Guinevere's Tale

by Nicole Evelina

  Morgan’s eyes moved, darting back and forth like a dreamer’s as she beheld a scene invisible to the rest of us.

  “Morgan, what do you see?” I coaxed.

  “A hillfort. To the south. It’s…” Her brow wrinkled. “It’s farther inland than the rest of the Saxon holdings. In Accolon’s lands.” She turned toward her husband, eyes still blank with trance. “They have taken him to Catraeth and are preparing for a siege. They want us to come.” She raised a hand to her head, seemed for a moment to regain herself, then collapsed in Accolon’s arms. He quickly carried her from the room.

  Evina, who had been listening attentively, ran a finger along one of the maps in front of her. “This is dire news indeed. If they have time to enforce the boundaries around Catraeth, they can cut us off from Rheged and Strathclyde, effectively blocking any reinforcements or aid from the south.”

  Mynyddog grunted, his brow wrinkled. “We would be penned in like hogs, ripe for slaughter.”

  Evina leaned over and said something into her husband’s ear. Soon, two of the counselors were blocking them from view.

  I eyed Sobian, not liking the enthusiasm with which Evina was conversing with the men.

  When she turned back to us, Evina’s eyes were sparkling.

  My stomach knotted in response.

  “Leave us,” Evina commanded the room. I turned to follow the others, but Evina stopped me. “Not you, Guinevere.”

  Slowly, I faced her, unsure why they would wish to speak to me in private. Evina waved me toward the throne. I dutifully stepped forward and knelt at their feet.

  “Do you remember that I once told you the day would come when I would call in your debts to be paid?” Without waiting for an answer, she continued. “That day has come.”

  I looked at her, confused. “What is it you wish of me?”

  Mynyddog glanced at his wife, then addressed me. “You will lead our army to Catraeth in spring.”

  “Me? But why would you wish me to command in your name? I thought that was the very thing you forbid.”

  “Lancelot is your husband, is he not?” Evina asked.

  “Yes.” I still didn’t understand. “But surely there are leaders among your sons or within your army whom you trust more.”

  They did not respond, simply continued to watch me, waiting.

  Slowly, understanding dawned. They had others they trusted and valued more, but they didn’t wish to waste them on this expedition. I, on the other hand, was expendable.

  “You are not confident of victory.” It was a statement, not a question. I marveled at Evina’s capacity for revenge as the pieces fell into place in my mind. “You wish me to lead them in case we fail.”

  Evina smiled cruelly, an expression I had only ever seen on Morgan. “I expect you to fail. We cannot let the Saxon bid for Catraeth go unanswered, but knowing they anticipate us and with our army split as it is, we have little chance of defeating them. I must keep my best troops in reserve here for what may come. I already have a contingent in Lothian and another guarding the Picts in the north, so I can only give this cause so many men.” She shrugged.

  “Then why send me at all? What is to stop me from beginning the journey to placate you and abandoning them and you for another court, say that of Accolon or Constantine?”

  Evina laughed. “Do you think I do not know you at all? You are too loyal, too concerned for the fate of the people. You would never abandon an army to certain death, even if your husband’s life wasn’t at stake.” She leaned forward. “Make no mistake, your troops are not welcome back here without you, and you are not welcome back if you fail. Victory or death are your only choices.”

  So that was it. After so many months of toying with me and using me, Evina had finally delivered my death sentence. She would not put me to the sword or hang me in front of a crowd, but I was being executed for treason all the same. She would rather a Saxon blade do the work for her.

  I looked at them. “And if I refuse?”

  “I will send word to Catraeth that we have refused their terms and Lancelot dies.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Spring 524

  At Din Eidyn, war was as much of a ritual as the turning of the year was to those who worked the fields. In the smithy, weapons were prepared and stored. The kitchens stockpiled rations of dried meat, salted fish, cheese, and other non-perishable food items that would sustain us on the long journey to Catraeth and into the siege beyond.

  By the time the winter melted into spring, Din Eidyn was home to a motley band of approximately five hundred trained warriors from Evina, Accolon, and Constantine’s armies and another three hundred aspiring soldiers. We had lost a small band of less than fifty boys a few weeks prior when they decided to go off alone in pursuit of the Saxons who had taken Lancelot. Their bodies were found a week later, skewered on pikes in the Pentland Hills, but their heads were never recovered.

  When I had told my warriors we had been assigned a dual mission to rescue Lancelot and take back Catraeth, some were eager to begin spilling blood, out of revenge for our lost youths, hatred of the Saxons, and loyalty to Accolon. But others were more reticent.

  “This is an ambush!” Bors, who had reluctantly joined us at Constantine’s bidding, yelled.

  “Yes, it is,” I answered. “The Saxons are using Lancelot to lure us to our deaths. But you were once a member of the Combrogi. Can you honestly tell me you could leave him to die simply because of a trap?”

  Bors looked down, muttering under his breath. It was as close to agreement as I would get from him.

  I turned, taking in my other troops. “Many of you came from Stirling and the lands surrounding it. Once you and your neighbors begged me to lead you as your Votadess. I may not bear that title, but I am asking you to trust me now as if I did. Allow me to lead you into battle. Whether we claim victory or shed our blood in vain, we are fighting for our lands and our families, that they may live in peace in the tradition of our ancestors, rather than under the Saxon’s boots.”

  “Aye,” Cinon shouted. “We are the warriors of a people fed from the breast on battle. If we did not wish to risk our lives, we should have chosen to be bakers or blacksmiths or tailors. This is our duty to our families and to ourselves. There is no question of fear of death. We are meant to die in battle, so let’s do as we are commanded.”

  “We have no honor if we don’t at least try to take back one of our own,” Corag added, watching me. “Angus may be from across the sea, but he has helped so many people, my da included, that he is one of us, blood or no.” He turned on Bors. “So if you think we are going to back down, you’re wrong and you’d better start running. This lot”—he made a gesture meant to encircle the barracks—“does not take kindly to cowards or traitors, and if you are against us, you are both.”

  In preparation for our journey south, Evina called a great three-day feast, insisting we celebrate like the warriors of old. No expense was spared, no animal left unslaughtered, or cask of heather ale or honey mead untapped. She knew we may not return, and so gave us a feast to either herald our coming victory or guide our souls to the Otherworld.

  On the first night, the great hall was full to brimming with warriors from all the tribes. Votadini made up the majority, but there were also Novantae, Selgovae, and Damnonii, plus a handful of Picts and Britons sympathetic to our cause. Among these were Bedivere and Kay, who had not yet apparently seen their fill of battle.

  “It is an honor to fight alongside you one last time,” Kay said with a small bow when I encountered him among the throng of bodies inside the hall.

  “It may be the last time for you, but I intend to live to see another day,” Bedivere joked.

  There was no missing the tension and fear underlying their words, so I laughed to try to dispel it. “I do not think even the gods could kill the two of you tough old sods unless you were re
ady. We have seen much. This is just the next in a long line.”

  “Before we retire, yes?” Bedivere joked.

  “Not me. I plan to die in the saddle, as should you lot,” I said.

  Kay touched his mug to mine in response. “I’ll drink to that.”

  “To victory!”

  As the night progressed, we ate, drank, and danced, trying our best to forget the reason for our gathering, even while listening to the tales of past victories and heroes long dead sung by the bards. Even Calliac participated, singing a particularly moving tale of a husband and wife who died together on the battlefield. Their deaths assured their progeny back home could live, resulting in Mynyddog’s bloodline.

  On the second night, the mood was decidedly more somber, as the reality of what was to come manifested. The bards sang songs of bitter doom and called curses down on our enemies. The seers made a spectacle of reading the entrails of slaughtered animals, holding them aloft for all to see. But because they foresaw nothing but victory for us and death for our enemy, they were hardly to be believed. No battle, in my experience, was so one-sided.

  Around the great hall, warriors huddled in groups or pairs, engaging in some kind of pre-battle ritual. They would speak a few words to one another, draw blood from their finger, palm, or forearm, then touch the wounds together, clapping one another on the back proudly before licking their wounds clean.

  “Do they have blood bonds where you are from?” Kiara asked when she noticed me watching them.

  “No. Many of our men are close and would gladly die to save the other, but we have no formal way to seal our loyalty.”

  “You do now. Come on.”

  She dragged me by the hand to the central hearth fire, where Kay and Bedivere were facing one another like a couple about to be wed. The cheer of another group drowned out most of what they said, and when I looked back, they were hand in hand as though ready to arm wrestle one another.

  “In the names of all our gods, I do so swear to bind my life with yours. I will defend you with all my power. If you be cut down while I still live—” Kay said.

  “I’ll hunt the bastard down and feed him his own prick,” Bedivere finished for him before pulling him into a tight embrace.

  Kiara turned to me. “In our tradition, you cannot bond with your champion or spouse, as you already have ties to those people which might interfere in battle. Only another warrior is deserving of your solemn oath.” She held out her hand to me. “Will you do me the honor?”

  Without waiting for me to reply, she took out her dagger and made a slash on the inside of her forearm, where it would not pain her in the heat of battle. For a moment, I could only stare, watching the crimson line form on her arm. Then I looked into Kiara’s clear blue eyes. This was the woman who had taken me under her wing when I was new to Stirling and knew no one. In asking for my help training her young warriors, she’d given an old woman back her youth and endowed me with a purpose beyond being a prize for anyone seeking the power. Now, she and I were about to lead the mission to rescue Lancelot and save our people from the Saxons. There was no one else I would rather fight to the death for.

  Without a word, I took the dagger from her, sucking in air as I made a similar gash on my arm. I took her hand, entwining our arms until our blood mingled. “Kiara, battle maid of both the Votadini and Selgovae, I hereby pledge my life to you. In victory or defeat, may our bodies and souls be bound.”

  “In life and in death, I will watch over you and see you victorious or revenged. This do I swear in the sight of all my gods,” she finished.

  We hugged one another tightly.

  “We’ll destroy those bastards,” she promised before licking her arm.

  Our blood was bitter on my tongue as I did the same. “Each and every one.”

  The last night was for saying farewell. Kiara, Morgan, and Accolon would be coming with us, so I had few people to address, unlike many of the men and women who were saying goodbye to spouses, children, and sometimes many generations of family. But there were remarkably few tears and many expressions of love and encouragement. This was a culture of war, and this was the moment many of them had trained for their whole lives.

  There was one last ritual before we could say our farewells in private. We took our place in a long line of men and women, each with the same dazed, introspective expression. Before us on the right was a large pile of flat rocks. As each person passed, he or she took one, then placed it on top of a stack on the left to form a cairn, the final resting place of the dead who would perish in the coming battle. Those who returned would retrieve a stone, leaving the remainder as a memorial.

  I shivered as the stack grew higher and higher, reaching toward the heavens. Bless us in battle, great Morrigan, and protect us, so that many of these stones may be removed, discarded, and forgotten. May they find their way into walls or roads, rather than remain standing as a symbol of slaughter for generations to come. Feeling strangely hollow, I placed my own stone on top of the one Evina had designated for Lancelot.

  To Kiara, I said, “Let’s get out of here. I need to remember why we live for as long as I can, rather than dance among those already dead.”

  We headed back to our quarters, passing scores of couples who defiantly refused to let one another go. It wasn’t long before we found Sobian and Galen, heads bent together, whispered endearments becoming tiny puffs of steam in the chill night air. She was prepared for battle, but he would stay behind in the service of Evina and Mynyddog, so these were their last moments together.

  The separation of lovers as one turned their face toward battle was never easy, nor was it fair, but these two were especially unfortunate. They had waited so long to find one another and were so well-suited. As a slave, Galen could not fight unless he was conscripted, but Sobian went voluntarily. She was not of our tribes or bound to our loyalties or laws, yet she willingly faced death out of friendship for me. That had to count for something.

  It would. I would make it so. I may not be able to tell my own fate or those of anyone around us, but I can save two lives and ensure some happiness comes out of this.

  I ran over to Galen and Sobian, smiling amid the tears streaming down my cheeks. “Sobian, take back your stone. You are not going with us.”

  Her face crumpled. “I’m not? I don’t understand. Have I done something to offend?”

  “No, no, this is something much better.” I grinned. “The affection the two of you have for one another is no secret to anyone, try as you may to hide it.” I took Galen’s hand. “That is why I release you from your bondage. From this day forth, you are a free man, absolved of all your past transgressions. Take this naughty lass and begin a new life with her.”

  Galen stared at me, obviously mystified. “But is not Evina the one to release me? Her father was the one who condemned me, after all.”

  I shook my head. “She gave you to me. I may not be able to restore your tribal mark, but I can grant your freedom.” I slipped the key from around my neck and opened his collar, and he rubbed his neck in great relief. “Tell Calliac what I have done. She will be able to cover your mark of slavery.”

  Sobian still looked concerned, her brow wrinkled. “But where are we to go? I have no permanent home, and Galen cannot purchase land.”

  “But it can be gifted to him for his service. Galen, Lancelot owns land in Angus. He and I were planning to give it to you when your service was over and you had earned your freedom. Tell them you come in his name and give them this.” I slipped a bracelet off my arm before holding it out to Galen. “The whole of the town knows the story behind this gift, which was given to Lancelot in exchange for his service. He wanted me to keep it in case something ever happened to him and I needed to flee. Now it is yours. The people of Angus will treat you like the chieftain’s son you were born to be. Plus, you will be safe there from any fighting that may result from our marc
h south.”

  “I—I cannot accept this. What about you? Where will you live when you return?”

  I shook my head. “The gods do not promise that I will live. They make that promise to no man. But when this is over, Lancelot and I will return to Brittany. He has ancestral lands there. Have no fear for our welfare.” I placed Galen’s hand over the bracelet. “Give me one less worry on the battlefield. Say yes and be happy.”

  Galen looked at Sobian. “I do not wish to force you into anything you are not prepared to accept.”

  She grabbed him by the shirt collar. “I have been waiting for you the whole of my life. You are my match in all things. I will not let you go.” She kissed him, long and deep. When she finally pulled away, she asked, “Your father wasn’t murdered by a god, was he?”

  Galen looked at her quizzically. “No. He died in battle on Beltane. He was accidently killed in what was supposed to only be a mock dual between the Oak King and the Holly King.”

  I gasped. “Then he was murdered by a god. Each of them is portraying an aspect of the god during that ritual. One is the god of winter and the other the god of summer. It seems your Witch of Orkney was right after all.” I clapped Sobian on the shoulder. “Go, pack your things and leave before first light. You will be long gone before anyone notices.”

  Galen hugged me tightly, his eyes welling with tears. “Truly, you are a good woman. I wish there was some way I could repay you.”

  I looked away. “Be happy. That is the best repayment there is.”

  As they retreated into the darkness, my heart fluttered with joy. I may have mistrusted Galen in the beginning, but his years of captivity had changed him for the better. He was worthy of a woman like Sobian now. I may not have been able to save Arthur, but I was sure that wherever his soul was now, he was smiling, grateful to know at least one of his old friends, a pirate-turned-assassin-turned-heroine with more lives than a cat, had emerged from this strife unscathed.