Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn Page 3

  “Splendid sight, M’lady,” the young sentry commented when I emerged through the hole in the floor.

  “Indeed it is,” I answered, perching on the windowsill and gazing out over it all.

  Below the four-tiered walls of Camelot’s hill, the land spreads out like a rumpled coverlet, dotted here and there with fields and pastures, except to the east, where a series of close, lumpy hills are flanked by tracts of forest. The view to the south and west stretches long and far, a patchwork of peaceful farms and occasional belts of wildwood, while to the north lie the marsh and mire of the Somerset Levels, and the odd, flat lake that laps around Glastonbury’s Tor.

  Closer by, the trees along the Cam river grow dense and shady, while directly below us a small, ferny brook makes its way between steep banks. Here the woods and meadows were alive with camps. Arthur had set up extra tents around the list since the inn at the village was no doubt packed, and large as our new fortress was, we couldn’t possibly sleep all the nobles who would attend.

  The sound of laughter and good-natured banter drifted up from beneath the trees, and I thought of the midsummer frolic that would fill the twilight of the night to come.

  The first of our royal guests were making their way through the thick double gates of our topmost wall. Urien of Northumbria was in the van, the black raven on his banner fluttering over the warband that followed close behind. Next came the white boar of Duke Cador, but I searched in vain for the grizzled old warrior who had been the first to rally to Arthur’s Cause, some fifteen years ago. It appeared he would not be joining us, for it was his son, Constantine, who led their men.

  Beyond them Geraint rode with his wife, Enid. They both wore the Roman dress of the south and seemed to be in fine spirits, as though marriage much agreed with them. Enid had been one of my ladies at Court, and this would be our first visit since she had left us three years back, so I was looking forward to a private chat.

  Next came Pellinore of the Wrekin—dear old Pelli, rough and raucous as they come. He was but one of many warlords whose people had preferred to leave their dying towns and move to the nearest hill-fort after the Legions left. Once the man had been obsessed with a naive quest for the perfect woman; now he took great delight in raising his late-in-life son, Perceval.

  The tot rode in front of his father, baby legs splayed across the saddle. Pelli steadied him fondly in the crook of one arm while he lifted the other in salute to the guards at the gate. His bearskin cape came open with the gesture, revealing the enameled hilt of the Welsh dagger he wore instead of a Roman sword.

  I glanced beyond him, wondering if his son Lamorak was here. If so, it would be the first time the fellow had returned to Court since his encounter with Morgause. When I couldn’t see either him or Gawain of Orkney, I heaved a sigh of relief—the bad blood between them constantly threatened to unsettle the Round Table.

  By now so many people were streaming up the cobbled drive, it was hard to make out individuals. I caught a quick glimpse of Pelleas and Nimue and determined once more that Gawain’s banner was nowhere to be seen before the contingents from farther away pressed forward.

  These I recognized by sound rather than sight—an Irishman strummed his traveling harp as he led a batch of immigrants from Fergus’s new settlements around Dumbarton. A handful of Caledonians followed, marching to the skirl of bagpipes while the silvery notes of their flutes announced a small group of dark, sly Picts. After that came the Cumbri, those northern Celts of Wales and Rheged whose singing rang out boldly as they advanced.

  Music and color and excitement swirled around them all, and I knew Arthur would be pleased. He wanted our distant allies as well as client kings to come to Camelot and take back news of all the great things we were accomplishing.

  “I don’t really care what they talk about,” he’d said. “It doesn’t matter whether it’s our feasts or Taliesin’s songs, or the fact that Bedivere is still a splendid warrior, one-handed or not—as long as they’re impressed enough to tell their people what they’ve seen. The desire to share our glory is the best way I know of to get them to join the Cause.”

  Looking down on them now, I was confident they would go home full of wonder, for we had planned this occasion carefully, starting with the Round Table council—which would conclude with a twilight procession to the midsummer meadow, complete with village girls flinging garlands of flowers upon the Champions—and ending with the tournament days and final feasting. There was no way they would forget this occasion.

  ***

  When Urien and his retinue reached the forecourt of the Hall, I turned and dashed back down the steps.

  On the loft landing I paused before the big bronze mirror. Long and lean, with masses of apricot hair and a face more interesting than pretty, I was hardly the picture of a beautiful queen. But I wore the torc of royalty with dignity and grace, and though I’d never be as regal as Arthur’s mother, Igraine, or as lovely as Mama had been, I had the respect of my husband, the love of my people, and the tender concern of Lancelot.

  So I smiled at the image in the mirror and gave her the old Roman thumbs up sign, then gathered my skirts and rushed down the main staircase.

  Halfway to the bottom I felt the golden circlet on my head begin to slip forward. My hands were full of the heavy robes of state and I was in too much of a hurry to stop, so I tilted my head to one side and by the time I reached the bottom step the crown was riding rakishly over one eyebrow.

  Lance was just coming to join Arthur at the door, and he stifled a laugh at the sight of me.

  “That will never do, M’lady,” he admonished, stepping forward to adjust the circlet. I grinned up at him, grateful for his help.

  “Thought you weren’t going to make it this time,” Arthur noted as I took my place beside him. He gave me one of his droll sidewise glances, both knowing and amused.

  “Gawain and Mordred aren’t among them,” I whispered breathlessly, tugging my garments into place. “Pelli’s here, sure as rain, though I didn’t see Lamorak, or Cador of Cornwall, either. But an Irish group has come, as have some Picts.”

  Arthur acknowledged my news as the double doors of the Hall were thrown open and the two of us marched forward to meet our guests.

  The entire area between the steps to the Hall and the end of the barn had filled with strapping men and sleek horses. There was much milling about and greeting of old acquaintances as the leaders dismounted, and after Arthur and I welcomed them, my husband stepped into the crowd.

  The men who had brought ladies with them came forward to avoid the press and I was just greeting Enid when Arthur hailed me above the din.

  “You’ll never guess what Gwyn has brought you as a gift!”

  The mob parted and when I realized Arthur was standing next to a carriage, I let out a yip of delight. It was one of those two-wheel contraptions such as the Welsh nobles use. Agricola had let me ride in his when we were in Demetia, and the last time we visited, he’d taught me how to manage the horses. The very notion of owning one of my own was scandalously exciting.

  “It’s beautiful, is it not?” Gwyn announced pointing to the ribbons twined along the tongue and the bells attached to the back rim. Even the spokes of the wheels had been stained bright colors, and an embroidered shawl covered the cushions on the bench. “I bring it especially for you,” the little man allowed, “but think I better keep it at my horse farm lest Your Highness forget all about matters of state in favor of gallivanting about the countryside.”

  He cocked an eyebrow in amusement and cast me a sly look. Gwyn of Neath—impish, gnarled and brown as a beechnut, our wily neighbor carried the air of the Otherworld about him. I personally suspected he was related to the Old Gods, but that wouldn’t keep me from accepting his gift.

  “May I have the honor?” he asked, gesturing for me to board the conveyance. I paused a moment, staring up at those black, glittering eyes and wondered just how far he was to be trusted. More than one fairy king has been known to
kidnap a mortal woman.

  “Surely you’re not afraid, M’lady?” he challenged. “The great queens of the past didn’t flinch at anything, remember?”

  My pride rose to his bait like the trout to a mayfly. Lifting my chin with a laugh, I climbed into the carriage and sat down on the bench.

  No sooner had I done so than he let out a roar, and cracking his whip above the suddenly rearing horses, wheeled them around and headed toward the staging area beyond the gates. A number of the townspeople who were to lead our procession in the evening had followed the visiting royalty up to Camelot, clustering near the gateway to talk with Dagonet, who was organizing the details of the parade. As the slewing carriage bore down on them, flower girls, musicians, and acrobats fled in all directions, shrieking in surprise and fear.

  I yelled at Gwyn to stop but he was intent on urging the horses on, howling like a man possessed as he sent the animals careening along the narrow track that curves up from the base of our hill. Looking back, I caught a glimpse of Arthur vaulting onto a horse’s back while the rest of the Companions stood gaping in astonishment.

  Obviously the fey Welshman didn’t care that he was interrupting a Round Table meeting; nor had he any interest in my carefully planned procession. There was nothing for it but to hang on for dear life, so I clutched my crown with one hand and the rim of the carriage with the other as we dashed down the steep track and veered off toward town.

  Merrymakers and shopkeepers scrambled out of our way when we went clattering through the village. Some raised their fists and swore while others hollered encouragement, but through it all Gwyn gleefully continued to snap his whip in the air. A flock of geese scattered in terror as we rounded the corner and headed for the bonfire meadow.

  Arthur and the Companions were in hot pursuit, the pounding of their horses’ hooves shaking the ground behind us. I glanced again at Gwyn, hoping desperately that this was just a high-spirited prank, not the beginning of disaster.

  The little man looked over at me, shrewd and laughing as always. “Nay, M’lady, I mean you no harm. But it will do your husband good to rescue you for once. Too often that Breton, Lancelot, gets all the credit.”

  I could barely catch my breath, let alone laugh out loud, so I settled for shaking my head in mock reproof. He was right, of course. Lance had come to my aid so many times, he’d been named the Queen’s Champion years ago. Perhaps Gwyn was simply giving Arthur an equal chance to play the hero.

  The wind was tugging at my hair, making a mess of Vinnie’s coiffure. Finally I slid the crown over my wrist for safekeeping and shook my tresses free. They streamed out behind me as I clutched the front panel of the carriage for balance. White-knuckled or no, I was loving every moment of it.

  The horses fairly flew over the ground, and when we reached the clearing where the bonfire was lain, we made a sweeping circuit of the green before the little man brought his steeds to a snorting, plunging halt.

  “That, Your Highness, should satisfy your need for adventure for a while,” Gwyn announced. “Mind you don’t try driving like that when you use it, though, for it’s a magical cart that requires a firm hand.”

  “I’ll remember,” I assured him breathlessly. “Only sober transportation, unless you’re with me.”

  With another wink and dimple, Gwyn darted around to help me out of the carriage as Arthur galloped up. The Welshman presented me to my husband with a courtly bow, then turned to his horses and calmly led them away while Arthur and I stared at each other, speechless.

  “Are you all right?” he demanded, concern vying with relief.

  “Absolutely,” I responded, nonchalantly planting the crown atop my head. “Scared witless, but fine. Though I’m afraid Gwyn’s prank has turned our stately procession into a shambles.”

  By now most of the Companions were racing full tilt across the meadow, still not knowing I had been safely deposited. The rest of the guests, along with the townspeople and members of the procession, were hurrying up on foot.

  Arthur shook his head in bemusement and stared after the master of Glastonbury Tor. “Eccentric hooligan…” he muttered good-naturedly.

  It was clear that by the time we rounded everyone up again and trekked back to Camelot, we’d have lost most of the afternoon, so Arthur suggested we put off the council meeting until the end of the tournament, and move right into the midsummer celebration.

  I nodded in cheerful agreement and slipped my arm through his. In spite of the lost pomp and pageantry, it was a wonderful way to begin the festivities.

  ***

  Later, when everyone was fed and the fire lit, Dagonet drew out his elder pipe and began to play a lively tune. The Scottish contingent brought forth their bagpipes, and even the Picts joined in with their flutes as a circle formed and the dancing began.

  Arthur and I led the first round, but when the musicians paused, the High King called Lancelot over. “You know how I hate to dance,” he apologized, twirling me toward the Breton.

  Lance’s arms went around me, steadied me for a moment, then dropped to his sides. It was always like that—our coming together, yet having to stand apart.

  Arthur admonished us to dance our shoes to tatters, then went off to discuss the northern situation with Urien. I turned to look after him, too used to it to be hurt, too aware of Lance to be sorry.

  “What’s M’lady’s pleasure tonight? Dancing? Games of chance by the fire? Strolling in the birch grove?” The Breton spoke in the deep, low tone that still sends shivers down my spine, and the warmth of his closeness surrounded me. I looked up at him, seeing the dark brows, the broad cheekbones, the eyes that crinkled as he smiled. I let my gaze linger on his lips a minute too long and felt the old desire waken.

  “Dancing!” I said quickly, deciding it was unwise to risk the privacy of the woods.

  So dance we did, as we had on countless nights before. Skipping, spinning, hopping to a gleeful tune, we capered under the stars like the Celts of old…sometimes whirling away with others, yet always returning to each other, drawn together as irresistibly as iron filings to a lodestone.

  When we first discovered the love that flowed between us, I naturally assumed that we would bed, Celtic queens having the right to a personal as well as public life. But Lance saw that as a betrayal of Arthur’s trust—though later, as our passion grew, he begged me to come away with him and be his wife in fact, if not in law. That was a far more difficult choice than simply bedding, for I love my husband, too, and could not imagine abandoning him and my people. Still, I might have done so when the secret of Mordred came to light, had not the boy been suddenly cast on my doorstep, half-orphaned, frightened, and desperately in need of family. So I had vowed to raise the child as my own…and that was the end of running away with Lancelot.

  But not the end of loving.

  It was Lance who had run, traveling the length and breadth of Britain in search of…peace? forgetting? a new lady? No, never that. Always he swore he would love only me—it was, he said, this very love which brought him back to Camelot. Back to my side and Arthur’s. So the three of us resumed our work as a team, as though Lance had never left—friends and comrades, each devoted to the other in our different ways. Lance and I never spoke of what might have been, but rested content in the knowledge of the love that would always be between us.

  Now we danced the night away until the early dawn began to lighten the eastern sky. Arthur suggested that Lance drive me and the carriage back to Camelot while he paced beside us on his stallion. I leaned back among the cushions, delightfully, dizzyingly exhausted, content to watch the two men chatting quietly beside me, their profiles crisp and clear against the silvering sky. The rest of the revelers fell in behind, singing softly as they escorted their monarchs home after a night of celebration.

  Surely there was never a realm more blessed, a people more cheerful and content, a king and court more deservedly honored. I thanked the Gods that had given us such a splendid moira…never guessing how frag
ile it would all turn out to be.

  Chapter II

  The Tournament

  Our guests slept late after the night of carousing, but by noon everyone had gathered at the water meadow by the stream, where the flatness of the land provided the best field for horse- and sword-play.

  The greensward was surrounded by the pavilions of various Round Table Champions, each with his own standard stuck in the turf beside his tent flap. Nestled between them, and spreading into the woods beyond, were the peddlers’ stalls. Some were little more than blankets laid on the ground and covered with items for trade or barter; others were lean-tos, hastily constructed around the base of a tree or propped against a similar hut for support. Here one could find spurs and bridles and pieces of tack or decoration, remedies for lameness, colic, coughs, witches’ knots in mane or tail, and anything else a horseman might need to keep his animal healthy. Horse blankets, curry-combs, and variations on the canvas and wooden loops we call stirrups abounded, while at one end of the list the Royal Smith set up his forge at Arthur’s behest. Here the people could get tools mended, horses shod, or weapons sharpened, all at our expense.

  Cei had built a reviewing stand with bright awnings and gay bunting. Once the majority of the Court had arrived, Arthur and I walked slowly toward it down the length of the field with pages, heralds, and Irish wolfhounds in attendance.

  These last were my pleasure, for Arthur preferred the great snarling black brutes Gwyn bred and trained for him for war. But I’d lived with Irish wolfhounds since childhood and even brought a pup to Arthur as a wedding present. We were now well into our second generation of gentle giants—like many large dogs, they don’t live long—and I continued the tradition of naming them for Roman heroes. It amused my husband, who was fond of reminding me how suspicious I used to be of Roman ways. But the names seemed appropriate for the large, stately animals, and it was the gray-coated Claudius that paced beside me now, his massive, scruffy head under my right hand.