Guinevere's Tale

by Nicole Evelina

  “Please,” I said to the sister, “that is not necessary—”

  Mayda silenced me with a look. “They know who you are and welcome the humility of giving up what they can to the queen.”

  The sisters spoke little during the simple meal of bread, cheese, and thin broth, and when they did, it was in their native language. The mulled wine served to me by Mayda and the elder sisters warmed my heart and spread through my veins, leaving me feeling fuzzy and more loved than I had in months. The younger ones, who I guessed from the color of their habits were still in training, much as we had been in Avalon, had to make do with watered ale. Many of the sisters glanced at me curiously, and I smiled in response. To a one, they dropped their eyes to their plates.

  Mayda noticed and whispered to me, “They will protect you in any way needed. Have no fear.”

  After the meal finished and they recited a Latin prayer, a small bell chimed. Chairs scraped noisily as the sisters hurried to their various duties.

  Mayda took my hand. “Come, I will show you to your room.” She gestured to the sister who had given up her seat. “Sister Magdalena will serve you. Do not hesitate to tell her of anything you may need.”

  I glanced from sister to abbess. “That is not necessary. I can fend for myself.”

  “Nonsense,” Mayda replied, her tone indicating the subject was closed.

  Sister Magdalena bowed. “It is my great honor, my queen, Mother Abbess.”

  I leaned in close to Mayda. “Am I to address you as such? I wish to pay you due respect.”

  “No, you may call me Mother Mayda. You are under no vows and need not make obeisance to me.”

  From the refectory, which was attached to the kitchen, we trudged through the increasing sleet, careful not to slip on the ice forming underfoot. Once inside the long building attached to the chapel, Mayda led us down a long main hallway to a room near the main church.

  “These are our guest rooms,” she said. “They are far enough away we should not disturb you with our routine, but close enough should you wish to join us.”

  When we entered the room to which I was assigned, Sister Magdalena watched me expectantly, eyeing the small pack of belongings I set on the bed.

  I smiled softly at her. “I can see to my own things. I wish to rest a while, so you may go about your normal duties.”

  Mayda nodded. “Sister Magdalena will fetch you when it is time for our late meal, if that is agreeable.”

  With my assent, both women turned to leave.

  “Mother Mayda?” I called. “Is it safe to correspond from here? I would like to be in touch with those who might give me a better idea of what is taking place in the rest of the kingdom.”

  Her smile was benevolent. “Of course. I will have my messengers on standby should you need to send communication urgently. Though I would advise not to use your true name. Is there another by which those whom you address would know you?” Before I could answer, she laughed. “Oh, I remember now. Corinna. Is that right?”

  I squeezed her hands. “It is. It appears the situation is reversed. I am now in your care.”

  She returned the gesture. “As it should be. God always gives us the opportunity to repay a kindness. May He, by whatever name you call Him, bless you. Rest now.”

  Mayda’s way of life was not very different from the one I’d lived for four years in Avalon, which surprised me greatly. It had its own rhythm and rituals but provided the same comfort and stability I’d found so soothing during my formative years.

  While exploring my room that first afternoon, I’d come across a tiny door in one wall, no bigger than my hands held side-by-side. When I pulled cautiously on its curled handle, it revealed itself to be the shutter to a small barred window overlooking the church. If I knelt, it was even with my head, affording me a bird’s-eye view of all that took place below.

  When I asked Mayda about it that evening, she told me it had been installed before she arrived for a holy woman who was often ill but still wished to attend Mass. The height was measured so that she could only view the service if she was in the proper posture for prayer. Mayda said although I could not attend their rituals, I was more than welcome to observe from there. After the saintly sister died, when Mayda was still new to the convent, she spent much time in that room, and it was those hours of quiet contemplation that led her to embrace the Christian faith.

  Through that same window, I was able to observe the rites of Lent during the fortnight of Passiontide, a solemn time leading up to Easter, the holiest of days for Christians. All of the sisters arose at dawn and dressed in simple white robes. Even though the air was cold and the ground covered in heavy frost, they processed around the church barefoot, each holding a single yew branch, singing Hosanna, before entering and taking their places around the perimeter of the room.

  In many ways, they resembled our Candlemas procession so many years before. Grief tugged at my heart as I recalled that day—Isolde’s joyous smile on her favorite feast day and Elaine’s humble expression as she took up the role of the bride. They were both gone now, victims of fates too cruel for their few years, too awful for hearts so in need of love.

  My eyes stung with tears, but soon it was not the ritual nor the faces of my remembered friends that passed through my mind. Instead, I felt the dizzying sensation that meant the sight was upon me. I tried to fight it, but it would not relent. Long ago, the Lady of the Lake had warned me the sight would be out of my control when one whom I loved was in danger. It was a cruel trick of the Goddess, to show me that which I was powerless to control, but I had long ago made my peace with it.

  Arthur was alone on the ramparts of Cadbury, his expression set in grim lines as he watched a shadow wash over the horizon, heading straight for the castle. The wave of soldiers did not slow or part, showing determination to engage their king, and leading the way was Mordred.

  “All the while I loved you, I also feared you, cursed as you are with your mother’s lust for power,” Arthur said to his son, who was barely distinguishable from the nearing horde. “I prayed this day would never come, but God did not heed me. My only prayer now is we can turn you away while your heart still beats.” His eyes welled, but he did not allow the tears to fall.

  Lancelot approached Arthur from behind, and I gasped, unaware he had returned to Britain.

  Arthur must have sensed his approach, for he cleared his throat and turned before Lancelot could speak a word of greeting. “You have no business in this battle. Go to Camelot. Find Guinevere and show her I am a man who keeps his word, no matter what she may believe. I will deal with my traitorous son.”

  They bickered for some time, Lancelot insisting on offering his sword in repayment for the offences he’d committed against Arthur, but Arthur’s insistence prevailed.

  “You have more than repaid your debt by your valor on the fields of Brittany. I promised Guinevere a new life with you and that I shall deliver, even if it is my final gift to her. Go now. Send Kay to me.”

  Reluctantly, Lancelot departed. Kay appeared soon after.

  This time, Arthur did not turn. “I have no desire to mar this fort by placing it at the center of a war. We will meet them on the banks of the river, press in before they expect us to engage. In that way, we can hope to throw them off.”

  “Our troops can be ready within a few hours. Mordred will not have gained the river by then.”

  “Good. I wish them to know their rightful king was expecting them.”

  With those words, my eyes grew dim and the sight left me.

  At dawn, I helped the lower-ranking sisters scrub the floors of the church after morning prayer, our bare feet freezing on the cold, wet stones. While we did this, Mayda and the sisters of higher rank stripped the altar of its beautiful cloths and lovingly washed it, preparing it for the rituals to come.

  Later, they gathered in the church for Mas
s and I watched from my room above. Their priest blessed a vial of healing oil then invited the poor of the area to come forth. The sisters humbly washed their feet in imitation of a gesture performed by their Christ before his death. Mayda followed on her knees, kissing the feet of each man and woman before giving them a loaf of bread, flagon of wine, and bag of coins.

  Years earlier, when I was a ward in the house of Corbenic, its lord, Pellinor, had performed similar service to the poor of his lands on Candlemas. Looking back, I missed that time and those people. Though often infuriating and perplexing, in retrospect, my years with him, Lyonesse, Isolde, and Elaine were a blessing, shielding me from the struggles of the outside world. Yes, Lyonesse could be cruel, but that was little enough sacrifice in the face of what we would experience in the years to come.

  Bowing my head, I prayed. Thank you, God and Goddess for everything that family taught me. Please bless those of their line who still live and may those who have died be at peace.

  Eyes closed, the sight came upon me again.

  True to his word, Arthur’s army stood in wait as Mordred’s troops poured out from wooded tracts into the open fields sloping down toward the River Cam. The unexpected sight of the opposing wall of warriors slowed their progress, eventually forcing them to halt.

  The curving river, with its steep banks, was the only thing separating father and son. Slowly, as if each trying to each decide their own strategy, Arthur and Mordred picked their way through their men until they were facing one another across the narrow waterway.

  Arthur made the first move. “I have offered you my hand in peace time and again since returning from Brittany, only to find you with an army raised against me. One final time, I do so again. I do not wish to move against you, son, but make no mistake, I will if you press on. Greater men than you have resisted my requests for peace and lost their lives for their folly. I would hate to see the same happen to you.”

  A puff of warm, disbelieving breath in the frigid air was Mordred’s first response, followed by a haughty, “It will not, for I have in my employ forces stronger than you have ever faced, men who believe you have wronged this land, abandoned it in the wake of your own selfish missteps. We will not bow to you when a new king is needed, one who will rule this land for all its inhabitants, not just those of native blood.”

  Behind him, the Saxons and Picts cheered, taking up a steady tattoo with their cudgels and shields.

  Arthur ignored them, unfazed by their attempts at intimidation after so many battles. He walked down river to a place where the water narrowed, banks nearly hugging one another, and Mordred followed like a mirror image. “You may believe you fight for something bigger, but this battle is between you and me. As you will not back down, I will offer you one more opportunity to spare the lives of your men and mine. We fight now in single combat, King Stag and rutting buck. Let the gods and our skills determine the outcome.”

  Mordred studied his father with cold blue eyes, appearing to turn the option over in his mind. Then he laughed. “Do you truly believe that would solve anything? My death would only mean further incitement of my army, whereas yours would mean the crumbling of a nation, and for what? You cannot stop this, Arthur Pendragon. A new era has begun.”

  For a moment, Arthur’s face betrayed his disappointment, but then he bowed his head, muttering a prayer too quiet for anyone else to hear. When he raised his face again, it bore the hard lines of a seasoned warrior. “May the gods have mercy on us all.”

  The armies slammed into one another with a series of deafening cracks as shields split and spears found their targets, breaking through bone to lodge in the soft tissue beneath. The carrion birds alighted in treetops and amid the trampled grass as bodies fell, turning the river into a mass grave. Soon, soldiers used the bodies of their fallen comrades to cross the breech and face their attackers in units, rather than one by one.

  But when the fighting was at its thickest, Mordred did something unexpected. He turned and ran, leading his troops north toward the Midlands. Arthur was not long in catching on, pulling the greater part of his troops from the fray to give chase.

  Suddenly, I was back to myself again, lying on the floor of my small room in the convent, panting and covered in sweat from the exertion of my visions. I lay on my back, staring at the wood support beams overhead, trying to understand what I had seen. The rebellion had begun. But why did Mordred not finish it there? Why run? He was obviously not retreating. His movements were too orderly, too planned. It seemed there had been a prearranged signal, some sign that told certain contingents when it was time to follow him away from the battle. But why?

  I sat up, fighting a wave of dizziness. I pulled myself to the ewer of wash water and poured some into the basin, willing it to cleanse me of my fear and anxiety as I removed the layer of sweat from my skin and struggled to regain my senses.

  For a while, I watched the convent’s ritual, thankful for the distraction from my visions. The sisters’ voices floated up as they celebrated the Mass, their songs joyful in the triumph of their Savior, yet tinged with sadness, for the worst was yet to come—for their God and for Arthur.

  When Mass ended, all the candles in the church were extinguished, save one many-armed candelabra, plunging the congregation into near total darkness. I pinched out the wick of my candle as well, wishing to experience the ritual as they did. The sisters’ songs turned to mournful dirges as the priest recited a story about their Lord being betrayed by his closest friend and handed over to the authorities to be tortured and condemned. One by one, the remaining candles were extinguished, until only a lone flame remained.

  The church was silent, the crowd seemingly holding its breath in expectation. I scooted closer to my small window, trying to take in everything with heightened senses.

  The clear voice of a young boy rang out from the north, intoning “Kyrie Eleison,” a plea to their God for mercy. Then the bell-like voice of a sister responded from the south, “Christe Eleison,” which meant much the same. The blending of their voices into a mournful chant raised goose pimples on my arms as they repeated the invocation.

  Swept up in the chant, my prayers turned to pleas of mercy. May the gods of war grant us mercy. Protect our king and his heir from all harm and help them see the senselessness of their battle. May they find a path to peace and spare our people the pain and privations of war.

  With two kings pitting the armies of three nations against each other, we needed any help the heavens were willing to provide. Were I there with Arthur, following Mordred’s army north, perhaps I could advise him, but here in this convent, so many miles north and east of them, I could do nothing. Well, not nothing. I could pray, just as I was doing. But it felt like so little. I could not defend Arthur with my sword, or try to make them both see sense. I was powerless, for even my magic could not help them. I could not help Arthur strategize or even read the stones for him. He and Mordred were beyond my reach. All I could do was watch through eyes cursed with the sight as it all played out.

  Below, in the chapel, the single flame was extinguished. From the west, the deep rich bass of a man’s voice sang, “Christ is dead,” three times. I shivered, certain to my core that soon a similar elegy would be sung for either the High King or his son.

  The rituals did not end each night, but rather they faded into silence before picking up again at the prescribed time, as they would each day until Easter. In the time between, the sisters communicated only as necessary through a series of hand signals similar to those we used during our period of silence just before being consecrated as priestesses in Avalon.

  The familiarity made me long for my days on that blessed isle, for the kinship and sisterhood these nuns clearly felt and that I had once known. Though I was surrounded by women, my heart ached with the hollow void of loneliness. I wished I had someone here in whom I could confide about my visions, who would understand the frustration, the utter help
lessness of watching something tragic and pointless you could not change. But if I told them, the sisters would surely think me as demonic as that damn bishop Marius had.

  The snow and ice prevented me from worshiping outdoors and I could not face being alone in my tiny cell, so on the night of the new moon, I slipped into the back of the chapel, intent on performing my own rituals while the sisters sang and adored the bare cross placed before their altar. I searched the shadows for a place I would go unnoticed. To my right was a small alcove with a statue of the Lady Mary. Normally serene and welcoming, tonight she was an ominous specter with her black shroud.

  I could not believe I was even considering confiding in her, the mother of a god in whom I had no faith. But yet, how different was she from the myriad of goddesses to whom I had prayed before? Wasn’t she the same woman, called by a different name? Was she a being like Deichtine, Cú Chulainn’s mother, who, while incarnate on this earth, was singled out by her god for a special purpose?

  It was not as if goddesses giving birth to heroes was a new idea, or even one confined to the Christians. Taliau was the mother of Lugh; Dôn had given birth to Arianrhod and Gwydion, all of whom I worshiped, so why could I not pray to Mary? I had no interest in the redemption offered by her son, so I was in no danger of abandoning my faith. I was simply adding another goddess to my pantheon, something my forebears had been doing for hundreds of years.

  The previous night at dinner, after the sisters had covered the statues with a thick black cloth—a tradition of their faith I found rather odd—I had asked Mayda about the statue and the woman it represented. “How does she relate to your people’s faith? Did you have trouble accepting her when you were new here?”

  Mayda had answered through a mouthful of hard bread, the only daily sustenance until Easter. “No, not really. She is much like our goddess Ostara, who gives fertility to the land and its people. Her feast day is usually close to Easter.” She scooted a little closer to me in her seat. “We would never tell the bishop, but the flowers we lay at her feet on Easter are less to gladden her heart at the resurrection of her son than they are to honor her. We still hold our families’ traditions in our own ways.”