Guinevere's Tale

by Nicole Evelina

  After a grueling week-long journey south, our army, some nearly nine hundred strong, including an equal number of horses for the cavalry that made up a third of our army, finally spotted the fortress of Catraeth. It loomed high above us like a mountain grown out of the edge of the peat-covered Cheviot Hills, where they gave way to the fertile plane of the Tweed Valley. Between us and our target lay fields of bracken, sweet heather, and bilberry, all of which would both help and hinder an army on foot.

  Just after midday, when we were still a ways off from the fortress but within range of where we should set up our siege camp, they appeared on the horizon—an awaiting army meant either for ambush or simply to whittle down our numbers before we reached the fortress.

  I signaled for the long train of men, women, and supply carts to halt. Had the Saxons seen us? If not, it was possible we could double back and come at them from a different route. They had no camp, so they must have been confident they could either finish us off by nightfall or they were close enough to make an easy retreat within the walls of the fort. Their army had nearly double the manpower of ours, and no doubt their scouts were now scampering back to the fort to report our presence.

  There was no way around confronting them head-on. This was my least favorite type of battle, but one we could not avoid. I gave the signal for us to continue, sticking to the original plan. At least now we knew the terrain and general configuration of the army we would be fighting. It was little comfort, but we would take what we could get.

  We had come prepared to take a hill fort, no easy task, and now we were faced with a pitched battle too. We needed time to change tactics and prepare before engaging. Accolon sighted a location suitable for our camp and set about creating a home base for ourselves. I saw to the large tent that would house our operations and strategy, while Morgan took charge of the camp women and healers who would stay behind to help while the soldiers fought. Accolon took responsibility for the barracks, smithy, and stables, and the captains organized their men. Accolon also assigned groups of men to surround the fort and cut off any food or other supply lines.

  By nightfall, we were ready. The siege itself could last for weeks while we waited for the supplies of food and water inside the fort to diminish. We would attack the fort at the same time, attempting to weaken their defenses and kill as many of the enemy as possible. But first we had to defeat the battalion waiting for us.

  At dawn, we would charge, and there would be no turning back. How I missed Lancelot and wished I could hold him one last time before the battle that might end my life. Knowing he was so close—just inside that prison of a fortress—yet so far away and with an army between us was torture. As I lay between Morgan and Kiara in my tent, trying desperately to get some sleep, I told myself that the next time I opened my eyes, I would be mere hours from seeing Lancelot again.

  The sky was still dark, moon riding low in the sky, stars sparkling, when my eyes popped open. I would sleep no more this night. I sat up, watching Morgan and Kiara slumber on, and recalled a night so many years before in Avalon when I woke to find Mona crying and comforted her with the wooden toy dog Peredur had given me.

  Peredur. I hadn’t thought of him in years. Nor his half-crazed sister, Nimue, who had ended up murdering Merlin before taking her own life. I shivered, recalling the night we cast her out of the priestesshood of Avalon, leaving her alone on the Tor to decide her own manner of death. Was my remembering them a sign? Worse yet, an omen of ill fate? One would think with the gift of sight, fear of the future and of omens and portents would be pointless. Perhaps that was the case with Morgan’s gift, but mine provided no such comfort.

  I rummaged in my bag of personal possessions, trying to find both Peredur’s toy dog, which I considered a token of good fortune, and my set of Holy Stones. I had to know what my memory of them meant. Plus, it was time to conduct my first divining for the battle to come.

  I must have made more noise than I’d intended, because when I looked up again, Morgan was staring at me.

  “Why are you awake?” She sat up, rubbing her eyes. “Better question, why are you keeping me awake?”

  “I am doing no such thing. Go back to sleep.”

  “What are you doing?” She eyed me curiously.

  “I was looking for a few items to help with my pre-battle rituals.” I lifted the little wooden toy and pouch of stones so she could see them. “Do you have any rituals of your own?”

  Rather than answering my question, she reached for the dog. “I haven’t seen him in years. What was his name? Bricriu?” She gazed at the little dog lovingly. “The last time I recall holding him was that winter night when we were in the House of Nine.” A soft smile played on her lips.

  “Yes. I’m surprised you remember.”

  She looked at me, hurt in her eyes. “Please don’t think me so heartless. Despite what has passed between us, I treasure our time in Avalon, especially that night.” Morgan gestured for me to sit on the bed. “We were, what? Ten? Eleven, maybe? Do you remember I asked Mona if she would try to see into my past?”

  I looked away, not wanting to meet her eyes on such a sensitive subject. “Yes. You were hoping to learn the identity of your parents. Was she able to tell you?” I found the courage to face her then, wanting to be able to look into her eyes if she claimed to know her parentage. I wanted to see if she told the truth or if there was any hint of falsehood shadowing them.

  Morgan toyed with the top of her brown wool blanket. “No. She was never able to see much clearly for me.” Her eyes met mine, and they were shining. “But I do know who they are… or should I say were.” She leaned forward so that barely a breath of space remained between us, and her voice dropped to confidential tone. “The Grail revealed their identities to me that night we first drank from it. Viviane is my mother. Merlin is my father. I was a child of the Beltane fires. That is why they chose me over you to be the Virgin Queen. It had nothing to do with our childish competition, or who was really the best among us. They thought I would be more likely to conceive the Sacred King’s child because I came from the same type of union.”

  I sat back, stunned. All these years, Morgan and I had hated one another, vied for attention and recognition and pride of place in Argante’s eyes and then in Arthur’s, and for what? It was never about us, but about who would continue Arthur’s line. If we had only known, we could have avoided decades of animosity and bitterness, and avoided so much pain. If only…

  “I suppose they were right, just wrong about the timing,” she continued. “As it turned out, I did bear his children.” Her voice trailed off, and I imagined she was lost in memories of her dead son and the daughter she barely knew.

  Morgan had been chosen by the Goddess because of her bloodline, and Arthur fell in love with her that night. If my father hadn’t intervened and proposed my hand to Arthur in repayment of his debt, then Morgan would have been queen in my place. And I would have been wed to Aggrivane. No, I corrected myself. That is not right. I would have been wed to Malegant. I shuddered. What a living hell that would have been. I found myself grateful—for the first time in my life—for Morgan’s interference in my plans, however unwitting.

  “I owe you a debt of gratitude, it seems.”

  Morgan startled out of her reverie. “What?”

  “I said ‘Thank you.’”

  She looked at me warily, as though I had transformed into a rabid beast. “For what?”

  I shrugged. “For everything.” I did not want to try to explain my reasons to her. “I just felt like it was something I should say, especially given we don’t know if we will see tomorrow. I suppose I should say I’m sorry as well—for all that I have done over the years. I’m sure you have kept a mental list.” I certainly had.

  Morgan continued to stare at me, her eyes growing damp.

  I glanced at the opening of the tent, where a small crack of light showed dawn was near
to breaking. “I should get on with my divination.” I shook the bag, lifted the board, and stood.

  “Wait.” Morgan grabbed my wrist.

  I turned.

  “You forgot this.” She held out Bricriu in her other palm.

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m sorry too.” She squeezed my arm.

  The stones predicted a short period of harrying the Saxon army before the siege would begin in earnest, but they would not yet show me the final outcome. It was blurred, playing out one time in our favor, portending mass causalities the next. I had never encountered a battle where the stones were so indecisive; it was as though some factor I had yet to account for could change everything. All I could do was set them aside and hope I would have time to consult them again before we gained the fort.

  The camp rose when the eastern sky was just beginning to pale. Instead of breaking our fast with porridge or stale bread, we gathered around the cook fires for a ritual of a different sort. Warriors broke into their fighting ranks and passed around buckets of slaked quicklime, which had been allowed to cool overnight. Each man and woman worked it into his or her hair so that it stood up and out as much as possible. When it dried, our hair would be stiff and paler than usual, giving us a spectral appearance.

  Next we passed around pots of woad to paint one another’s skin. Many of the men simply slapped on stripes with their fingertips, but Kiara and I were more artistic, drawing spirals and knots and adding a few sigils for protection and courage.

  Then we dressed for battle in the garb of our tribal animals—the horse, the wolf, the raven, and the stag—tunics and braccae made of their skins, their fur slung around our shoulders, skulls attached to our heads as helmets, and teeth and bones worn as jewelry.

  Finally, we moved single-file past a large cauldron, into which Morgan and some of the other camp women were dipping wooden mugs. Each man took a cup and retreated to a place of his choosing to consume the sacred drink. When I was but three people from the front of the line, the henbane’s noxious scent assaulted me, bringing stinging tears to my eyes and forcing bile into my throat. I coughed a few times before my body adjusted to the acrid, smoky, leather-like scent.

  Kiara and I sat next to one another and stared at the viscous liquid in our cups.

  “I suppose you have consumed this before?”

  “Only twice. We don’t drink it regularly because too much can be poisonous.” She looked at the contents of her cup again and sniffed. “I think they mixed it with goat’s milk to make it more palatable.” She grimaced, then looked at me. “What you have heard about its effects is true. It will slowly take you over until you have the undeniable urge to kill, a true thirst for blood. Be prepared.”

  With one last glance into the cup, I touched my mug to hers then brought it to my lips. The thick, clammy liquid slid down my throat with little effort on my part, leaving a bitter trail in its wake.

  “Ugh. I feel like I swallowed a slug!” I grimaced, trying to keep from looking like a total fool.

  Kiara laughed. “That would have tasted better.”

  Her chuckle was the last joyful sound our camp would hear. Slowly, our warriors grew subdued, laughter and boastful shouts replaced by a menacing silence, akin to the calm before a storm. Then slowly, one by one, the soldiers began to fidget, to pace, to glare suspiciously at one another through dilated pupils.

  I felt it too—the restlessness. My whole body grew warm and my vision narrowed. I could no longer see to either side, but everything in front of me appeared crystal clear, sharper, more focused than ever before. Then my leg twitched, bouncing up and down without my conscious command. All of my muscles grew taut, ready to spring, poised on the edge of action. I could no longer sit still. I had the aggression of a thousand angry bulls charging through my veins. I wanted—no, needed to move. I was strong. I was invincible, and I was ready to attack.

  I prowled around the camp like a wildcat until somewhere behind me, a group of warriors pounded on their shields with spear shafts and sword pommels. My heartbeat sped up to match.

  “Form up!” I yelled.

  The command echoed from man to woman to man across the camp until we were arranged by unit, spearmen and swordsmen at the front lines, archers and slingers at the rear, everyone surrounded by our cavalry.

  Kiara took her place at my side. At my signal, the pounding ceased, replaced by several heartbeats of deafening silence. Then as one man, we screamed, charging forth.

  The war had begun.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The heads were the first things I saw, rotted away on poles surrounding the base of the fort like discarded fruit in the summer sun. What was left of our lost group of young would-be heroes barely looked human, their decomposition made even more by violent by the henbane flowing through my veins. Worms crawled out of sockets where eyes had once been. Jowls hung, torn and desiccated like badly butchered meat. Ravens pecked at hair, at tongues or skin, leaving deep divots into which flies gratefully buzzed.

  Then their jaws shook as though the skulls would speak.

  “Save us,” one screeched.

  I whirled around, seeking the source of the voice.

  Just as quickly, another echoed, “Save yourself.”

  “No, save him!”

  “Who?” I turned again and ran smack into Kiara. “Save who?”

  She grabbed my shoulders to steady me. “Guinevere.” She shook me slightly. “Guinevere!”

  “They want me to save him,” I said frantically. I blinked hard a few times, trying to focus my eyes. When I opened them, I was staring into Kiara’s face.

  She smiled. “You’re fine. It’s only the henbane. Sometimes it can make you see things that aren’t really there, especially when you aren’t used to it.”

  “But they said—”

  Before I could finish, Accolon called for a halt. He pointed up at the wall, where figures jostled about, followed by unintelligible growling and a few curses. Some kind of struggle ensued above us, and men were knocked down, only to rise once again. Finally, a familiar head of blond curls appeared. All the other figures stepped back, ceding the primary position to her.

  “Yield to us or he dies,” Elga commanded, nodding at the man she held by the hair, a sharp blade pressed into his throat.

  Lancelot. The henbane evaporated from my blood, my stomach cramping and my bowels threatening to turn to water.

  He was bound with his hands behind his back, forced to kneel in front of Elga. Given the way she was dragging him around, his feet were lashed together too. Behind Lancelot stood three large men, weapons trained on him, should he attempt to free himself. There was no way he would escape unharmed unless I did as she wished.

  I laid down my sword. “You have asked me to yield, and so I do. But I cannot swear for the actions of others, only myself. Now please, return him to us. He has done nothing against you.”

  Elga smirked. “Perhaps not in this war, but his blade has meant death for many of my countrymen.” She twisted Lancelot’s head so he could see the scarred area of flesh above her left clavicle. “You gave me this.” She clucked her tongue. “So close to ending my life, yet so far away. Perhaps I should show you how it is done.” She pressed the blade into his flesh, eliciting a grunt of pain from Lancelot and producing a rivulet of blood that wound slowly down his neck.

  “No. Stop!” I cried. “Spare his life and I will do anything you ask.” I made sure the men around me could see that my fingers were making a cursing formation behind my back.

  She laughed. “Kneel before me.”

  I did.

  “Will you disown your kin and country, forsake your quest to defeat us? Will you finally admit that I’ve beaten you?”

  “Yes, anything. You have won.”

  She cocked her head at me. “I do not believe you.” She glanced at Lancelot. “Pity.” In
a flash, she ripped the knife across his throat. As blood bubbled from his neck, she leaned down and kissed him, long and deep, taking in his dying breath. When she looked up again, her mouth was covered in his blood. “Now, kill them all,” she commanded her troops.

  Primal fury propelled a scream from my lips, a sound more terrible than the war cry of the greatest warrior queen, more chilling than a banshee. Perhaps it was the remnants of henbane, but no grief weighed me down in that moment, only pure hatred. The desire for revenge turned my nerves to iron, my blood to fire. I was on my feet in an instant, lunging toward Elga, who had melted into the sea of bodies within the fort. Even if we fail to take it, I will get inside and kill her, or the Goddess strike me dead.

  A torrent of troops surged past me as the two armies engaged. From some distant place, I was aware of fending off blows and delivering deadly strikes with my sword in one hand and a spear in the other. I was acting on a warrior’s instinct, born of years of training. As my body reacted to defend against threats, my mind had but one goal—find Elga.

  As I drew closer to the gates, it became harder to distinguish ally from enemy. The world around me was a dizzying sea of colors and whirling bodies. When I heard my name or recognized a face, I gave aid, but otherwise I did not involve myself in others’ strife.

  Day passed into night that way, with only a brief respite to tend to wounds, bury the dead, and fall into dreamless, exhausted sleep. Soon we were on our blistered, aching feet again, swords in hand, shields at the ready.

  The Saxons kept coming. While our numbers dwindled, theirs seemed only to increase. Kiara had ridden out last night and checked on our second unit, the ones preventing supplies from reaching the fort, and they reported no one had crossed their lines. It was impossible they really were multiplying, but that didn’t make them any easier to fend off.