers were dwindling. Owain’s army had nearly dispatched a third of them, and Pelles’s contingent was pushing the remainder ever closer to the foot of the hill. Soon there would be nowhere for them to run.

  I needed to find Arthur.
He was still weak from the duel with Alle and no doubt by now had undone any healing that had taken place. I had to get to him before he injured himself beyond saving. I searched from one gatehouse to another to no avail. I would have to enter the fray.

  I descended into the open courtyard. Immediately I found myself trapped in the middle of a melee in which weapons were being wielded indiscriminately. The Saxon in front of me stank of burning flesh, his right arm raw with oozing blisters. Unfortunately, he appeared to be left-handed. We grappled, parrying and thrusting like the dozens of fighters around us. Try as I might, I could not disarm him while hemmed in by bodies. He pushed me back, and I stumbled, saved from falling only by the back of the warrior behind me. The Saxon’s sword came within a hairsbreadth of my head, slicing off a hunk of my hair and part of my ear before I could bat it away. Ignoring the pain, I aimed a blow at his ribcage, but I needn’t have bothered. A large stone whizzed over my shoulder and hit him square in the forehead. The Saxon’s eyes widened, and he fell backward, dead.

  Stunned, I turned to see Octavia holding a sling, another stone at the ready.

  “Your mother always said I was a good shot,” she yelled triumphantly.

  I started to laugh, but then the warrior behind her raised his arm. I understood what he intended to do and flung myself at Octavia as the bearded bastard let his weapon fly. I was too slow. His javelin caught Octavia in the lower back as I pulled her down—one moment too late.

  I gasped in horror as my heart broke into a thousand pieces and the war around me faded away. Amid all the screaming and bloodshed, I no longer cared if I lived or died. Yet again, I was holding someone who meant everything to me as she slipped away.

  I’d never thought of Octavia as a servant but as a second mother. Now I was watching the light slowly drain from her eyes. She was there in my earliest memories, holding me on her knee in the warm spring sunlight, helping me struggle into my first set of armor, weeping as I left for Avalon, comforting me after my mother’s death, and soothing my uncertain heart during my first days of marriage. Whether I’d prattled on about a new toy, a pretty dress, my infatuation with Aggrivane, or complained about my husband, she was always there with a kind word and a patient ear. She was listening, always listening, but soon her ears would hear no more.

  I wanted desperately for the last thing she heard to be my love for her, but I could not form the words. Horror constricted my throat, and she was in too much pain to speak, so I simply interlaced my fingers with hers and lay with her in silence on the hard dusty ground as her life drained away, our eyes betraying emotions our tongues could not express.

  I found my voice only after she had gone, and I recited the traditional prayer for those who died in battle. “May the Goddess grant you rest, daughter who has died in her service. Her blessing be forever on you.”

  With shaking hands, I closed Octavia’s eyes and laid my head on her silent chest. Cold slowly seeped from the earth into my bones, leaving me numb and hollow and wishing for death myself.

  I could not recall what happened after or how the battle finally ended. I was told Sobian guarded me as Octavia died and Lancelot avenged Octavia’s loss, two acts for which I would be forever grateful.

  My next memory was of walking among the dead. There were so many, more than I could have imagined in my worst nightmares, all bloody and broken from all manner of injuries. It was not uncommon to see limbs hacked off or twisted in grotesque contortions or men holding in their own guts from gaping wounds. Others were severely burned and howling in pain. I helped those I could to the infirmary, where Morgan quickly took over. But for those less fortunate, whose wounds had not killed them but would not heal, the only thing I could do was whisper a blessing, obtain permission with a nod, grunt, or whisper, and give them the Goddess’s final mercy—a quick death.

  Numb with shock, I carried out my duty as a priestess by saying a final prayer over each of the bodies I encountered, Saxon and Briton alike. With the help of the other women, I washed and dressed them in makeshift shrouds with equal dignity for whether friend or foe, all were children of the same great gods. We burned the bodies of the Saxons, as was their custom, and buried our men on the site of the battle, their bones an eternal reminder of the horrors that had taken place here. After we departed, this fort would never be used again.

  After two sleepless days, priestesses from Avalon arrived to continue the rites of the dead, relieving me to tend to Octavia. I could not bring myself to bury her with the fallen warriors, much less dump her body into the ditch with the nameless dead once we ran out of burial space.

  Nearly faint with exhaustion, I walked down to Aque Sullis to secure permission from the priests to bury her in their cemetery just outside of town. As she was a Roman and this was as close to Roman soil as we could be, they were more than happy to oblige my request. I doubted my title and the sizable donation I made to their shrine hurt our cause.

  In the following days, news trickled in from returning Combrogi who had pursued the fleeing Saxons. All told, fewer than one hundred Saxons escaped alive, Octha and Elga among them. Although they were now well within their territory and likely so shaken by their losses it would be a long time before they raised a sword against us again, I could not help but remember the fury on the Aethelings’ faces as Arthur and I fled into the sanctuary of the hill fort. I feared we would yet pay for the wounds inflicted on their pride.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Autumn 503

  One month passed, then two as we recovered at Cadbury. Slowly, bones mended and wounds healed, at least those that could be seen. Those inside our minds and hearts would take longer to cure. I took small comfort in knowing that mine were not the only haunted eyes ringed with shadows. Sleep eluded us all, and when it deigned to appear, it was accompanied by vivid nightmares that forced us to relive our strife. I wondered often how Arthur lived with the memories of more than a dozen battles.

  Our court tarried at Cadbury in this convalescent state until we could wait no longer, seeking a normality I doubted would ever come. Soon the snows would begin to fall. We needed to make ready for Camelot if our slow-moving party was going to make the long journey back home before the roads became impassable.

  But Arthur felt we could not leave without honoring those who had made our victory over the Saxons possible. So he declared a weeklong feast to mark our triumph. He sent a sizeable donation to Aque Sullis so the townspeople, who were not untouched by the battle, could join in the celebration as well.

  “Are you certain we can afford to be so generous after so costly a war?” I asked, not wishing to imply ingratitude but also mindful of practical matters.

  Arthur shrugged off my concerns. “A few years of peace and bountiful harvests will more than recoup our losses.”

  “But bountiful harvests are not guaranteed.”

  “No, but the goodwill of our people goes a long way toward making them possible. Trust me.”

  So I did. Kings and lords, nobles of every clan and rank, Druids, priestesses, Christians, warriors and their families all descended upon Cadbury with the speed of a flock in flight—or a plague of locusts, as our fretful host referred to them.

  The first two days honored those who had given their lives in service to their king and country as well as those who had acted heroically in battle. The Combrogi met for the affair in Cadbury’s cavernous great hall, which was decorated with the standards of kingdoms and tribes who had contributed men or funds to the battle of Mount Badon. Rather than sitting in the far end of the room, Arthur had asked that a platform be built in the center of the room so everyone present would be able to see us and we them.

  So as the festivities began, Arthur, Morgan, and I were surrounded by the Combrogi, their wives and children, and our own families, as well as Merlin and Viviane, who led an ancient prayer for the dead.

  “Hail spirits of our ancestors, those of blood, bone,
and spirit. We invoke you from beyond the seventh wave. Join with our fallen brothers and sisters who wait just beyond the veil. Be their guardians and protectors as they make their final journey to lands of golden sun, perfumed breezes, calm seas, and verdant meadows. May peace and joy be upon them for they died noble deaths. May those whom Ceridwen chooses rise again from her cauldron hale and whole to be reborn and defend our children’s children and maintain the peace bought with their blood in this lifetime.”

  Grieving families were invited to come forward and receive our royal condolences. Each family brought with them a small token of the one who had passed—many times a ring, a dagger, or some other personal possession. We collected them in baskets that would later be taken in solemn procession to a nearby sacred pond and offered to the gods with prayers for mercy upon the departed. In exchange, we gave them their soldiers’ pensions, and to the poor, we gave a set amount of additional funds to help them weather the financial strain of their loss.

  Some wives, now completely bereft of income, begged us to help them find work lest they turn to crime to feed their families. Arthur found each of them positions in the sculleries, dining halls, or sleeping chambers of Camelot or one of the noble houses. Those who expressed an interest in or talent for a trade were employed in shops. Regardless of their status in society, no one would scorn a war widow, for to do so was to call down the ire of the gods.

  Before they departed, we asked the names of their preferred tribal and personal gods and blessed each of them in those names. “Be at peace. For though you grieve, your loved one lives on. A long draught from Ceridwen’s cauldron heals all infirmities and makes all men new. In due time, they will be reborn. You who grieve suffer far more than they. In the holy names of your gods, we bless you and pray you will come to know that this is but one turn in the cycle of life.”

  Of all of them—widows, families, and in a few cases, even orphans—the ones who will remain with me forever are Nimue and Peredur, Octavia’s children, now orphans. I had seen Nimue only a year before, but now her ethereal green eyes shed silent tears onto the blue robes of a priestess. She held the hand of her brother, who stood beside her like a statue, the image of stoic grief.