Guinevere's Tale

by Nicole Evelina

  “This,” she said, pointing at the beaker, “is the remains of your grandmother—Corinna’s mother—last of your line to die in our lands. It is only fitting she should bear witness to this rite. All around us are the bones of your ancestors. Were it in my power, I would bring your mother to rest here too, but it is best to leave her where she is. Perhaps one day you too will lie in eternal sleep here, once your spirit has moved on. But that is not for me to say.”

  She built a small peat fire in the center of the room and cast upon it a handful of herbs that perfumed the air with a rich, sweet scent. Then Calliac held out a small offering dish. In it was a tiny white stone, small chunk of bread, a bit of wine, and a thistle blossom.

  My mother had set up similar shrines on Samhain in Northgallis. For her, the objects represented the relatives whose bones she could not venerate. Today, they stood in place of her bones, which were buried in Northgallis.

  I took the bowl from Calliac and laid it carefully in front of the beaker. Kneeling back on my heels, I made the sign of Avalon and closed my eyes. “Mother, had circumstances been different, I know you would have rejoiced in this rite and in the woman I have become. I wish with everything in me that you could be here today, but I am confident you will watch over this gathering of women of your blood. Receive these my offerings with love. May you be at peace, may you never hunger, may you never thirst, and may you always find beauty, even between the worlds.”

  I touched the beaker. “Grandmother, though our eyes never met, your blood flows in my veins and I am certain our spirits know one another. I rejoice in finding my family and in finding you. Matriarch of my line, please bless this rite and welcome me as a woman into our family.”

  At Calliac’s gesture, I discarded my tunic and lay flat on my stomach on the blanket. This was the opposite of the ritual that had marked my entrance into womanhood, the day I became a priestess and received the crescent upon my brow. Then, I lay face up on a stone beneath the rising sun, surrounded by priestesses. Today, I lay with my forehead to the ground, deep within the cool earth, among the bones of my ancestors and guarded by women who share my blood.

  Calliac struck a small gong, and the others gathered around us. “Daughter of the Votadini, hear now the tale of your making, the knitting of blood and bone through the generations that resulted in your life,” she intoned as her instrument bit into my tender flesh, leaving behind the first mark.

  Maracail took up the tale. “In the days of old, we were of two hearts, the people of this land. We came from wanderers, the people of continent who knew no fixed home but followed the land and its seasons, living not off the earth but from their flocks, paying homage to the oldest of gods through blood and stone, living and dying according to their will. They were short and dark, the children of the ancient ones.”

  “But we were fair and sinewy, a brave, adventurous people who traveled out of the wilds of the mainland to found great cities. By their blades, whole tribes rose and fell. Their fires forged great beauty from bronze and weapons of iron,” Gavina continued, her songlike voice dulling the teeth of the needle and lulling me, along with the heat and heady aroma of the incense.

  Soon, the story became real and I walked with the shades of my ancestors, traveling through time with them, age after age.

  Fia added her voice to the rhythm of the story. “They thought themselves unstoppable until one day, they woke in the shadow of the eagle. Bearing her talons, she chased them into the sea, where the god Lir and his son Manannan took pity on them, setting them down in the verdant lands we now call Britain. Never ones to be content, they explored that land, eventually meeting up with our darker half.”

  By the time the story came back to Maracail, I was barely conscious of the needle’s sting. “When they came together, first it was with fire in the head and the fierceness of battle fury. There was much bloodshed as the old ones sought to protect their lands from the newcomers, each trying to hold sway over the other. But soon, they saw this was only decimating their population, so they drank of the horn of peace. They intermarried, their children a mix of light and dark, just as you are today. Over time, the newcomers’ knowledge of the land allowed our people to live in one place, and they formed kingdoms and tribes, which they jealously guarded.”

  “Just when it seemed peace would prevail, the eagle, their long ago enemy, returned, seeking to destroy their new home,” Gavina said. “But this time, the people were ready, having learned from their history. They fought when they must, but they also bartered with the eagle, for the comingling of the two people had produced many talents. They agreed to live under her protection from those who lingered in the north, an insular people who thought their mixing with the light ones from the mainland an abomination.”

  Fia paced as she spoke. “Trapped as we were between two people, we were always on our guard, training our women as well as our men so we would have as many warriors as possible should the need ever arise to defend ourselves. In your grandfather’s generation, a great hero of our people journeyed south to answer the call of a king and, in so doing, gave our people a place of refuge in the new land. To secure this alliance, your mother was given as a bride, and the old and the new joined once again, giving birth to you, a great warrior queen like the women of old.”

  “Though from your loins no living children spring, your influence will forever change this tribe, as does every generation that tells this tale. This is the story of the Votadini, of our people, of which you are now officially one,” Evina concluded. As I sat up, she embraced me, careful not to touch my enflamed shoulder blade.

  I shook my head to clear it. My mind was fuzzy, as though I was waking from meditation or a powerful dream that still threatened to pull me back into the depths of sleep. The sight danced around the edges of my mind, tempting me with visions that flickered and flamed out before I could grasp their meaning.

  They seemed to be coming to an end when one burst to life in violent color. In it, two armies were fighting over an island—not Avalon or Mona, but like them, it radiated a holy air, one of asceticism and peace. Before the conflict was over, the shoreline was tinged pink with blood. A man’s image rose before my eyes—light red hair and beard, near my age. He wore the strangest cloak, embroidered with a green wolf on his left side and a blue bird of prey with a particularly large, sharp beak on the right. The same symbols and colors were painted on his shield. On a desolate plain beneath a midnight sky flashing with heat lightning, he met a woman with golden curls. Elga. She smiled wickedly, then the vision splintered apart.

  Still blinded by the sight, I turned toward where Evina had last been standing. “Votadess, you should be wary the red king, for he will turn his loyalties and betray our people. He is in collusion with the Saxons.”

  Her strong hands gripped my shoulders, shaking me a little, as though she could will me out of the grip of the sight. “Who? Who is this man?”

  I shook my head. “I do not know his name, but even now he meets with her, forming an alliance that will affect us all.” I closed my eyes and opened them. The visions had stopped. “I am sorry. That is all I know.”

  Evina turned away, pacing while I recovered myself.

  When I indicated that I was ready, she stood before me, holding two feathers, one black as night, the other creamy white. “There is yet one more step to formally welcoming you into our tribe. As the scars on your shoulder attest, you long ago won your sword. This day I invest you with the feathers of your clan, one for being a warrior and the other denoting your family’s status.” She affixed the feathers to my braid. “Wear them when we gather and no one will dare question if you belong here, for you are now one of us as truly as if you had taken your first breath among the heather.”

  Within a week, we were on the road to Stirling, the land growing steeper as we traveled northwest. Here, the trees had shed their autumn colors, surrendering to dormancy in shades of tan and gr
ay. A light kiss of frost each dawn marked the footsteps of the winter hag as she descended from the mountains, trailing winter in her wake.

  By mid-morning of our second day on the road, we passed the hillfort of Stirling, where the army was garrisoned and from which Rohan ruled the countryside. Our destination was still several hours off, a castle nestled in the valley between the Ochil Hills and Strathern Mountains.

  The sun shone high in the sky when we approached my new home, casting the mountains in the distance into deep purple shadow and making the river below sparkle as though it were made of jewels. The fortress itself was gray stone likely mined from the surrounding hills, which gave it the quality of having sprung straight out of the land like a hardy flower turning its face toward the light.

  Inside, the great hall was clean and bright, lit by large windows that let in pine-scented breezes, while two large fireplaces chased away the sharp wind. The full staff—a bevy of cooks, bakers, maids, and pages—was assembled to greet us. As soon as they were dismissed, they scurried away to their duties, all but Kennon, a balding man of average height whose thick arms made him look more captain of the guard than steward of the house. He solemnly handed me the keys and pulled me aside.

  “Evina instructed me to give you a gift,” he said in a conspiratorial tone, glancing over his shoulder to be sure the others didn’t hear.

  “She did? She said nothing of it to me.”

  “I think it was meant to be a surprise. She said you would know what to do with him.”

  Him? Had she given me a horse or a hound? Or perhaps a bull in the field? What else could Kennon possibly mean?

  He whistled, and the main door opened. One of the guards entered, leading by the arm a man shackled at the wrist, a metal slave collar around his neck. He gave the man a nudge in my direction.

  “Meet your new mistress,” he said without warmth before turning on his heel and slipping back out the door.

  The man kept his head down, long black hair obscuring his face. He was shirtless—I supposed so I could assess his physique and worthiness for any task I might desire. I could not fail to notice the angry scars that twisted up his right arm from wrist to elbow, for they were much like my own, the result of skin warring with flame. Yet they were darker somehow, as though the skin beneath had once held a tribal tattoo. Their location was too precise to have been the result of an accident; he had been intentionally burned and the sign of his tribe removed.

  A pinprick of recognition tickled my spine, though I could not quite place him. Something about him brought to mind the memory of a white rose, a wooden cross, and a fresh purple thistle. The items were clear in my mind’s eye, but I couldn’t quite give them context. It couldn’t be—could it?

  I crossed the room to get a closer look at the man who was now my slave, whether I wanted him or not. As I drew closer, my heartbeat sped and the niggling sense of knowing grew stronger until my pulse was pounding in my ears. It was him.

  “Galen,” I whispered as I used my index finger to raise his chin to force him to look at me. I expected to find fear in his eyes, or maybe even anger—we hadn’t parted on the best of terms—but all their blue depths reflected was my own surprise.

  “Hello, lass. I dinna expect to be seeing you again.”

  “Nor I you. How, why—”

  “How did I become a slave?” Galen hadn’t lost his knack for reading my mind. “’Tis a long story.”

  “One that I wish to hear. Come, sit.” I led him to a bench near the window. I fumbled with the chatelaine at my waist, searching for the key to release his bonds. “You may be indentured, but you are no danger to me, that much I know.”

  None of the keys seemed to fit. I desperately wished I had something to offer him, even a meager cup of broth. I called to Kennon, instructing him to have the kitchens bring a light midday meal. Leading Galen by the forearm, I crossed to the rest of our party, who warmed themselves by the fire, trying to pretend they hadn’t noticed the intruder. When I introduced Lancelot and Anna to Galen, the slave shivered despite the warmth.

  “Do they allow you no tunic?” I removed my cloak and draped it around his shoulders.

  His dimples appeared, along with a wry smile. “Aye, they do, but not on first introduction. I suppose they wish you to see I am indeed enslaved.” He lifted his arms, displaying the grotesque scars on his right arm. “They burned my tribal markings away and gave me this.” He lifted his chin so I could see the marking on the side of his neck. It was a crude tattoo, handwritten: daor—slave. “They put it there, over one of the major veins, so that it cannot be removed without endangering my life. So as you can see, though I live within Votadini lands, I am no longer one of them.”

  “That’s terrible.” I picked up the cord around his neck. At the end was a key that must fit his shackles.

  He bowed his head, allowing me to remove it. For the briefest of moments, we were close enough to kiss. Butterflies tickled my belly at the thought. After all these years, I still desired his touch. I prayed Lancelot had not seen the slight frisson of attraction.

  My cheeks flamed as I pulled away, breaking the spell. “Please, tell us your story.”

  Galen shrugged, looking at each of us in turn. “There’s not so much to tell. Isolde took me with her to Ireland, and I ended up here as part of a bargain she orchestrated. It was my own people who condemned me.” The manacles clicked open, and he rubbed his wrists. “Serves me right. I could not expect mercy after bringing shame on so many families.” He looked at me. “I owe you a great deal, even more so to Elaine and Isolde. Tell me, how do they fare?”

  I turned away, unable to face him when I answered. “They are both dead.” I wiped at the tear rolling down my cheek. “So you have no one to apologize to.”

  He took my hand. “I am afraid I do. I am sorry for leading you on, for getting you involved in my affairs.”

  I pulled my hand away, not wishing to forge any bond that would be inappropriate in my new home. “It was a long time ago. All is forgiven. We need only look forward, not back.” I looked him straight in the eye now.

  “Of course,” he said quietly. “What will you do now?”

  “Right this moment?”

  “No, I mean now that you are here.”

  “I was just asking myself the same question.” I shrugged. “I would like some time to simply be. That is why I am allowing Rohan to continue to rule in my stead.”

  “A generosity you will no doubt regret,” he muttered. “You have as much claim to rule this tribe as he does, if not more.”

  Seeing my puzzled expression, he hastened to explain. “You still do not understand your lineage, do you? Evina is your cousin. She rules because she is doubly royal through her grandfathers of Cunneda’s line. But you”—he traced his fingertips gently down the scars on my arm—“are his direct descendant. I doubt Evina has figured that out yet, but when she does, she will rue allowing you to stay, and more so granting you lands that are of such great strategic importance. You’d best be on your guard.”

  Lancelot scoffed. “That is ridiculous. Why would Guinevere approach her as she did if it was her intention to challenge Evina’s authority?”

  “People have done stranger things.”

  “But I have no desire to rule a people I know nothing of.” I paced the large room that was closing in on me. I worked my fingers into the folds of my gown, twisting the material. “I cannot even tell you at what hour dinner is served or where, much less what is best for this land and its people.”

  “But you are well known for your wisdom and diplomacy,” Lancelot said, grasping my hands as I passed him. “The ambassadors sang your praises during your reign with Arthur. Once word gets out, there will no doubt be those who will support your cause.”

  “Even if I do not raise it?”

  “Especially then. Those who oppose Rohan or Evina will grasp at
anything to bring someone else to power,” Galen said.

  I ran a hand through my hair. “I do not want this. Let me be clear. I have had more than enough of ruling and intrigue to last a lifetime. I came here to find a home, not a crown.”

  “’Tis not I you need to convince.” Galen looked at me wonderingly. “Have you ever been anyone’s subject before? Besides Lyonesse, I mean.” He chuckled darkly.

  I punched him in the arm good-naturedly. “Of course. I was Arthur’s subject long before I was his wife, and I obeyed his father before him, but you have a point. I do have much to learn about this court.” Decades earlier, when I was first introduced to the house of Corbenic, Isolde warned me that in order to survive in a new household, one had to understand the players. It was time to heed her advice. “We know Rohan and Evina will mistrust me once they figure out I could be a threat. What else do I need to know about them?”

  Galen’s face lit up. “That’s the woman I remember. I am afraid our affairs are not much more stable than the ones you recently escaped in Britain. It seems the time for peace is at an end across the isle, I’m afraid.” He took a deep breath, seemingly trying to decide where to begin. “Evina always knew she would be Votadess. She was raised to marry whomever became Votad after Cunedda’s successor. Unfortunately, as these things often go, the line of succession was not so simple in flesh and blood as it was on parchment. The throne changed hands many times and Evina was shuffled around with it. Finally, the tribal leaders gathered and agreed to dispense with all previous plans and go back to the old way of electing the Votad from among their number. Mynyddog, brother of the Cunedda’s successor, Clydno Eitin, was chosen. Evina married him, and I believe you know the rest.”

  “What is her goal?” Lancelot asked. “I have yet to meet a ruler who does not have a motive beyond staying alive and keeping the peace.”