Guinevere: The Legend in Autumn (42 page)

“Indeed,” answered the smithy, crossing himself heavily.

“A gift from all the Gods,” a little girl whispered, pointing toward the sky.

There, riding on the very edge of the sunset’s splendor, was the first, wee slip of a moon. Pale ivory and slightly blurred in the misty light, the lower point of its delicate sickle seemed to be hung with the glittering diamond of the evening star. I caught my breath and stared at the rare and beautiful sight, seeing in it the symbol of Lance and I finally coming together. It was the sign I was looking for and I silently thanked the Gods. If Rheged was the price that must be paid to allow us to live our little moment in the rainbow’s heart, so be it.

The next morning I drafted my letter of abdication from the throne of Rheged. There were a number of Christians in his Court, so we had no trouble finding a scribe, and once the words had been written, I took the Seal of State in my hands for the last time and pressed it to the colored wax at the bottom of the scroll, making the act official.

I did not tell Lance about it right away, however. When he arrived from Lindisfarne, there was dancing and gaming and much high cheer, and by the time we headed back to Joyous Gard, picking up the Roman Road they call the Devil’s Causeway, I had decided not to mention it.

As long as Uwain could keep us safe, I wasn’t going to count the cost.

Chapter XXXIII

The Idyll

Never do I remember a more glorious autumn, when the land went rust and cream and soft blue-gray, and morning mists hung, wraithlike, on meadows and trees. The afternoons were pure gold—honeyed and slow, turning burnished in the late-afternoon light as the fruits of the sun-season were safely gathered and stored against the winter’s needs. The barns bulged with hay and grain; apples and pears from our orchard lay sliced and drying on the winnowing floor; and at the dairy the last of the butter was being salted for storage in the spring house.

Lance worked closely with Mr. Badger—an imperturbable man who went off fishing each day when the chores were done—and sometimes I joined them in the garden, harvesting and mulching and preparing the garden for the winter storms.

“They come in pretty fierce,” Mrs. Badger explained, jabbing handfuls of fresh bed-straw into the mattress we were restuffing. “I’ve seen ice and sleet cover the trees with a sheath of crystal that breaks the limbs and freezes the roots. But at least it keeps the Saxon sea-wolves from marauding.”

Lance gave me one of his horses, a handsome little bay mare named Flyaway, and on a fine, crisp day we returned the pony we had borrowed to Kimmins’s widow. “Caught them out on the moors, they did,” she told us in a voice as hard as the land on which she lived. “Left ’em to the raven and vulture. I built up a cairn over their bones, but it’s not the same as a respectful grave near home.” With that she turned bitterly away, not even responding when Lance asked if there had been any further contact with men from the south. Without news of what was happening in Camelot, we had no idea what to expect.

When it came time for the harvest fair at Rothbury, we all trooped to it together. While Lance discussed weather and crops with the farmers and Lionel proved his prowess in the hay-toss, Bors sat among a small group of monks and told them his story of the Grail. I picked up several large fleeces and a sheepskin, this last to go beside our bed; a warm, soft pelt to step onto was the one touch of luxury I missed from my former life. And a beekeeper gifted me with a batch of heather honey after I asked if it was his hives we’d seen on our trip over the Cheviots.

I still had not mentioned giving up Rheged, nor had Lance talked of his visit to Holy Isle. Sometimes he went off to pray and meditate in the cave on the Coquet’s bank, where an old hermit had carved out a personal chapel. And sometimes, when I was riding along the uplands, my gaze would be drawn to the southern hills gone blue in the haze of distance, and I would wonder how matters stood with Arthur. But neither of us mentioned these things, and when we sat before the coals of an evening fire and stared at the shimmering, glowing pictures in the embers, it was of our present happiness we spoke.

Bits and pieces of news filtered in from the outside world. Arthur had canceled the Round Table meeting, much to the relief of the various members of the Fellowship. There were many who said he had become as short-tempered and difficult as ever his father, Uther Pendragon, had been. I prayed silently that Nimue and Bedivere were at his side, giving him some kind of balance.

About Mordred I heard nothing. Still not knowing what part he had played in the entrapment, I was loath to speculate from such a distance. I kept my concern for both of them to myself—there was more than enough to do on the steading to occupy both time and mind. Besides, it does no good to brood over what you can’t change.

Before long the bracken on the hillsides flamed to copper, the lynx’s fur grew thick and rich, and in Coquetdale the rutting stags filled the air with their belching, grunting bellows as they cried out their defiant challenges to each other.

Palomides came to visit often, as welcome a guest as one could want, and frequently joined our hunting parties. He happily pronounced the game of Northumbria to be the best in the world, and delighted in showing us his favorite spots.

But for me the greatest wonder was the birds. We saw the black grouse dancing on their lek like demented things, feathers ruffed and wings bent as they jumped and bobbed about. Once the rooks convened a parliament a thousand strong, with new flocks joining them all day long, churning the air in their tumbling flight and shattering the peace with their clamor. As the days shortened, the summer birds gathered into enormous flocks, gorging themselves on berries and bugs before winging away to the south. Swifts and swallows and sand martins were the first to go, followed by redstarts and turtledoves, and finally the whinchats. Meadow pipits came down from the hills to winter around the steading, while fieldfair and waxwing and the great white swans from the north came to spend the winter. The whole sky seemed full of birds, coming or going.

Early winter brought occasional light snow that turned the upland landscape into a stark picture of black and white. On one such day, as we rode home with a bag full of blue hares, Palomides asked what we had heard of Isolde’s lover, Tristan.

“Nothing to speak of,” Lance responded, and the Arab sent an inquiring glance toward me. Since Palomides had loved the beautiful Cornish queen with a long and unrequited passion, I suspected his interest was as much in news of her as of Tris. So I recounted my visit with Isolde at Castle Dore, when she had mentioned Tris’s marriage and his growing reputation as one of the great warriors in Brittany. There was no chance he would return to Britain, however, since Arthur had banished him because of his wild, drunken behavior after Isolde had returned to Mark.

The Arab looked slowly back and forth between Lance and me, then smiled softly. “Ah,” he sighed, no doubt remembering the months we had all spent together here at Joyous Gard in the past. “You have no idea how lucky you two are—so many dreams of love go unfulfilled…”

It was a comment made all the more poignant when I realized that to this day he adored the memory of Isolde. By now she had assumed the stature of an icon in his life, and I wondered what he would make of the woman in reality, if they ever met again.

The storms Mrs. Badger had predicted kept us indoors through much of January and February. With a full larder and good companionship it was not a trial, and on the nights when the wind howled down from the north, Lance and I burrowed under the pelts on our bed and set the world afire with our passion.

It was part of the magic of our being together…no matter how often we bedded, each time was different: tender, poignant, long and delicately drawn; wild, fierce-shaking and demanding; playful or sly or silently yielding; there was more range of mood in our communion than I would ever have thought possible. And I cherished every moment as a jewel to be held in memory against the times to come…

In April the weather lightened. One morning when Melias and I went to the fisherman’s village to see what the day’s catch had been, I noticed primrose and sweet violets beside the path, and marsh marigold trailing along the streambank. An otter dove under the surface of the river as we approached; no doubt he was following the young fish down from their spawning grounds in the higher country. So in spite of the nippiness of the morning, there were signs of spring everywhere.

On reaching Joyous Gard, I found strange horses in the paddock, and a fancy litter that had been pushed out of the way, just inside the barn door. Leaving Melias to care for our mounts and bring in the fish, I ran through the barnyard, my breath streaming behind me like a cloud.

“Another Queen,” Mrs. Badger informed me, bustling forward to take my cape and gloves. “The Cornish one. I’ve heard for years about her beauty, but she’s as pleasant and polite as yourself. I took her up to the front bedroom, as she wanted to rest, but the monk who came with her is with the Master, by the hearth. The cleric said you’d know him, though I’ve forgotten his name.” This last was half apology.

“It isn’t Gildas, is it?” I asked, feeling my spirits drop.

“That’s it exactly, M’lady.” She beamed at me happily. “How nice for you to have old friends come visiting!”

Friend, my foot! I thought, bolting from the kitchen. I intended to see Isolde first, both to welcome her and find out what this visit was about, but as I passed the door to the main room, Gildas’s voice came through the curtains. He was haranguing Lancelot in tones that were both strident and patronizing.

“But, my son, it is an adulterous relationship. She’s led you into the most base and venial sin and this debauchery will bring the vengeance of God upon you. Hear me, there will be despair and disaster for you and your followers unless you renounce her once and for all.”

“You presume upon my hospitality, Father,” Lance responded. “I brought the Lady Guinevere here in part because she was in danger of her life. I cannot and will not cast her out among her enemies now.”

“She must go back to her husband, where she belongs,” Gildas declared, his voice trembling with righteousness.

“So I can be led to the stake all over again?” I demanded, pushing the curtains aside and marching into the room. “Isn’t that really what you want to see, Gildas—me hopping hot-foot up on that platform while the clerics all pray piously over my incinerated remains?”

“Of course not, M’lady.” The monk showed no surprise at my entrance, but pressed his thin lips into a snakelike smile. “What I want to see is your acceptance of the One God and the bowing of your arrogant head to Christ, His only Son. You need only renounce your Pagan ways and throw yourself on His mercy in the hope of being saved.”

“I have no desire to be saved by your Father God,” I flared. “Nor will I tolerate your meddling in my life this way. It’s bad enough that you’ve sheltered my cousin Maelgwn in your holy house all these years, you don’t have to come bringing trouble to Joyous Gard.”

“I come not to bring trouble, but to spare you great heartbreak,” the puny little man responded, drawing himself up haughtily and speaking directly to Lance. “Unless you pack her back to her husband, King Arthur will lead an army against you.”

I gaped at the monk in disbelief, and Lance’s face went pale.

“He wouldn’t,” the Breton declared. “He asked me to rescue her. He wouldn’t turn on us now.”

“Oh yes he would. Word has gone out to all the members of the Round Table that Arthur will march on Joyous Gard come May. Of course, if M’lady obeys the Church and returns to her husband, much carnage could be averted.” Gildas didn’t actually smile as he made his pronouncement, but he sent a triumphant look my way. “So you see, M’lady, the lives and deaths of many men hang on how much you cling to your stubborn pride.”

“I don’t believe it,” I raged, my voice rising with indignation. “Arthur would never do such a thing! You’re just saying this to separate us, you despicable, wretched little toad!”

Gildas wreathed his face in a spiteful smirk while Lance stared first at him, then at me, shocked to see me so venomous. I wanted to go to my love, to tell him how long Gildas had harbored a hatred of me, how unfair all of this was. But the presence of the gloating monk held me back, so I turned and ran upstairs to Isolde, outrage and fear pounding close on my heels.

I burst into her room, full of all my own concerns, and stopped dead at the sight of her. Thin and pale, she sat by the window, a quilt wrapped around her frail form. The bones of her cheeks showed through the milk-white skin, and there were huge circles under her violet eyes.

“Yea Gods, Isolde, whatever is wrong?” I demanded, rushing across the room before she could gather herself to rise.

“You hadn’t heard, then? It has been coming on for some time—bad coughing, clots of blood. I thought everyone knew the Queen of Cornwall was dying.”

“Nimue,” I said immediately. “Nimue can help. Or my foster sister, Brigit. She’s almost as good a healer as Morgan le Fey.” I was kneeling beside her, holding the cold, fragile hands in my own, trying to will life and energy back into her.

But Isolde just shook her head. “As a healer myself, I can read the symptoms. And frankly, I’m not sad to be leaving this life…I’d like to see Tristan again, perhaps, and take care of a few loose ends, but in general, it’s time for me to go.”

“Fiddlesticks,” I countered, unwilling to see her surrender so easily. “You have to take better care of yourself; stay warm, stay inside. Whatever possessed you to come all the way up here, and in the height of winter at that?”

“Arthur,” she said simply, pressing a handkerchief to her lips as a fit of coughing overtook her.

“Arthur?” Gildas’s warning came back to me then, and I took my friend by the arms. “Tell me the monk is lying, that Arthur isn’t planning a war…”

“I wish I could, but it’s that very fact that brings me north. They will march as soon as the grass is high enough to provide forage for their mounts.” Isolde sighed while I stared at her, dumbfounded. “The loss of both you and so many Companions has left the High King quite unstrung. He rides out day and night across the south, racing around on his big black horse with only Gwyn the Welshman to keep up. It’s quite as bad as when you were kidnapped by Maelgwn and he was helpless to do anything about it. Then he was in the midst of fighting Saxons—now he does battle with shadows. Bedivere tries his best to run the country, and Cei is in as black a mood as Gawain these days, but it was they who begged me to go see Arthur.”

“You went to Camelot?” Such devotion on the part of the stay-at-home Queen was making me feel very humble.

Isolde nodded in response. “It was not only a favor for a friend, but also one of those loose ends I mentioned. I don’t think I’d ever properly thanked Arthur for giving Tristan and me shelter when we ran away from Cornwall. I sat and talked with him for one whole afternoon—first time we’ve ever really conversed, I think. He’s not a bad man, Gwen, just inarticulate and trapped in his own moira.”